by Peter Ralph
‘I’m not inhibited or lacking in confidence, so the last thing I need is alcohol. I would’ve been happy with coffee.’
He thought she was provocative but also sensed vulnerability and false bravado.
Unexpectedly, she asked. ‘What did you think of Your Nation, Steve?’
His smile was replaced by a frown. ‘It was an opportunity lost. Communities all through history have killed their adult populations almost with impunity, but I know of no advanced society that has ever tolerated the slaying of its children. Your Nation did a great job, rightly scaring the bejesus out of everyone about the toxic fracking chemicals, but then they should have taken their cameras to the Paisley Memorial Hospital and filmed and interviewed the sick little kids. If they’d done that, the government would’ve had to declare a moratorium on the exploration and production of coal seam gas.’
She reached over and placed her hand over his and he felt the energy shoot through him again. ‘You’re passionately opposed to the coal seam gas companies, aren’t you?’
‘I’m ashamed to say that I wasn’t, but that changed after I met those poor children. Let’s not spoil the night talking about it. There’s a great gangster movie on at the Majestic on Friday night and I was wondering whether you’d like to come with me. You might learn something.’
‘Very funny, I don’t think, and, yes, I’d love to go.’
‘Good. While I’m running hot, would you like to join me at the mayor’s annual dinner dance?’
She burst out laughing. ‘I’m sorry. Josh told me all about it and said it’s only for the elite and that in all his time in Paisley he’s never come close to being invited. And here I am, been here for less than a year, and I’m going.’
‘I’ll take that as a “yes” and it’s not just the elite, whoever they are, who get invitations.’
‘It’s getting late. It’s been fun but I have an early start in the morning, so I’ll have to get going.’
‘I’ll take you home.’ He got to his feet and waited for her.
‘That’s alright. I have my car parked out the front.’ She slid out of the booth. As he followed her, his eyes were drawn to the tautness of her body and her long legs. Out on the footpath, she turned and gave him a quick kiss on the lips, saying, ‘Thank you. Phone me if you like.’ Then she ran across the road to her car.
Tom Morgan knew his friend would be furious when he found out that naphthalene had been detected in the muck taken from the foal’s neck and had also been detected in the blood of Gentle Lady, and that they both had contracted haemolytic anaemia. He wasn’t wrong and when Charles Paxton roared, ‘Bastards, I knew it was them!’ he had to pull the phone away from his ear.
‘Settle down, Charles, we can’t prove it was fracking chemicals.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Naphthalene’s used in diesel and th …’
‘No! No! I’ve heard it all before. Hell, tell me something that’s not an ingredient of diesel? You know as well as I do that Gentle Lady didn’t get poisoned by diesel.’
‘I know, Charles, but when we analysed the bore water only minute traces of naphthalene were found and they were within acceptable levels.’
‘Acceptable levels! There are no bloody acceptable levels. The aquifers are connected, the naphthalene content of the water has obviously been diluted since Gentle Lady ingested it or the contaminated water has moved from one aquifer to an adjoining one. How many wells are near the stud and were they being drilled when Gentle Lady was in foal?’
‘I’ve installed additional rainwater storage for the horses and fenced off all the bores. Charles, you should know that Gentle Lady’s foal is still the only deformed newborn we’ve seen.’
‘And I hope with all my heart that you don’t see another. The only thing the deformed calves here have in common with those on the Spurling Downs is the bloody gas wells, you know that. Gentle Lady couldn’t have been the only mare in foal to drink that toxic water. We have to stop them, Tom, before their avarice turns this beautiful valley into one huge chemical cesspit. We just have to stop them.’ Paxton was fighting back tears.
Chapter 24
The domineering Norris Scott-Tempy was no match for Bettina when it came to religion. She insisted that he join her every Sunday for early evening mass at St Stephens, where they always sat in the front row. She liked Father Michael O’Rourke; he was a popular gospeller who sometimes supplanted his personal views for that of the Vatican’s. The church was invariably packed for his masses but Norris found Father Michael boring and often snoozed through his sermons.
