White Knuckle Ride

by Alan Carter

  Did Polly Farmer ever win a Brownlow?

  I only follow European football, Sarge.

  It’s called soccer, you fucken dipshit!

  Why do you go to the dawn service, Sarge? Anzac Day always puts you in a bad mood. You got medal envy?

  Piss off!

  Smithers is imagining Somerset and Burwarton getting together in a gentlemen’s club in London for an Anzac Day drink. Sitting in fat leather armchairs toasting the Queen with forty-year-old Scotch, patting themselves on the back for providing the Empire with such robust and ready cannon fodder. Smithers shakes off the fantasy and steps up to the Old Man. The Old Man sits quietly with his eyes closed.

  You are under arrest for driving under the influence, with a blood alcohol reading of point two two two. Do you understand?

  The Old Man nods.

  You will also be charged with driving contrary to conditions of an extraordinary licence. Do you understand?

  The Old Man nods again.

  Now, I’m gonna haveta send you to Baal in the morning. Do you understand?

  The Old Man nods. His gaze seems to fall on nothing in the police station. He is thinking of a song. Feeling for it. He’s not sure what it is yet. It’s this place.

  Because you’re a cheeky fella. Cheeky fulla go walkabout. You walkabout — no show court.

  The Old Man smiles as if at a memory.

  I wanna go to sleep, he says.

  His eyes are closed as if he is finished with this procedure now, and doesn’t want to look on these images. The world we can see is an illusion. He closes his eyes as if he is imagining himself away from this place. Out in his beloved desert country. Away from white man police. Away from Anzac Day and all the talk of sacrifice.

  You want me to ring someone in Burwarton?

  Sleep now, the Old Man says to the polished concrete floor.

  All right. You sleep. Tomorrow Baal lockup.

  Slopken ushers the Old Man over to the processing area. At 10:10 pm Smithers signs the Form 5 bail record form, refusing the prisoner bail.

  It was only last year when Smithers attended court as a witness in a case against the Old Man, and the Old Man didn’t show. Going to court is such a pain in the arse. A day lost.

  Smithers records two reasons: if the accused is not kept in custody he/she may fail to appear in court in accordance with his bail undertaking; and if the accused is not kept in custody, he/she may commit an offence. At 10:15 pm Smithers picks up the phone and dials. It rings for a long time. A woman answers.

  Rankin.

  Sergeant Smithers, Somerset Police.

  Yeah.

  I have a prisoner for transport tomorrow morning.

  You’re kidding.

  I’m not.

  It’s Sunday on a long weekend.

  What’s your point?

  Bail him and he can appear in your court next Tuesday.

  We’ll bail him and he’ll go walkabout. I want you to pick him up tomorrow morning.

  Rightio then.

  As long as it’s not too much trouble.

  Get fucked.

  She hangs up. Smithers puts down the receiver, shakes his head. The worst thing the state ever did was to privatise the prisoner transport. It’s always the same with the GPL4 supervisor, Rankin. Wouldn’t work in an iron lung. Smithers looks over and nods to Slopken.

  Slopken leads the prisoner out to the cells area. It’s empty. All the mob are out at the community where the Old Man has driven in from. No one in town to fill the cells tonight. No animals for the Animal Bar. That’s why the cops are driving around bored. Don’t know how to do nothin — these fullas. The Old Man goes into the cell and is lying on the bench by the time the open-barred door clangs shut behind him. Slopken doesn’t mean to slam the door, but it’s so heavy that even a little bit of momentum in the door-swing will guarantee a cage-shaking locking of the cell. 10.30 pm. Anzac Day.

  When the Old Man wakes he is dehydrated and disorientated. There are two white men standing at the cell door talking: a policeman, and the local JP, Finn Macomish. Macomish is a red-faced stocky bloke. He holds his akubra hat in his hands, and constantly smooths down the front brim. The Old Man recognises the cop.

  Charleston, says the Old Man, and moves his feet in a one-two shuffle gesture, originating in his knees, to demonstrate the charleston.

  Senior Constable Charleston smiles.

  Hello, Old Man.

  Him your good boy? the Old Man asks, so fast and running all the words together, that Macomish the JP misses it. He is looking at the brim of his hat.

