by Gary Gregor
“Used to have it,” Dover said. “Bloody thing kept jamming. Faulty thingy-mi-jig or something. The boss had it taken out and sent back to Alice Springs. That was a month ago. We’re still waiting to get it back.”
“You’re not the boss?” Foley asked.
“I’m the manager. The roadhouse is owned by the Chisholm family out at Napperby Station.”
“Can we keep this form?” Sam asked.
“Of course. The details have already been entered into the computer. You can keep that, It’s a copy. I’ve got to get back to work,” he said. “Good luck. I hope you find whoever it is you’re looking for.” He turned from the table and walked back to the front counter service area.
“The gut feeling is back,” Sam said to Foley.
“Could be some junk food you ate six weeks ago,” Foley suggested. “That shit is like a slow acting poison. It will kill you eventually.”
Sam placed a hand on Foley’s shoulder. “You know, Russ. I’m so happy to have you in my life.”
Foley shrugged Sam’s hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he said.
21
Half way up the six steps leading to the entrance foyer of the Alice Springs police station, Superintendent Cameron, ‘Yap Yap’, Barker stood on the wide landing, waiting for the impatient throng of media personnel to quieten sufficiently for him to speak. Addressing the various arms of the media was a task he had carried out numerous times but had never become comfortable with. It was the jostling and jockeying for position, and the cacophonous jumble of voices as questions were hurled at him from all directions of the media scrum that rankled him: and this all before his press conference had even begun.
The crowd of journalists completely blocked the footpath in front of the headquarters building, even spilling over the gutter onto the verge of the street. The afternoon sun beat down relentlessly upon the attending news-hounds, many of them dabbing at their faces with paper tissues and some, those unfortunate enough not to have tissues at hand, wiped their foreheads with their shirt sleeves. It was a strategic move on Barker’s part; perhaps the burning sun would see the mob keen to see the press conference over and they could seek shelter elsewhere, away from the oppressive heat.
This was a big story. Without question the biggest Barker had been involved in in his career to date. And, when big stories came along, the media behaved like a wolf-pack with the scent of blood in their nostrils. Not only did Barker find it annoying, he found the push-and-shove behavior to be embarrassingly un-Australian; akin to the intrusive, disrespectful behavior often displayed by representatives of the international paparazzi.
As he waited, his eyes roved across the many faces, all of which were focused on him. Some he knew better than others and some he had never seen before. There were media representatives present, not just from the various Northern Territory television, radio and print, arms of the media, but from all over the country; and they were all baying for information.
On Barker’s left, and one step behind, the Minister for Education in the Northern Territory, Peter Cornwell stood, trying his very best to appear both as important and ministerial as he believed the status of his position in the government deserved. However, while outwardly displaying the countenance and general appearance his portfolio required, inwardly he was fuming. With a bright red handkerchief, he pulled from his pocket, he constantly dabbed at perspiration running down his fat, flushed cheeks.
He should be on a plane, thirty thousand feet above the Pacific Ocean, heading for Fiji and day-dreaming of the next few days filled with copious quantities of good red wine and pretty, dark-skinned island girls with sweet scented bougainvillea flowers in their hair.
Had he been on the plane, it would not have been Cornwell’s first tax-payer funded trip to the tiny island nation. He knew very early in his political career that politics was not a career that offered longevity; at least not for him. What he did know was that, with the right amount of research, he could find upcoming ‘Study’ trips to almost anywhere in the world; all paid for by the tax payers of the nation. All he had to do on completion of any such trip was submit a report on the outcome of his tour, and a copy of his expenses for reimbursement to the relevant government department and no questions would be asked.
To date, Fiji was his favorite destination. He had been looking forward to going back and renewing past acquaintances. Instead, here he was. Standing on the steps outside the Alice Springs Police Station, in the hot afternoon sun, listening to a rapidly growing mass of journalists as they hurled a barrage of questions at Superintendent Cameron Barker.
Cornwell had never before had any personal dealings with Barker but had heard of the senior cop. It was hard not to as, from time to time, his name was mentioned in the corridors of parliament. Apparently, he was a well-respected and admired police officer. However, from Cornwell’s perspective Barker needed to understand that, as a front-bench minister with the incumbent government, his job was as important, if not more so, that of a mere police officer. He glanced at his watch, silently wondering if he may still be able to catch a later flight out of the country.
Having finally decided that they were not going to get any answers from Barker unless they presented their questions in an orderly fashion, a hush of sorts began to settle over the crowd.
“Good afternoon,” Barker greeted. “As you would all be aware, I have called this media conference to bring you up to date on the investigation into the disappearance of eleven young school children from Haasts Bluff, along with their teacher, Miss Tracy Cartwright. Early yesterday morning, while traveling in the Haasts Bluff community bus on a day-excursion to nearby Papunya, the bus was hi-jacked. Tragically, during the course of the hi-jack, the bus driver, Walter Tjapanangka, a Haasts Bluff local, was shot and killed.”
Suddenly, as though re-ignited by his words, the barrage of questions from the media rose almost to fever pitch. Barker paused momentarily, waiting once again for the noise to subside before continuing. He raised both hands into the air in a gesture inviting restraint.
