by Peter Ralph
Nor was Vicki and, as he drove up the driveway, she came out the front door, crossed her arms and glared. She had phoned the bank seeking details of the thousand-dollar cheque and, when they’d told her that the payee was Pitcher Laboratories, she knew exactly what had occurred.
‘How could you do it? I thought we agreed that we couldn’t afford to have that damn dam water analysed.’
‘No, Vicki, we didn’t agree. You told me, and you know how much I hate being told I can’t do something.’
She was about to ask him where she was going to get the money to meet the mortgage, but his face was black, his bottom lip was quivering and his arms were at his sides, hands formed into tight fists. They had been together for fifteen years and, while he had always been stubborn, he had also been docile and easy-going. Vicki had only ever seen him lose his temper twice and it had been like Vesuvius erupting. Somehow he had managed to physically control himself on both occasions, but the vitriol that had poured from his mouth had been destructive and terrifying and the recipients of his attacks had cowered. For the third time in her life, she watched him fighting for self-control and knew this was not the time to chide him.
‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.
‘I’m not hungry; I’m going on the Net. Make sure the kids don’t disturb me.’ He strode past her and tromped down the hallway to the tiny room they called ‘solitary confinement’. It had been a storeroom that Dean had converted into an office. It housed a small trestle table, an old laptop computer and a canvas chair; nothing else. He crawled under the table and pulled himself up onto the chair on the other side. There was less than ten centimetres wiggle room between the back of the chair and the wall behind it.
Vicki did not know that Dean had received the chemical analysis of the dam water and she wondered what had happened in town to upset him. He would tell her in his own good time - he always did - and, in the meantime, she would make sure that not a peep was heard from the kids.
Dean started the computer, pulled out the chemical analysis, and googled ‘benzene’ and saw that it was found in gasoline, insecticides, pesticides, paints, other gasoline derivatives and cigarette smoke. Next he googled ‘toluene’, discovering that it was a component of many petroleum products and used as a solvent for paints, coatings, gums and resins. He scratched his head, wondering why these chemicals had been highlighted in the report. He’d assumed that they had to be toxic but his research indicated that they were used in everyday products that could be bought from the service station or supermarket. When he searched for ‘Filliburton +benzene’, nothing came up on the Filliburton website, but many other sites referred to BTEX, a group of chemical compounds made up of benzene, toluene, ethylbenzene and xylene.
As he continued to pore over the sites, he found that Filliburton used BTEX in their fracking fluids which, as far he was concerned, proved that when they had sprayed the dirt roads and tracks they had contaminated his dam. Next he googled ‘BTEX + health hazards’ and was staggered when he got more than 20,000 hits, many blaming Filliburton for life-threatening illnesses like leukaemia, brain tumours, liver cancer, kidney cancer, lung cancer and numerous other nasty conditions, depending on the level of BTEX absorbed. What are these lunatics doing pumping this stuff into the ground and why are the Australian governments letting them get away with it? According to one website, coal seam gas was being exploited by the gas companies in thirty-eight states in the US, leaving behind a trail of discontent, destruction and sickness. Dean could not help but notice that the main culprits were Filliburton, Plumberjay and SK Services, all large American companies that had subsidiaries operating in the valley.
He felt sick as he googled ‘illnesses + symptoms + BTEX’, already anticipating the result, but hoping the symptoms would not confirm his worst fears. Skin and sensory irritation, tiredness, dizziness, headaches, loss of coordination, eye and nose irritation appeared on the screen, all symptoms that he and the kids had experienced. He said a silent prayer for his kids, before the thought of them contracting cancer as a result of Filliburton and CEGL’s deceit drove him into a cold fury. He had thought that, once they had stopped swimming in the dam, they would be safe, only to realise they could be exposed to BTEX in the air through evaporation; he wondered whether his rainwater tanks were contaminated.
It was close to midnight, he had not eaten but wasn’t hungry, his head was aching and some of the information on the websites had been too scientific for him to understand. He rationalised that, because Vicki had not come down with any symptoms, the rainwater tanks were probably okay; but he could not be sure and it did nothing to ease his fury. Frustrated, angry and exhausted, he shut the computer down and staggered to the bedroom, threw off his clothes and flopped onto the mattress next to his restless wife.
