by Alan Carter
The buzz of the flies drummed in his ears; the bored or weak ones who couldn’t get to the blood were attracted to his sweat.
Clement made his way back to his vehicle through the same unwelcoming bush and the same over-friendly flies. They crawled up your nose and were in the back of your throat before you could blow them back out. En route he tried Graeme Earle. As expected the call went dead. Earle was the kind of bloke who loved this life, fishing, drinking, blue skies, wide open space and malevolent heat. You could never reach him on a rostered day off. Clement didn’t rate him highly as a detective but to be fair, it wasn’t like he was basing this on a great sample. They’d worked assaults, rapes and one tribal spat that turned into attempted murder. Earle’s work was solid, he wasn’t incompetent. It was more that, while this might be a massive region of thousands of ks, the crime garden was very small and there was nowhere to hone real detective skills so they stayed unborn or undeveloped. Earle had lived here fifteen years and in him Clement saw the traits more of a small town sheriff than a detective. He dialled Shepherd next. The detective constable answered his phone promptly.
‘Guilty. Course the beak’s given him a slap on the wrist. Three months.’
Shepherd couldn’t finish a speech without some complaint. On this occasion Clement sympathised. They’d gone after an inveterate wife-beater. Those cases were hard to get to court and when they got a sentence lighter than an empty cicada shell you felt you were in the wrong job on the wrong side of the planet. The women looked at you like you were the one who had given them the black eye or split lip.
Clement explained where he was and what he’d found, or rather hadn’t. He told Shepherd they’d be setting up a crime scene.
‘Bring Jared. And those guys who trapped the Callum Creek crocs. See if they’re available.’
He opened his car and risked his bum on the scorching seat. He tapped the Pajero’s plates into his computer. Bingo. Dieter Schaffer. DOB 14.04.48. As Jill had warned, the address was a lot number on Cape Leveque Road, a strip of bitumen that ran a hundred k north–south in a wilderness of mainly low scrub. The only phone number was the mobile he had. He did all this while Shepherd whinged about how hard it was going to be to do each of the tasks set. He ignored him.
‘See you soon, Josh.’
Clement called the station and asked his desk sergeant, Mal Gross, if he knew a Dieter Schaffer. Of course he did. Gross knew most everybody in the Kimberley.
‘Dieter. They call him “Schultz”. Used to be a cop in Germany.’
So far as Gross was aware Schaffer lived alone in what was little more than a bush shack. Gross said he would get a car out there to look over the house but it was a good hundred k so Clement should not expect anything for a while.
Typical.
Clement fought his way back to the locus of his investigation. The missing outboard worried him but he began constructing plausible alternatives to murder-robbery. Dieter could have taken it with him in a mate’s car. In fact he could have injured himself on it if the boat capsized. But while you could lose your phone in the accident, would you leave keys in the ignition? No, surely even if the battery had already run flat, you’d take the keys. Clement wondered if he should drive out and around to the yet-to-be-pegged crime scene but he was worried about driving over evidence so he was forced to yet again retrace his steps to the other side of the creek. Before leaving he took a swig of water, you could dehydrate fast out here. On the way the flies harassed him again. They bit him this time. He flicked them off as best he could.
Using the tent as the centre of the target, Clement began searching out in bands of about five metres deep. After around thirty minutes he found an area of flattened bush as if a vehicle had recently been there. He estimated it was about sixty metres north-west of the tent and would not have been visible from it. There was a bush track leading out from there, clearly used by vehicles for access. He’d always approached the creek from the eastern side, as the tourists had, but clearly there was some regular traffic came this way too. He followed the path for another hundred metres, calling out Schaffer’s name but received no reply and doubled back. The bush was a level of incessant insect noise
Gradually he worked his way anticlockwise around the entire creek. There was the usual kind of litter: chocolate and chip wrappers, plastic bottles, beer cartons. He took photos of everything he encountered. The only piece of recent technology he gave credit to was the idea of a phone with a camera in it. So much easier than logging everything with a biro that wouldn’t write on a cheap pad. Karen’s comment needled him. It wasn’t like he was trying to get back with Marilyn. Was he just terrified of another relationship, the unknown?