  You have to get used to the desert accent. Charleston smiles and nods. The JP has lived out here all his life, and still can barely understand a word.

  The Old Man grins to himself.

  Good morning, says the good boy. Had a few drinks last night, did we?

  The JP speaks too slowly and too loudly, like an Australian tourist ordering soup in Saigon. Charleston rolls his eyes. He knows this is just Smithers’ usual bullshit but there is nothing he can do about it. The Old Man should’ve been released on bail.

  Water? asks the Old Man.

  The JP asks him his name. He tells them his white man name, cause that’s what they want to hear. The JP tells him that he’s gotta go to Baal. Already knew that. The policeman sends his good boy away.

  You got im cuppatea?

  Charleston smiles, unlocks the cell, and leads the Old Man out the back of the station to the kitchen area.

  Ngamari?

  Charleston nods and takes out his Winnie Blues and gives the Old Man two cigarettes. The Old Man looks at the two tailor-mades in his hand.

  Waru?

  Charleston hands over his lighter.

  Kettle, tea, sugar — help yourself. You can go out the back, he says, and gestures to the backyard.

  The Old Man makes himself a cuppatea. He uses two teabags, four sugars and a generous splash of long-life milk — all in the big fat CIB mug. Then he carries the big fat CIB mug out the back door of the station. He finds a spot near the cyclone fence where he can sit on an old drum. He sits down, places his mug of tea on the red earth, takes out the first cigarette, and lights it up. He takes a draw on the smoke and looks up. Just above is a big old wurrung, his black feathers iridescent in the morning sunshine. Their eyes meet and they let out a little sigh. The crow flies off. The Old Man applies himself to his cigarette.

  Charleston is at the front counter when the GPL4 Mazda van pulls up.

  What a heap of shit, thinks Charleston.

  Howell comes in first, with Stockbow just behind him. Howell looks like he doesn’t belong in uniform, even the shitty grey GPL4 attire. There is a knack to wearing a uniform. And you’ve gotta have pride. To Howell the uniform is just clothes. He has heavy rings around his eyes, and his skin is puffy and red. His gut hangs over his belt. Charleston was born in his police uniform. He works hard in Lishtokitz’s backyard gym, and he hates fat people. Greedy and lazy. They walk in mid-argument.

  Well ya shouldn’t have fucken said yes if ya didn’t wanna come, Howell says.

  Don’t be a wanker, I’m just sayin … says Stockbow.

  She stops when she sees Charleston. Charleston is why she really came.

  Senior Constable Charleston, she says, and tries to look bright.

  Youse both look like shit, comments Charleston.

  Smithers’ bullshit is really starting to grate now that these clowns are here.

  Anzac Day. Didn’t ya have a sip? asks Stockbow hopefully.

  Dawn service. Then I went for a long run, says Charleston.

  It was too hot.

  I love the heat, says Charleston flatly.

  Me too, says Stockbow, but not this time of year. Felt like Australia Day. Fucking climate change.

  It’s all Greek to me, says Charleston.

  We’re here for prisoner transport, says Howell.

  Charleston flicks a pile of papers onto the counter between them.

  Sig
n here, here, and here.

  Howell checks the entries.

  When ya comin to Baal next? asks Stockbow.

  I’ll get your passenger.

  Charleston goes back to the cell. The door is wide open and it is empty.

  He heads out to the kitchen area.

  Uncle?

  The Old Man is outside having his last cigarette. He finishes it and stubs the butt out in the red dust. He slowly gets to his feet and shuffles towards the door. He doesn’t want to go. But he knows full well that this is what the whitefullas do — they love to move people around, especially if it is off-country. Charleston grabs the only water bottle from the fridge.

  I got this, the Old Man says, and shows Charleston the frozen pie he took out of the freezer.

  Charleston smiles and nods.

  You right, he says.

  When they emerge from the cells area, Howell and Stockbow are outside by the van. Charleston looks at her through the heavy glass doors. She should be attractive — but why isn’t she? Women are certainly hard to come by out here. Charleston leads the Old Man through the doors.

  You got water? asks Charleston.

  In the front, says Howell.