As Dean put his head on the pillow, the whirr, whirr, whirr was louder than ever. He rested his hands on his temples and tried to massage his headache away, but the unrelenting whirr, whirr, whirr droned on, making sleep and any respite impossible.
Chapter 11
Breckenridge & Priestley had been the Forrest family’s lawyers for over thirty years. However, Simon Breckenridge was shocked when Steve Forrest phoned and asked him to prepare a short agreement between CEGL and the Chronicle. There was a short, sharp exchange, finishing with Breckenridge telling Steve that he should find another firm to act for him. After reflecting for a few minutes, the lawyer came to the conclusion that he was the best person to prepare the agreement and he quickly phoned Steve back, apologised and said he would be happy to act.
Steve had been expecting a three-page agreement, confirming the discussions he had had with Moira Raymond. The document he received was more than thirty pages and the Chronicle had the right to decline any advertising copy and to retain any monies received, while CEGL was virtually without rights. Steve doubted that Moira Raymond would sign the agreement but, within seventy-two hours of sending it to her, it was back on his desk, duly executed without amendment. Attached to the agreement was the announcement she wanted to run in the next issue, with a cheque for the first year’s advertising. Steve should have been happy but, instead, he was uncomfortable and suspicious. Why had she signed such a one-sided agreement and why had she paid a year in advance?
The twenty-point announcement for the double-page spread was innocuous and merely set out the economic benefits that CEGL had brought to the community, the employment opportunities, the business it had brought to the local towns, the donations it had made to charities, hospitals and schools, the building boom that the valley was experiencing and that clean gas was far better for both the economy and the environment than extracting and burning coal.
Buffy was frosty and had hardly spoken to Steve since she had found out that he had accepted Moira Raymond’s offer. When he showed her the editorial that he had painstakingly prepared for the same edition as the CEGL announcement, she curled her lower lip and shook her head, without voicing an opinion. The editorial was headed ‘Both Sides’:
You will notice that today’s edition of the Paisley Chronicle carries an announcement from CEGL setting out the economic and environmental benefits that its management claims to have brought to the valley. The Chronicle carefully considered the content before agreeing to publish and, while not expressing any opinion on the claims made, believes that, in the spirit of free speech, CEGL has the right to express such claims on the same basis that any other advertiser with this newspaper does. These announcements will become a weekly fixture in the Chronicle for the next twelve months, but will always be subject to amendment or change by this newspaper’s editorial staff. As you are aware, the Chronicle accepts advertisements from the Fisher Valley Protective Alliance and, by agreeing to publish CEGL’s announcements, we are doing no more than allowing both sides of the coal seam gas debate to express their views, and keep you, the reader, fully informed.
Within minutes of the newspaper hitting the streets, Buffy was fielding phone calls from irate readers, subscr
ibers cancelling their subscriptions and advertisers who wanted to break their contracts. She agreed with most of the opinions expressed but, despite this, she fought tenaciously to hold on to every subscriber and advertiser. Old Mrs Elliot, who was supposedly going senile, provided some light relief when she phoned to tell Buffy that she was disgusted with the announcement, the editorial was a cop-out and that she had been right: Steve had no balls.
Len Forrest came through the front door, shouting. ‘You don’t think that stupid, bloody editorial is going to have any effect do you? Folks are laughing at you and saying you’d publish anything if there was a buck in it. I’ve never been so embarrassed.’
‘Settle down Dad.’ Steve was cut by his father’s comments. ‘This little storm will blow over.’
‘Little storm? Did you have anything to do with that crazy editorial, Buffy?’ The old man knew that she had not.
‘No, Mr Forrest.’
‘You’re a smart girl. If you listened to Buffy, you’d run a far better newspaper, Steve.’
Len was red-faced and wheezing, and Steve knew there was nothing to be gained by arguing with him. After a few more minutes, having exhausted his chagrin, he stormed out the door, yelling, ‘I don’t know how I’m going to be able to face my friends.’