‘Today,’ he thundered, ‘I’m going to speak about greed, an evil force dividing the community and the need for neighbours to unite and support each other.’ Scott-Tempy closed his eyes and was about to shut the priest’s words out, when he heard, ‘Those in the coal seam gas industry have divided us, set neighbour against neighbour, and despoiled our land, by their rapacity and underhand tactics.’
Scott-Tempy sat bolt upright, totally shocked, as the old fool urged his flock to support primary producers in the valley by joining Lock ’em out. He wasn’t going to listen to another word of this garbage and he nudged his wife in the ribs, mouthing, ‘We’re getting out of here.’ She responded by giving him a filthy look and putting a finger to her lips.
‘Some of you may be tempted by the money on offer, but I beg you not to take advantage of your neighbours.’ As Scott-Tempy looked up, the priest was staring at him with his unwavering, cobalt eyes. He tried to hold his gaze but couldn’t and dropped his eyes to his feet, wondering whether the priest knew about his business dealings. With all the donations he’d made to the church, he deserved better and he fully intended to complain to the Bishop. The silly old bugger was long past his use-by date and he would suggest to the Monseigneur that it was time he was replaced with younger blood.
There was a pile of empty fifteen-litre, clear-plastic water containers stored at the pub waiting to be picked up by the springwater company. Dean borrowed one when he was locking up, knowing that it would not be missed.
The following morning he was up as dawn broke. He managed to stretch a pair of Vicki’s rubber gloves past his wrists and halfway up his forearms and took the water container down to the dam. He dipped it and it filled with water which was cloudy, bordering on grey. He capped the container tightly and walked briskly back to the four-wheel-drive and placed it on the back seat. He momentarily thought about asking Jack Thomas to get a sample sent to the lab, but then reverted to his original plan.
It was 11am when Dean pulled up at the front of CEGL’s Paisley headquarters. He was dressed in full gas-man attire with the container of water under his arm, and was greeted by a Channel Six team and two local radio station news crews whom he had tipped off. They trailed after him through the foyer to the lift, attracting many strange looks. When the doors of the first available lift slid open, none of the many waiting office workers entered with this strange group.
The doors opened on the eighth level to an expansive, white marble reception counter; the teak panelled wall behind bore the CEGL name in big, gold letters. The young receptionist, wearing headphones, looked up apprehensively. Dean politely said, ‘This is an emergency. I need to see your senior environment manager immediately.’
Without responding to Dean she punched a number into the console in front of her. ‘Mr How … Howard, there’s a ma … man in reception who say … says that there’s an em … emergency and he need … needs to see you immediately.’ Then she whispered, though everyone could hear. ‘It … it’s that gas-man person.’
‘Mr Howard will be here soon.’ The colour had drained from the receptionist’s face.
‘Sweetie, don’t worry. I promise you I’m not here to hurt anyone.’
As Dean was speaking, the lift doors opened and a heavy-set man, with distinct spider veins and a large, red nose, got out. ‘What do you want?’ The button on his collar was open and the knot on his tie was to one
side. He was trembling with rage.
Dean could not believe his luck. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ He attempted to pass the container of murky water to the man, who shied away from it.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s the wastewater your contractor sprayed into my dam and I’m here to return it to you.’ Dean advanced while unscrewing the cap.
‘Don’t you open that,’ the man shouted, and then, looking at the receptionist, ‘Mandy, phone the police.’
‘Can I take it that you don’t want this water in your offices?’
‘Get it away from me!’
‘I’m sorry. So it’s all right for you to dump this toxic crap on my property but, when I try to return it, you can’t back away fast enough. That’s right isn’t it?’
That night Moira Raymond watched the Channel Six news and cursed her heavy-handed environment manager, knowing that her company and the industry were losing the public relations battle. She was desperate to change this.