The dissolution of their relationship had caught him by surprise even though he supposed it had all the classic pointers. They’d both let it go too far. It was like a DVD on your shelf you look over at every day, still in its case, telling yourself tonight was the night you’d watch it. But you never got around to it. There was always something more at hand, more demanding of you. Until she announces she’s leaving and of course you say that’s ridiculous and the fights start. Every grievance is dredged out. Pride flares. He offered to move out, the martyr. And before you know it, what was just bravado, a sympathy play, turns into the real thing and when you drag your sorry arse back and apologise it’s too late. She’s ‘discovered’ herself and how much you’ve ‘inhibited’ her.
Back to where he started, in more ways than one. His phone rang. Mal Gross. One of his mates had family near Dieter’s shack. They’d driven over and taken a gander. Nobody was there. He had Di Rivi and Restoff heading there too but he thought the sooner Clement knew, the better. Clement thanked him and looked up to see a swirl of dust announce Shepherd’s arrival. Jared Taylor, the aboriginal police aide, was with him, towing the trailer on which was mounted an inflatable boat. A tinny was lashed to the roof as back-up. Shepherd stepped out wearing the plastic white-framed sunnies Shane Warne had made famous in the late nineties. They looked ridiculous then and worse now. Shepherd was around one eighty-eight centimetres and fit, the build of a centre halfback, de rigeur tattoos just poking out from under short sleeves. Jared Taylor was shorter with a gut and, at forty, around twelve years older than Shepherd. Unlike Shepherd, he had a sunny disposition. They’d sparred in the ring once as part of Shepherd’s training for the annual Kimberley v Gascoyne police comp. Naturally Shepherd fancied himself. Taylor’s punches had nearly sent poor Shepherd through the ropes.
‘What’s the plan, Skip?’
Shepherd vocabulary reduced everything to a footy match.
‘I guess we need to poke around for a body.’
Both of them looked at him, hoping he was joking. They didn’t need to mention the croc. If it had overturned one tinny, why not another?
‘Let’s get to it.’
‘Serious?’
‘Yeah, Shep. Come on.’
‘Shouldn’t we wait for the croc blokes?’
‘No time for that.’
They lifted the tinny off the roof of the vehicle and walked it to the water’s edge keeping a wary eye. The creek was only shoulder-deep but too muddy to see into. Taylor had thought ahead and brought a couple of thin plastic rigid electrician’s tubes, perfect as probes. He stayed on the bank, rifle ready, just in case. The little motor shattered the default static of bush noise. Clement guided the tinny to the far bank near Dieter’s upturned tinny, cut the motor and they began probing the waters close to the shore. Gradually they worked their way out.
‘Fucking flies,’ grumbled Shepherd for the fiftieth time.
About twenty minutes in, Clement’s pole struck something just below the surface, firmer than mud but too soft to be a rock or tree.
‘Pass me the gaff.’
While he held the position, Shepherd passed over one of two gaff hooks. Clement sank it down, let it find purchase and pulled hard. The unmistakable shape of a body broke the surface.
(From Waiting for
the Cyclone, a novel, forthcoming 2015.)
PETER DOCKER
NANA WAS RIGHT
Somerset, outback Western Australia.
Feel the heat. Feel its texture. Feel how the very air is woven into a denser pattern, with the stitches and purls falling back upon themselves. The heat blankets the country like a pea-soup fog, seeping right into the bones. Feel the heat radiate up from the land herself. The sun has gone now but it feels hotter still. The Old Man is a friend to the heat. The heat is like a cousin/brother he has known since birth. All the character nuances of the heat are as familiar as the smoke from the family fire. But not this heat. This hot wind is here at the wrong time. There has already been much discussion between the Old Man and his peers. What is the meaning of this heat at the wrong time? There is some great disturbance in atmospheres way beyond this continent — that is all that can be agreed upon. The Old Man knows that weather patterns here have their origins way to the north, around the mountain ranges of Pakistan and Afghanistan. The Old Man understands the connectivity of all things. Inside the heat, even this unseasonal heat, the only thing to be done is to survive. To go on living. Understanding will come later.