Finally satisfied it was calm enough to continue, he stepped a little closer to the front of the landing. “You will also know,” he began, “that we have located the burnt-out remains of the bus abandoned on the Tanami Road, approximately half way between Alice Springs and the Tilmouth Wells Roadhouse. I can inform you that there are no indications at the site that the children, or their teacher, have in any way been harmed as a result of the fire that destroyed the bus.”
“Do you know where the children are?” someone called from the rear of the throng.
Barker sought out the questioner and gave him his very best - ‘are you really that stupid’ stare. “If we knew where they were,” he answered, “we wouldn’t be searching for them. But, for your benefit, we do not know where the children, or Miss Cartwright, are being held. Please keep in mind that this is an ongoing investigation. As I speak, we have every available member of the Alice Springs Police Station working on this matter. We have road-blocks set up both north and south of Alice Springs, and we have a number of aircraft flying in a vast, coordinated search pattern to the north, south, east and west of both Haasts Bluff and Papunya. Our investigation is being controlled at the scene by Detective Russell Foley, his partner Detective Sam Rose, and the two police officers stationed at Papunya. I remain confident we will find all twelve victims alive and well.”
“Has a ransom been demanded?” someone else called out.
“At this time, no demands have been made. We are, however, set up to closely monitor and investigate any such demand when, and if, it is forthcoming.”
A lady journalist Barker knew was from the local Alice Springs newspaper raised her hand.
“Yes, Sue?” Barker invited.
“I understand the police have a policy to never give in to ransom demands. Do you still stand by that policy?”
“You are right, Sue,” Barker answered. “We have a long-standing policy to never pay ransom. However,
as the teacher, Miss Cartwright, and her students come under the portfolio of the Minister for Education, any decision in regards to a ransom demand, should one be made, would be a decision for the government; not-withstanding the police policy not to pay any such demand.”
Barker stepped back and indicated Peter Cornwell, and spoke again to the gathered media. “I’m sure you all know Minister Peter Cornwell, the Minister for Education. Minister Cornwell has graciously cancelled a study trip to Fiji to be here today and to remain until this matter is resolved. He remains ready to answer any further questions.” He ushered Cornwell forward.
Cornwell was not prepared to speak to the media. He had no notes prepared to which he could refer. Damn fuckin’ Barker! he cursed to himself as he reluctantly stepped forward. He looked briefly at the crowd in front of him and then lifted his eyes and focused on a point on the other side of the road, behind the throng of news-hounds.
“Good afternoon,” he began. “I would like to begin by thanking Superintendent Barker for the great job he and his investigators are doing in respect of this investigation. It is a terrible thing, and I am confident that we will have the students and their teacher back with us very soon.” He paused for a moment, thinking of what he should say next.
“Superintendent Barker alluded to the fact that today I was scheduled to fly out to Fiji on an important, fact-finding study tour relevant to my portfolio as Minister for Education. It goes without saying that I readily cancelled the tour to be here for the duration of this investigation. My priorities are, and always will be, the safety and well-being of those who fall under the Education portfolio. I will remain in Alice Springs until those taken from us are returned safe and well to their families. Thank you.” He stepped back, turned away, and, brushing past Barker, moved quickly towards the entrance to the headquarters building and disappeared inside.
“Thank you all for coming,” Barker said to the crowd. “Further updates will be forthcoming as our investigation progresses.” He too, turned away and entered the building.
He rapidly caught up to Cornwell and leaned closer to him. “Spoken like a true politician,” he said quietly.
Cornwell paused. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to be here,” Barker said.
“Are you being facetious, Superintendent?”
“Maybe just a little,” Barker answered. He moved past Cornwell and quickened his pace. “I’ll be in touch,” he said over his shoulder.
Cornwell stopped and called after Barker. “You threw me to the wolves out there.”
Barker paused and turned to face Cornwell. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “If I was going to throw you to the wolves, you would still be out there answering difficult questions.”
“You don’t like me much, do you?” Cornwell responded.
“Don’t take it personally, Minister,” Barker explained. “I don’t like any politicians.” He turned and continued quickly along the corridor.
Cornwell watched Barker walk away, then he glanced again at his watch. “Fuckin’ last planes left,” he murmured.
22
Tracy Cartwright sat on her mattress, close to the locked door, staring at the air-vent cover in the ceiling above the centre of the room. As a result of Toby Miller’s and John Jabaldjari’s efforts to remove the vent cover in a search of a way out of the room, it hung haphazardly by just one remaining holding screw. The cover, made of durable plastic, and covered with dust and grime accumulated over years of neglect, fluttered slightly as the air inside the stuffy room was sucked out through the narrow flue by the passage of air over the top of the hummock outside.
Feelings of hopeless frustration and failure weighed so heavy on Tracy as to be almost overwhelming. There were moments when she struggled inwardly against the urge to break down and cry uncontrollably. So far, she was winning the battle. How long she was going to be able to prevent a total melt-down however, was an unknown. The only way she could maintain some degree of control over her wildly fluctuating emotions was to focus on the children.