Artie Cleever had been trampled on by CEGL. After he had blown the whistle on them at the Hunter Valley Protective Alliance meeting, they stopped providing him with tanker water. They knew that he was too old and did not have the funds to take them on in court. The methane in his once crystal-clear water bores bubbled twenty-four hours a day, but CEGL denied liability, claiming that it was naturally occurring.
Artie was a sick man, having been diagnosed with extreme levels of gas-related toxins in his system; his doctor had told him to get off the property or he would surely die. Worse, toxicity tests run on his wife indicated levels that exceeded the norm by more than 150 times and she was deteriorating before his eyes. His dogs had initially lost clumps of fur and then died and the koalas, goannas and lizards that once thrived had vanished. The three gas wells and the forty-metre easement over the pipeline that CEGL had run through his property made it virtually unsaleable; he had no money and could not shift away. He was without hope when he entered the offices of Breckenridge & Priestley.
Simon Breckenridge listened in silence as the old man, nearly in tears, told him the sorry saga that had all started after CEGL’s land access consultant, Donny Drayton, had conned him into signing a land access agreement.
‘How much was your property worth before CEGL sank their wells?’
‘I had it valued three years ago,’ the frail old man rasped, pushing a well-thumbed property valuation across the desk. ‘Half-a-million dollars. I wouldn’t get a bid for it now other than from that bloody gas company and it wouldn’t be more than $200,000.’
‘Would you be happy if I could get you the valuation amount?’
‘That would be wonderful, Mr Breckenridge, but I don’t have any money to pay you.’ Artie hung his head in shame.
‘Don’t worry about me. I can’t promise you anything, but why don’t you leave your papers and medical reports with me?’
‘You’re going to help me?’ A flicker of hope appeared on the old man’s face.
‘I’m going to try. I’ll phone you within a fortnight. Good-bye, Mr Cleever. Try not to worry.’
Within minutes, Breckenridge was dictating a letter to CEGL offering to sell Artie Cleever’s property to them for half-a-million dollars, pointing out that this option would prove less expensive than the litigation that he would bring in respect of his client’s health problems, loss of peace and well-being and diminution in property value, should his generous offer to settle be declined.
Buffy saw the Porsche pull up in front of the Chronicle office. She turned around. ‘Steve, it’s that CEGL woman.’ Steve groaned.
Moira barged through the front door, totally ignored Buffy and looked across at Steve. ‘I’ve got the copy for our announcement this Friday.’
‘Thanks, Moira, give it to Buffy. She’ll need to edit it.’
‘I don’t deal with the hired help and this is to be published as is. No editing. Do you understand me?’
Buffy had never thought of hitting anyone before, but she would have sacrificed a week’s pay to slap Moira Raymond’s face. ‘You heard Mr Forrest. I have to approve all advertising copy.’
‘It’s all right, Buffy.’ Steve strode over to the counter; the last thing he needed was a cat fight. ‘Okay, Moira, let’s see what you’ve got.’
Like the first announcement, there were twenty key points but they had changed from the regular feel-good homilies.
‘Just make sure that there are no changes.’
‘I can’t run this. It’s not true. It says there’s no evidence to support the spurious claims that the extraction of coal seam gas has led to an increase in the incidence of dermatitis in the valley. As you know, I made those claims in my recent editorial and I have no doubt about their authenticity. Have you visited the children’s ward of the Paisley Memorial Hospital lately?’
‘As a matter of fact I have. I’ve even spoken to the doctors and they don’t agree with you. They say there’s no proof to support your far-fetched claims and that the gas-related toxins in some of the kids’ blood most likely came from water bores on their properties that are kilometres away from any drill rig or gas well. For an investigative journalist, you don’t do much investigation, do you?’
‘CEGL appears on the hospital’s notice board as being its biggest donor and I’m sure the doctors know the size of your donations. How much exactly do you give each year?’
‘I’m not going to give that absurd question the time of day. I warn you, if you fail to publish my copy, our lawyers will make your life a misery.’
