‘And I for one, Faith, know exactly how he’ll be feeling!’
fifteen
Faith made morning tea with Bev Porter in the farmhouse kitchen while the three men inspected the campervan. Fred Porter had been checking the mail when he noticed the van in the ditch down the road from his front gate. It had only taken him and his offsider Shariffie five minutes to haul it back onto its wheels with the tractor, and then he’d suggested driving up to the farmhouse and checking the suspension.
Now Shariffie was under the van with a lamp on a long lead that ran from the equipment shed. Fred and Martin were squatting in the shade of the van.
‘Shariffie was a mechanic in Afghanistan,’ Fred explained. ‘He’s good. I’d given up on that tractor, but he got it going.’
Martin looked around. ‘Not the kind of place you expect to find an Afghan.’
‘We’ve got quite a few round here. Mostly they’re on temporary protection visas. Good workers. They brought the local meatworks back to life. Running two shifts now. They’ve even got a halal certification. Export lamb for the Middle East. We get paid bugger all per head, but it’s better than watching your stock starve to death.’
‘How long since it’s rained?’ Martin asked, looking around at the parched paddocks.
‘Going on two and a half years,’ Fred said. ‘Good downpour right about now would spoil a perfectly acceptable drought.’
He stood up as Shariffie slid out from under the van. ‘Just telling Martin about our drought,’ he said.
Shariffie nodded as he wiped his hands on an oil-stained cloth. ‘It is most definitely as dry as a dead dingo’s donger around here,’ he declared.
Fred winked at Martin. ‘We try to help them fit in with a few lessons in English as she are spoke.’
‘The van is good,’ Shariffie announced. ‘Very excellent job on the underneath. Bloody beauty, digger. You should be having no worries, mate.’
Fred chuckled. ‘In another six months we reckon we’ll have him eating Vegemite.’
‘No way José,’ Shariffie said with a shudder.
‘Tea’s up,’ yelled Faith from the screen door in the flywire-enclosed verandah.
They sat at a table in the huge kitchen. While Faith poured the tea, Bev offered Martin a plate of small oval cakes.
‘Thanks, Bev, these look great,’ he said
‘Don’t thank me,’ Bev said, ‘they’re Fred’s famous friands.’
Martin bit into his cake and looked at Fred with surprise. ‘This is bloody beautiful, mate!’
‘Thanks. I got the recipe off the Internet. They come up a treat in the old slow-combustion stove.’
Shari jumped up at the word ‘stove’. ‘I must get some more wood. Back in the shaking of two lambs’ tails.’
Bev smiled. ‘My gran had Italian POWs help her run Granddad’s place while he was in the Middle East fighting Rommel,’ she said. ‘Now we’ve got an Afghan helping us keep this place going. Funny old world, eh?’
‘They’re not getting any grief from any of the locals?’ Faith asked.
‘Nope,’ Fred said. ‘Our blokes were pretty well settled in when all that Children Overboard bullshit started. We kind of knew what it was all about by then. You always get some whining, but we had a meeting at the pub on RSL night where they talked about what they were getting away from back there.’
‘That must have been interesting,’ said Martin.
‘You’re telling me,’ said Fred. ‘Bloody “queue jumping”. As if it’s that simple. Couple of the old diggers wanted to drive down to Canberra and form a queue to biff a few politicians. Reckoned this wasn’t why they went off to war in ’39. It got quite heated.’
Bev reached across the table and took Fred’s hand. ‘Let’s just say some people got more heated than others.’
‘Shari’s a good bloke,’ Fred said defensively. ‘So are all his mates. I don’t know if we could have kept this place going without him.’
Shari backed into the kitchen with his arms full of firewood. He dumped the logs into a basket next to the stove.
‘You did us a good turn, Fred,’ Martin said, ‘pulling us out of that ditch, and I can see times are tough around here. How about I repay the favour with some cash to tide you over?’
‘Sure, mate,’ Fred laughed, ‘thirty-five grand would get those bastards at the bank off my back for a bit.’
‘I know all about those bastards at the bank, believe me,’ Martin said. ‘I can give you the thirty-five.’
Fred and Bev looked at each other, stunned. Fred turned to Martin.