Steve hung his head and ran his hands through his hair, wondering whether he’d done the right thing, when the phone on his desk rang. ‘Bianca for you,’ Buffy said coldly.
‘Hi honey,’ he said, ‘how are you?’
‘Probably better than you.’ She giggled. ‘I did an early morning aerobics class and you were the talk of the gym. Don’t worry, though; Daddy said your editorial was very good.’
‘Is that meant to make me feel better? Look, I’m really busy. Can I phone you tonight?’
‘Don’t be like that. Daddy’s just being supportive and he’s invited us to have dinner with him and Mum at the Barclay on Friday night. I think he wants to celebrate some big deal.’
Steve paused. The Barclay was very expensive and not a restaurant that Norris Scott-Tempy would normally go to, unless someone else was paying. ‘I’ll have to check and get back to you.’
‘No you don’t. I’ve already accepted, so I’ll see you there at eight o’clock. And, before you moan, it’s smart casual, so you don’t need a tie or jacket. Steve, Daddy really defended you and your editorial, so you owe him. When you get to know him better, you’ll see that he only wants to help.’
He thought he was about to puke. Why did Bianca see her father through rose-coloured glasses when it was blindingly obvious what he was? ‘I gotta go.’
‘You are coming, aren’t you?’ she asked, with a tinge of annoyance.
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘No. See you on Friday night.’
By the end of the day the Chronicle had lost $1800 a week in subscriptions and advertising revenue, which was significantly less than CEGL had paid for their announcements. Steve had expected a larger loss and he remained confident that within a few weeks the subscribers and advertisers would return. He was pleased, his satisfaction only slightly tarnished by the words his father had used to belittle his editorial; and the forthcoming dinner with Norris Scott-Tempy.
The first weak rays of sunshine were breaking through the early morning haze when Moira Raymond, on her way to CEGL’s offices, stopped at the local newsagent and bought a copy of the Chronicle. She, too, was pleased with the editorial. Steve had told her that he was going to write something expressing the Chronicle’s view, but had refused to let her see the content prior to publishing. She could not have wished for better. Her advertisement had achieved exactly what it was designed to do: divide the community. Steve’s attempt to exonerate himself would do nothing but pour petrol on the flames of dissent.
In her opulent office on the top floor of the Fidelity Insurance building, the tallest building in Paisley, Moira reclined in her comfortable chair, a mineral water in one hand and a remote control in the other. She switched the large, flat screen television on and found an item from the previous night’s news. An image of her boss, Spencer Harbrow, appeared. He was standing in front of a field full of wind turbines with the Premier of South Australia, his wife and the Federal Environment Minister.
‘CEGL is proud to have developed this wind farm in the fine state of South Australia and, as a company, in the long-term we remain committed to the environment and to replacing the use of fossil fuels with green power.’ The premier thanked him, they shook hands and cameras flashed.
Moira felt sick at the sight of Harbrow. She knew that wind and solar power represented less than one percent of CEGL’s business and that the company’s involvement in producing environmentally friendly power was purely for PR purposes.
She envied her boss for his job, which revolved around entertaining government ministers and merchant bankers, and flitting around the world in the company’s luxuriously fitted-out Boeing 737. For all his polish and charm, he was a hard, uncompromising man, used to getting his own way in the boardroom and the bedroom. Moira had resisted his numerous advances and curried favour with the non-executive directors to progress through the company. Now Harbrow was all that stood between her and the top job. He had promised her that he was going to retire when he turned fifty but now, six years later, he appeared no closer to retirement. Given his cushy lifestyle, that was hardly surprising.
She smacked the table with her open hand when she thought about the ugly crowds she had faced, the community hostility, and the hard decisions she had had to make at her boss’s direction, while he kept his soft hands clean. He made the bullets and she fired them and she doubted that he had heard a cross or angry word for years, other than from her or one of the many lovers whom he had dispensed with.
On Friday night, the NSW Premier would appear at a community meeting in the Paisley Town Hall to announce the government’s approval of CEGL’s twenty-billion-dollar investment in a three-hundred kilometre pipeline and an LNG plant on the south coast’s Kravis Island. Moira had warned Harbrow that there were those who hated the thought of a pipeline running through the valley and that the meeting might become hostile. He had ridiculed her, hinting that perhaps she had an ulterior motive for not wanting him to attend what would be the most important event in the company’s history.