‘You obviously didn’t read the contract,’ Buffy chipped in.
‘You stupid girl. A piece of paper put together by a firm of yokel bush lawyers. It won’t help you.’
Simon Breckenridge was a smart attorney and Steve knew the contract he had prepared would stand up, but he also knew what big city legal firms without budget limits did for their influential clients, which was to file costly multiple actions, designed to wear the other party down. ‘You’re right. I didn’t talk to the doctors but wh …’
‘I knew it. You were scaremongering. If you had any principles, you’d print a full retraction of that rubbish you wrote.’
‘I was going to say that what I did do, though, was talk to some of those kids’ parents and they told me CEGL was picking up all their medical bills, providing they didn’t go to the media.’ Steve was gambling that the rumours he had heard around town were true.
‘Who told you that? It’s a lie.’
‘I promised I wouldn’t mention their names but, if this ends up in court, I’ll have no choice but to subpoena them. It’ll make CEGL look mighty magnanimous, paying the medical bills of sick little kids for no reason.’
‘You think you’re so smart, you skinny, big-nosed jerk, but you just made yourself a very bad enemy.’ Moira stormed out of the office.
‘Good riddance,’ Buffy said.
‘Buffy, work out how many weeks are left on the contract and send a cheque to CEGL. We won’t be running their announcements anymore.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she said, thrusting her fist into the air.
‘Oh, and buy me the minimum number of CEGL shares that I need, to get notice of their annual general meeting.’
Spencer Harbrow had used his power and influence to continually defer CEGL’s annual general meeting, while he unsuccessfully tried to lobby the London institutions for the votes that he needed to replace his dissident directors. He had organised the nomination of three ‘yes’ men as replacements but, without the support of Joe Biederman’s Royal Treasury Group, the company’s largest shareholder, their nominations would be pointless. He had made countless phone calls to Biederman, knowing that the other institutions would follow his lead, but it was to no avail. When he offered to come to London, he was surprised to be told that it wasn’t worth coming.
Harbrow was not a man to accept the word no. He told Janet to contact the crew of the corporate jet and tell them to prepare for take-off to Farnborough at 3pm
the next day. The crew comprised the captain, a first officer, a cordon bleu chef and two stewardesses, one to take care of Mr Harbrow and one to look after the crew. Janet would ensure that a chauffeur-driven Bentley or Rolls was waiting at the private terminal at Farnborough Airport and that a suite was booked at Claridge’s.
The 737 with CEGL livery was ready for take-off when he arrived at the Mascot terminal. A golf buggy ferried him onto the tarmac. He carried no luggage, as there was a full wardrobe of Brioni, Zegna and Armani on the plane with Louis Vuitton suitcases that would be packed and sent to Claridge’s as soon they landed. Bounding up the stairs, he was greeted by a tall, ash-blonde and a curvaceous, tanned brunette, wearing white jackets embroidered with the red letters CEGL on the lapels and matching red dresses. He acknowledged them with a curt nod and walked briskly down the aisle, past the lounge and dining room, the fully-equipped cubicles for guests, and his stateroom, until he was in his office; this contained nearly every electronic business device known to man. A few minutes later, the plane began to taxi down the runway and he strapped himself in, hit a button on the remote and watched the take-off on a monitor before turning his attention to the screens showing Reuters, The Australian Stock Exchange and Fox. An hour into the flight, he phoned Joe Biederman and told him he had some business in London and invited him to dinner the following night.
‘I hope you’re not coming especially to see me, because I’m not changing my mind.’
‘Of course not.’
He left his office just before the stopover in Bangkok and strode into the lounge, where the two stewardesses were reading magazines. ‘Can I get you anything, Spencer?’ the brunette asked.
Harbrow liked beautiful women, but looks unaccompanied by brains did nothing for him and both girls had commerce degrees, had read all documents on the public record about CEGL and were valuable assets when he was entertaining VIPs.