The children depended on her. They looked to her for guidance. She was their teacher, their mentor, their leader, their counselor. When a student fell and scraped his, or her, knee in the school yard, she was their nurse, their comforter, their surrogate mother. In some strange, inexplicable way, she often felt like she really was a mother to each of them. They were her children, if only for a few hours each week day.
Over her time at Hassts Bluff she had come to know each of her students well. She had met all their parents, all their grandparents, and many of their extended families. The familiarity with her class had to be a good thing, she believed. But, if there was a negative to be found, it would have to be the weight of responsibility she carried with her from day to day. Now more than ever before, that responsibility was so omni-present it threatened to engulf her and bring her to her knees.
Tracy looked away from the air-vent and looked across at the children. Most were playing some sort of game she did not immediately recognise. Something they made up themselves to occupy the long hours of physical inactivity. It resembled the old game of ‘knucklebones’ she remembered from her own childhood. Sometimes called ‘jackstones’ in the modern day, it required five small pieces of bone - in ancient times the bone pieces were usually knucklebones from a sheep or a goat - tossed into the air and caught on the back of one hand.
Some of the children were playing this version of the game while others played a variation where the object was to throw the pieces into a small container placed on the ground a short distance away. In the absence of genuine knucklebones, the children were using small pieces of paper, taken from the food packaging in the fourth room and tightly scrunched into tiny bundles of varying shapes but roughly the same size.
As Tracy watched them play, she wondered at the innocent ingenuity of youth. She and the children were in an awful situation. Confined in a small, metal room, buried under hundreds of tons of earth, with only one way out; through a securely locked door, beyond which was a man with a gun. By any stretch of imagination, the children should be terrified. They should be crying and begging her to help them. Mass panic and despair had to be expected by even the hardest of characters. But here they were; seemingly happily playing a game with inventively constructed knucklebones just two days after being herded into their tiny cell and locked away for who knows how long?
Tracy smiled as she watched her class at play. These kids had to be the best she had ever taught in her career to date. The difficulties faced by living and working in the remoteness of a place like Haasts Bluff sometimes seemed insurmountable to her, particularly when she first arrived and was alone at night in her modest, government provided accommodation. Those were times when, for a young, single woman living alone in a remote location, life was often hard. When the sheer loneliness became almost too difficult to bear, she considered asking to be transferred back to Alice Springs, or even to Darwin where the population was far greater and much more diversified. But, almost from the first day she went to school and faced her class, her life changed. Her kids were a sheer joy to be with. They were her kids, and she loved them all.
Tracy hoped to have kids of her own one day. But she was in no hurry to start a family, there was still plenty of time. Besides, she wasn’t even married, and for her, marriage was a pre-requisite to having her own children. It wasn’t that she was a purist, in the true sense of the word, it was just that having children had always been something she believed had to be shared with the father. She had to meet the right man, fall in love, get married and start a family; in that order. Somewhat simplistic in theory, she thought, and perhaps even a little out of step with today’s society, but it was, nonetheless, something she had long aspired to.
Perhaps it would be Richard, she thought. She liked him from the first time she met him. She had been in Hassts Bluff just a week when a police vehicle arrived in town from Papunya. Richard Smart
and his partner, David Sparrow, came to the school and introduced themselves to the new teacher.
Sparrow, the senior of the two, called Richard ‘Max’ and Richard called Sparrow ‘Spog’, both nick-names Tracy did not understand at first. It was not until sometime after their first date – a drive out to the bluff after which Haasts Bluff got its name - that Smart explained the significance of his nick-name. It came, he said, from the old comedic television series called Get Smart, popular in the late sixties, long before either of them were born. The show featured a character named Maxwell Smart, a bumbling, inept agent with the fictional espionage organisation CONTROL. Initially, Tracy was offended for Richard. Although they had not long known each other, her instincts led her to believe he was anything but bumbling and inept at his job.
In time, she had grown to admire and respect both Smart and Sparrow. Like her, they were assigned to a remote location in the middle of the Australian outback. As police officers, their job had to be considerably more onerous than hers and that alone had to be something worthy of respect.
In the case of Richard Smart, her admiration and respect quickly turned to something she acknowledged as the beginning of feelings other than professional admiration and respect. Deeper feelings; like an intense liking, or perhaps even love. Could she be in love? Could she envisage marrying, even having children with Richard? These were not questions she agonised over, but they were scenarios worthy of her consideration.
What she did know was that she wished Richard was here now. He would get them all out of this awful place. However, given that Richard didn’t know where she and the children were, how was he ever going to get them out? He had to know they were all missing; it had been two days. Everyone would know they were missing. Walter Tjapanangka would tell them. Walter was a good man. He got on well with all the school children and he was always polite and respectful to her. He would have made his way back to Haasts Bluff or to Papunya by now and everyone would know that the bus was hi-jacked. The police would know, the families of the children would know, the whole community would know. They would be searching for her and the kids already, probably had been since soon after the hi-jack. If they hadn’t already found the school bus, they would soon. It had to be hard to hide a bus, Tracy figured.