Andrew Brown’s children had lost most of their friends at primary school and, when one of the other students called Andrew a dirty scumbag, his eldest son, Billy, retaliated to defend his father’s honour. When Billy arrived home that afternoon, he had lost one of his front teeth and his eyes were black and swollen. Sally broke down in tears when she saw him, knowing that he and his siblings, Emily and Ron, were being picked on nearly every day.
Sally knew what it was like to be ostracised: people she had known for twenty years crossed the street when they saw her coming, refusing to make eye contact. She was a fine horsewoman who helped out at the local equestrian school but, when Jenny Orr and a number of other parents had withdrawn their children, the owner had had no choice but to sack her. People who had once been friends made cutting remarks or stared through her as if she did not exist. Sally hated CEGL but, because of her husband’s position, she had no way of expressing it. Perhaps he should have resigned, because nothing could be worse than what she and her family were going through.
When Jenny Orr phoned Andrew at the bank, he was apprehensive about taking her call and then surprised when she informed him that she would be discharging all debts with the bank the next day. She asked him to fax the total amount due, including any fees. He was relieved and congratulated her but she was cold and business-like, even addressing him as ‘Mr Brown’. She told him she would be at the bank at ten o’clock in the morning with a bank cheque.
Jenny arrived precisely on time wearing a smart blue business suit. ‘Good morning, Jenny,’ Andrew said, coming out of his office. ‘Would you like to come in?’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary, Mr Brown,’ she said lou
dly enough to ensure that everyone else in the bank could hear. ‘I have your cheque. When can I expect the return of the titles to our property?’
Andrew had been wondering who had lent the Orrs the funds; however, when he looked at the cheque, it was drawn on an American merchant bank not normally engaged in mortgage lending - so it told him nothing. ‘They’re in Sydney, but you should have them within fourteen days.’
‘Not good enough. We’ve discharged our debts and I want our titles back within forty-eight hours. You can have them couriered to us.’
He felt his staff and the customers in the bank looking at him and he started to turn red. ‘Very well, I will,’ he responded, not knowing whether it was possible but anxious not to give Jenny another reason to continue embarrassing him.
‘Make sure you do and, while I’m here, I want to close our trading account. Please make out a cheque for the balance.’
‘I … I’ll have to make sure all the deposits have cleared.’
‘We haven’t made a deposit with you for over a week so everything’s cleared. I want my money now!’
Andrew nodded at one of his clerks who scampered off to organise the cheque. ‘Won’t you come into my office while you’re waiting?’
‘No, Mr Brown, I’m quite happy here, but please hurry with my cheque.’
As she walked out of the bank, cheque in hand, Jenny felt a twinge of conscience. When Tom Morgan had offered confidentially to discharge the debts due and take over the mortgages on the night of the fiery meeting at Paisley Town Hall, he had made her promise that she would not demean Andrew Brown. She knew she could have transferred the funds electronically, but she had wanted to attend the bank in person so she could pay him back for the grief he had caused her and her family.
Before the day was out, most folks in Paisley knew that Jenny had made Andrew Brown look weak and foolish.
Dean Prezky had spent the previous night plotting his revenge on those who had put his family’s health at serious risk and who had compounded their misdemeanours by depriving them of sleep. He had rummaged around the house until he found the antique battery-powered taperecorder that, despite Vicki’s pleading, he had refused to throw out. With a little TLC he had managed to get it recording and playing like new. It was 4.30am and the whirr, whirr, whirr that had kept him awake most of the night seemed louder than ever. He rolled out of bed, threw on a pair of jeans and an old black T-shirt, slipped his feet into a pair of thongs and tucked the taperecorder under his arm. A few minutes later, with the lights of the four-wheel-drive turned off, he pulled up outside CEGL’s site office. He got out and crept over to the fence closest to the compressor station. The whirr, whirr, whirr was loud and he recorded the noise for two minutes.