‘I was joking, Martin, I didn’t help you out for any reward.’
‘Well, I’m not joking,’ Martin replied. ‘I’ll give you the money.’
Bev shifted in her chair. ‘This was Fred’s dad’s place, and his dad’s before that,’ she said. ‘Same goes for most of the farms in the district. All third- or fourth-generation. We’re all in the same boat, which, given the lack of water, is a pretty silly phrase. The money would be nice, Martin, but we wouldn’t be able to look our neighbours in the eye. Thanks, but we’ll get by.’
Faith joined in. ‘Hey, if Martin here is so intent on splashing his cash about, is there anything we can do for the whole area?’
Fred considered this. ‘Maybe the library needs some books or something.’ He glanced at Bev. ‘What do you reckon, love?’
‘I’m your girl, if that’s the way you want to go,’ Faith said.
‘Well,’ Bev said, ‘I reckon what this community could really do with is the piss-up to end all piss-ups. Sorry, Shari.’
Fred nodded towards the Afghan. ‘He doesn’t drink,’ he explained. ‘The Koran is pretty down on it. Apparently they’re a lot like Methodists that way.’
‘Please,’ said Shariffie, ‘don’t mind us. Afghan people love a good party. Shall we have Cheese Twisties?’
‘You’re taking the piss, right?’ Martin said.
Shariffie smiled innocently. ‘Of course! I study my new home very hard. I don’t wish to look like boofhead. My friends and I shall cook for the party. We shall do lamb in the way of my country.’
‘Good-oh,’ said Fred.
‘You’re on, mate,’ said Martin.
sixteen
Lesley Bogan was pulling the tarpaulin back over his truck when the campervan rolled into the car park of the Golden Sheaf. Lesley was known as Bogie to his friends, and being the local beer distributor, he had a lot of friends. He was surprised to see a campervan. From the noise of the engine, he had expected some big Yank tank. A red-headed man in a loud shirt leaned out of the van.
‘G’day, mate,’ Martin said, ‘got any grog to spare? I’m throwing a party.’
‘Maybe,’ Bogie said. ‘How many you expecting?’
‘Dunno. How many people in the area?’
Bogie scratched his head. ‘Sign on the highway says the shire’s got 347 residents. It’s a newish sign, so it’s probably right. I knocked the old one down when I was pissed last Christmas.’
‘Let’s say 350 then,’ Martin said. ‘You up for a beer?’
Bogie proudly patted his protruding stomach. ‘Wadda you reckon?’ he asked.
‘Great. Let’s call it 351. Cash okay?’
‘’cun’oath,’ Bogie said, flipping the tarp back off the load. ‘I’ll get the keys to the forklift and have Kelly open up the coolroom.’
Kelly, licensee of the Golden Sheaf, had been leaning on the door during this exchange. He walked out into the sunlight and tossed a set of keys to Bogie. Faith and Martin got out of the van and walked over to Kelly.
‘Fred and Bev reckoned you’d be the man to see about a party,’ Martin said.
‘Too right,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘Fred rang already. Since you’ve bought all that grog, me and the missus can organise the rest for twelve grand. Food, soft drinks and a band. The local Chinese fangatorium and the ladies from the bowls club and CWA will pitch in.’
Kelly had the broadest Au
stralian accent Martin had ever heard. He also appeared to be Chinese. ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ Martin asked.
Kelly Kwan shook his head. ‘Nah, family’s originally from Dubbo. How could you tell?’
‘Just a wild guess,’ Martin said. ‘Anyway, twelve grand’s not quite the figure I had in mind.’
Bugger, Kelly thought to himself, too high. ‘I’ll do it for ten then,’ he said.
Martin shook his head. ‘What’ll I get for twenty?’
Kelly didn’t blink. ‘The pub, my car, the wife and kids, my dog, and the best night this town’s had in a very long time.’
‘Just the party will be fine, thanks,’ said Martin holding out his hand. ‘I’m Martin, this is Faith, and I’ve never thrown a do like this before. Where do we start?’