It’s Anzac Day. 25th April. Ninety-odd years ago Australian and New Zealand soldiers under the control of English High Command swarmed onto the wrong beach in distant Turkey under a merciless hail of machine-gun and artillery fire. The Old Man knows the story of that first day only too well. His Grandfather told him the story over and over. It had been a warm day in Turkey as well. That story is woven into the family history, as well as the history of the nation to which his Grandfather did not officially belong. The truth is, his Grandfather never wanted to belong, and his exploits in the AIF had nothing to do with this thing that would later be thought of as a nation. Before Gallipoli and France, his Grandfather had little to do with white men and uniforms. And after, even less so. The Old Man knows exactly how his Grandfather felt. Things go in cycles — that is for sure.
Now the Old Man can see two white men in uniform. And him got no mob. All alone. They sit in the front of the brightly lit divvy van pulling up behind him. The Old Man turns off the engine of his Troopie. It is quiet now, with the police lights flashing across the deserted road, washing everything with momentary blue. The Old Man picks up the white can of Emu Export lager nestled between his legs, drains it, and drops the empty can on the floor of the passenger side with all the other shit. In his rear-view mirror, the Old Man sees Senior Constable Lishtokitz get out of the paddy wagon and start to come towards him. The Old Man sees the blast of heat hit the white man as he climbs out of the air-conditioned police vehicle. Lishtokitz almost staggers as though a bag of wheat was dropped onto his shoulders — but then catches himself and strides out to where the Old Man waits.
G’day mate, Lishtokitz says to the Old Man.
Hello, says the Old Man amiably.
Do you know why I’ve stopped you?
Cause I’m the only one drivin!
The Old Man cackles and looks around the deserted dirt track so that the younger white man can have a chance to get the joke. The younger man in uniform does not acknowledge the Old Man’s quip in any way. It’s Anzac Day. Australians everywhere are drinking beer and burning meat while the Southern Cross and Union Jack against a background of blue flutters overhead. They are talking about far distant places like Gallipoli, Lae, Tobruk, Long Tan, and drinking more beer. They are playing two-up, discussing the colour of medal ribbons and their meanings, and drinking more beer.
This is a random breath test. I will require you to blow into the device with one long continuous blow.
Lishtokitz holds up the breathalyser to the Old Man. The Old Man regards the plastic tube suspiciously. He’s been here before.
Have you been drinking, mate?
Only beer.
How many?
Eh?
How many only beer?
Yuwai. Only beer.
Fluent in five languages, English was the last one learnt, and the hardest for the Old Man. But even his grannies know that he understands more than he lets on. These are survival techniques on the frontier. The Old Man was living as a naked child of the desert, wild and free, when he was first studied by gudia anthropologists. They learned. He learned also.
One long continuous blow …
The Old Man blows into the plastic tube. Senior Constable Lishtokitz steps back. He is sweating heavily now. The Old Man regards him evenly. Lishtokitz wants to watch the Old Man all the time. He’s heard they can beat the breathalyser with their didgeridoo breathing techniques. But he can’t hold the Old Man’s eye. And isn’t sure why. The hard ground beneath his feet feels soggy for a moment. The hand-held breathalyser beeps.
Sir, I am going to have to ask you to step out of the vehicle.
As soon as the Sir tumbles out of his mouth his mind juxtaposes it with mate like a Google-search. He went for Sir because you can’t say get out of the car, mate. Now it all sounds wrong. It should have been Sir all along, the Google-search result seems to say. The Old Man doesn’t move.
Get out of the car, now!
His voice is too loud in the desert night. The trees look on passively through the heat. Constable Slopken is getting out of the police vehicle and moving quickly to the scene, his right hand on his holstered Glock. The Old Man slowly opens the door of the Troopie. Not rushing is second nature to him. Rushing around can get you killed in the desert. You’d be walkin round dead. He climbs down and stands steadily in the desert night.
I’m placing you under arrest for DUI. Do you understand?
The Old Man smiles and holds out his hands ready to be cuffed.
Lishtokitz nods at Slopken who takes out his cuffs and places them on the Old Man’s wrists. Slopken walks the Old Man back to the police vehicle. Lishtokitz leans in and takes the keys from the ignition of the Troopie. He winds up the driver’s side window and locks the door. On the back seat Lishtokitz sees an old suit jacket with a little row of medals pinned to the lapel. For a moment he considers grabbing the Old Man’s jacket — but fuck it, it’s too hot. He goes back to the divvy van where Slopken is just climbing back in, having loaded the Old Man into the back. They drive in silence through Somerset back to the station, both men leaning forward to feel the cool air being blasted out by the aircon hitting their skin. It takes two minutes. The town could be a ghost town. The pub is full but the streets are empty. Somerset is named after some English lord, who no doubt never set foot in the place. He probably financed some prospectors, or graziers. These guys were like hedge fund managers investing in the joint venture of taking over WA. And they got to have things named after them as a bonus. That’s the way these things go.
They pull up right out the front of the police station, and get the Old Man out of the back. They take him in through the heavy glass front doors. It’s one of those low flat modern concrete buildings that looks like it is designed to withstand a cyclone, or a bomb attack.
Sergeant Smithers is standing at the front counter as they come in. The cop shop aircon is cold after the outside heat. The Old Man shivers as if someone just walked over his grave.
Well, look what the cat dragged in! calls Smithers.
Hello, says the Old Man as though nodding to a mate in the front bar.
Are you calling us cats, Sarge? asks Slopken.
DUI, says Lishtokitz to no one in particular.
Tjilpa, says the Old Man.
What’s that? asks Smithers.
Tjilpa — desert cat, explains the Old Man.
We haven’t dragged anyone, adds Slopken.
Wha’d ya cuff him for — ya Neanderthals? barks Smithers.
He held out his hands …
Get them off him. Get him processed. Fuck me dead.
Slopken takes off the handcuffs and they lead the Old Man through to the testing area. Smithers leans down to get some paperwork from under the counter.
What’s up his arse? murmurs Slopken.
&nb
sp; Smithers looks up.
It’s Anzac Day, Slopken — something you wogs wouldn’t understand.
Lishtokitz sits the Old Man down in the chair.
Whaddya mean, Sarge? Us New Aussies love the flag!
That flag has been draped on the coffins of our dead boys — ya can’t wrap yourself in it and get pissed, or hang it out the back of your orange Commodore with mag wheels.
You having a go at my Commodore, Sarge?
You’re outta your depth, Slopken.
One long continuous blow, says Lishtokitz, and holds the plastic tube out to the Old Man.
The Old Man blows into the device until it beeps, and then he sits back.
What’s the reading? asks Smithers, already halfway through the form.
Zero point two three one.
What does that make it at time of offence?
Point two two two.
Slopken is looking over Smithers’ shoulder as he does the form.
Do you know him? asks Slopken.
Course I fucken know him. He’s a big boss man out at Burwarton.
Slopken doesn’t know that Burwarton is another of the English peerage. He goes and gets the fingerprint station ready.
So he’s the boss of a couple of tin sheds and a dozen car wrecks? comments Slopken with a twist of his mouth.
He laid the wreath this morning for the Aboriginal soldiers. That’s why he’s in town, says Smithers.
What’s he a veteran of, the Battle of the Animal Bar?
He was in Vietnam, fuckhead. Recommended for the MC three times.
Did he ever get one?