Faith tossed him the mobile phone. ‘Why don’t you park the van and see if you can track down an electrician and some party lights?’ She turned to the publican. ‘And once that beer’s on ice, maybe you can chase up some charcoal and spits,’ she suggested. ‘The local Afghan community are bringing some lamb.’
Kelly rubbed his hands together. ‘Bewdy, I’ve had Shari’s lamb before. De-fuckin’-licious.’
Faith glanced around. ‘Where do I find your wife? We’ve got a lot to do.’
Kelly pointed towards the pub. ‘She’s probably in the back bar. Name’s Dawn.’
Martin and Kelly watched Faith as she ran up the stairs and into the pub.
‘Doesn’t muck about, does she?’ Kelly said. ‘I like her.’
Martin nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I like her too.’
*
Late that afternoon, with the party preparations well under way, Faith and Martin walked across the paddock to the dam behind the pub.
‘Must be a great place for yabbies when it’s full.’ Martin tossed a clod of dirt into the murky brown water.
Faith seemed to have something on her mind. ‘Fred collected a week’s worth of papers from his letterbox after he pulled us out of the ditch,’ she said. ‘State and local. I checked through them while you boys were out farting around with the van.’
‘And?’ Martin asked.
She shrugged. ‘It seems very odd, but somehow a million-dollar armed robbery, a missing bank manager, and a body in a burned-out police car don’t rate a mention.’
Martin kicked at the dry dirt.
‘The cops out along the highway are definitely looking for someone,’ Faith continued, ‘we can see that. But they’re keeping a really low profile. What’s going on?’
‘Beats me.’ Martin threw another lump of crumbling clay into the dam. Then he suddenly remembered the mobile phone. ‘How about I call Col and see what’s going on?’ He reached for the phone in his pocket.
‘Good idea.’
Martin turned the phone on and checked for a signal.
‘SMS him, though,’ Faith suggested. ‘And keep it short. Just ask him what’s happening with the cops. The digital network is theoretically safe from prying eyes and we’re probably part CDMA out here, but you never know.’
Martin looked up at her quizzically.
She shrugged. ‘I like to keep up with technology.’
seventeen
The text message from Martin was short and to the point: ‘What’s going on?’ Colin stared at the screen and wished he knew exactly what was going on himself.
His thoughts were interrupted when the phone rang and the screen flashed ‘private number’. Colin answered it with a sharp, ‘Curtis.’
‘Don’t even think about replying,’ was all that Smith said, then the phone went dead. The coldness and certainty in the man’s voice was chilling.
Colin sat in his new patrol car, trying to come up with some kind of plan to make contact with Martin. These bastards had obviously plugged into every mobile-phone transmission in the area. It was smart of Martin to keep the message short, but even so, Smith would have an idea of his approximate position very soon. What Colin needed was a way of getting a warning back to Martin, but it couldn’t come from him and it would have to be sent from outside the local call zone.
Just then his radar chimed and he glanced at the display. One-seventy. The culprit was a silver BMW barrelling down from the crest of the hill. Col hit the lights and siren and rolled his car out onto the highway from its hiding place under a willow. Thanks to Martin, he now had a nice new turbo-charged pursuit car with power to spare and very, very comfortable seats.
The BMW’s nose dipped sharply as the driver saw the flashing lights and hit the anchors. No fishtailing, though, Col noted approvingly. German automotive design and engineering at its very best. He wondered exactly what made Beamers so popular with fuckwits like this bloke. The luxury sedan rolled to a stop and Col climbed out of the police car with his infringement-notice book. He noted the tinted glass and mobile-phone aerial. As he approached, the electric window whirred smoothly down on the driver’s side. Cold air, loud music, and the sweet smell of marijuana washed out. The driver was a man of about thirty, ashen-faced, clutching the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. Col knew that look. What a dill!
‘Licence, please,’ he asked politely. He studied the laminated card the driver passed through the window. This was going to be fun. ‘Wanna save me a radio call and tell me how many points you’ve got up?’ he asked. ‘Be the nice thing to do.’
The driver looked at the floor. ‘Eleven,’ he said quietly.
Col whistled and opened his ticket book. ‘Congratulations,’ he said, ‘this is your lucky day. You only need one more demerit point to lose your licence, and you’ll get three for speeding, plus a ginormous fine for doing 170 in a 110 zone.’ He took a pen from his shirt pocket. ‘That’s before we get to the dope and the playing of that mindless techno music at high decibels on a public road. All very serious crimes on my patch.’
The driver groaned and put his head in his hands.
‘Definitely looks like we got you driving HUA,’ Colin said.
The driver stared at him, bewildered. ‘HUA?’ he asked.
‘Head up arse,’ Colin translated. He nodded at the mobile phone in a cradle on the dash. ‘That thing working, Fangio?’ he asked.
‘Hey, come on, be fair,’ the driver protested. ‘I wasn’t talking on it and I always use the hands-free anyway.’
‘Whoop-de-fuckin’-do,’ said Col. ‘I’m sure the magistrate will be tickled pink.’ He clicked the top of his pen and leaned towards the window. ‘Now, listen to me very carefully,’ he said quietly. ‘I can write you a ticket or I can arrest you, but whatever I decide to do, you are in some seriously deep shit right now.’
Another low groan came from the car.
‘However,’ Colin continued, ‘I could also pretend to write a ticket and ask you to do me a favour. You agree, and I send you on your way and we forget anything ever happened here.’
‘Do I have a choice?’ the driver asked warily.
Col shrugged. ‘Doesn’t seem much like it to me,’ he said, ‘but hey, you might be even dumber than your current situation would indicate.’
The driver considered this and then conceded. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Colin smiled and started writing. ‘Well, it may look like I’m filling out a speeding ticket, but in fact I’m writing a mobile number and a text message. When you get exactly five hundred k’s from here, I want you to pull over and SMS the message to the number. Easy as that. Then you destroy the ticket.’
‘How?’ asked the driver.
Colin shook his head. How could someone this thick possibly afford a BMW? he wondered. ‘Listen, sport,’ he snapped, ‘I really don’t give a rat’s. Eat it or burn it or roll it into a joint and smoke it, for all I care. Just as long as you destroy it. Then you drive on into the sunset and forget I ever existed.’
‘Cool,’ said the driver, smiling.
‘Not so cool,’ said Colin coldly, leaning in the car window and handing over the ticket and driver’s licence. He
took off his sunglasses, looked the driver directly in the eye and spoke very slowly. ‘I now have your name and address. If this message is not sent exactly as written, I will know about it, and I’ll find you. And when I do I’ll shove this shiny Bavarian-built auto up your arse, blunt end first. Just imagine what that’ll do to your snazzy metallic paint job.’
The driver meekly took the ticket, folded it and put it in his shirt pocket. He zeroed the trip counter on the instrument panel. ‘Five hundred k’s, right?’ he asked.
‘You got it, champ,’ Colin said, straightening up. ‘That’s about five hours if you obey the speed limit, and believe me, you will be obeying the speed limit. Right?’
The BMW pulled sedately back onto the highway as Colin folded up the ticket book. He saw a brief glint of light from a patch of scrub way off to his left. The watchers were good, but back in the jungle Colin had discovered a sixth sense for being observed. He climbed into the car and reversed off the roadway into his shady hiding place.
These seats were a bit too comfortable, he decided, rubbing his shoulder against the headrest. He glanced towards the patch of scrub and flicked his radar unit on. There was still an hour till sunset, and unfortunately he was going to have to ruin this perfectly nice day for a few more drivers. Just for the sake of appearances.
eighteen
By seven that night the hotel’s car park – or the dusty paddock that served as the car park – was pretty well full.
‘Bushies don’t mind an early start to a party,’ Kelly explained.
A bush band was setting up in the main bar, and the local amateur DJ was rigging some loudspeakers out over the back balcony. Trestle tables dotted the withered grass that passed for a lawn. Cut-down 44-gallon drums overflowed with beer and ice, and a group of men were erecting hessian screens around some portable toilets.
A dozen lamb carcasses, stuffed with rice, carrots, raisins and spices, were already turning on spits over banked-up charcoal fires, the heady aroma wafting back into the hotel. Urns, plates, cutlery and trays of food were appearing out of the backs of utes and four-wheel drives.
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