  For the Old Man, reiterates Charleston, as though talking to children.

  Howell and Stockbow look at each other.

  I got this, but it’s only six hundred mil, Charleston says, and hands the bottle to the Old Man.

  Howell gets the back doors of the Mazda open. The Old Man looks in doubtfully. All four of them can feel the heat radiating out from the cell pod.

  The sooner you get in, the sooner the aircon kicks in, offers Stockbow.

  Charleston gives her a look. He’s gonna give Smithers a serve when he sees him.

  Is it working?

  Course it works. Ya gotta get in, mate. Then it comes on.

  Charleston glares at her.

  Why didn’t you put it on before to cool it down?

  Stockbow ignores Charleston and concentrates on the Old Man.

  The sooner you get in, the sooner it comes on, she repeats.

  Howell moves closer to the Old Man.

  Carn, mate, in ya get.

  The Old Man turns to Charleston. Charleston can’t meet his gaze and turns away. The Old Man gingerly climbs into the prisoner pod like he’s picking his way across sharp hot rocks. Howell quickly locks and bolts the inner and outer door.

  Thanks, mate, Howell says to Charleston, and gets in the driver’s side.

  Stockbow looks across to Charleston who is wishing the earth would swallow him up. She takes a step in.

  Call me, Steve, she says.

  OK. You’re Steve.

  C’mon, Steve.

  See ya, he says through a tight jaw.

  She turns and climbs into the Mazda van. They take off. A small article of blue rubbish is blown across the police driveway, and the van drives right over it. Charleston takes a few steps to pick the rubbish up. He bends and grabs it, only to realise that it is one of the little Australian flags made in China that would’ve been adorning a lairy ute only a few hours before on the national remembrance day. Charleston stands there for a moment holding the crumpled little blue nylon flag, watching the white van go. Warming up a bit. Good one. He turns and goes back into the police station, dropping the blue rubbish into the small plastic bin near the counter.

  In the back of the van, the Old Man already knows that he’s made a terrible mistake. He should’ve refused to get in. Should’ve appealed to Charleston. It’s too hot.

  There is no fucken aircon.

  The seats are metal benches, already too hot to sit on. There are no handles to hold onto to stand up. And Baal is nearly four hours away. He puts down the pie and the water bottle. It’s too hot. This heat is the wrong kind. All this steel.

  It’s an oven. The gudia will cook him. His nana was right. White men will steal you in the night, then cook you and eat you.

  He stands with his feet apart, jammed against the benches at the base.

  There is one small window up high, but he can’t see out of it. Not being able to see the country is a torture in itself. The Old Man loves to drive through the country, and when the road comes close to a songline, which it does in several places, he can look out the window and read/feel the Tjukurrpa as he goes, even singing out the story. But now there is nothing. No chance for anything but to get hotter and hotter. He bangs on the hot steel of the wall that is closest to the driving compartment. He pounds out a storm. A battle rages in his fists against the blistering steel. The sweat pours off him. He knows this exertion is wrong. But he is trapped now. His fists eventually die down to a slow song, and then silence. He listens. Nothing. Just the humming rattling roar of the old Mazda engine, dragging them relentlessly down the baking tarmac. He takes off his shirt, his fingers fumbling with the buttons. The heat seeps into him, sears its way in like slow-motion lightning. He remembers finding the sand melted into glass tubes by lightning as a child in the desert. How fragile they were. He drops his shirt to the floor. His head is buzzing like the burning road snaking away beneath the moving cell. He tries stamping his feet. There is no give in the metal floor. He sits on the bench and kicks at the inner door. It is solid and the hot metal bench scorches him through his jeans. He jumps up. He starts to sing a song low in his throat; a single phrase in his Nana’s tongue repeated over and over. Calling out to Country. He sees the water bottle and goes to bend forward to grab it. The van suddenly lurches sideways; he loses his balance and goes down hard, smashing his left eye into the edge of the metal bench. He lies on the metal floor between the facing metal benches, blood pouring from the deep cut over his left eye. The pouring blood obscures the sight in his left eye and his right vision is blurry. The song tumbles soundlessly out of his lips as his core temperature skyrockets, and his internal organs begin to collapse one by one.

  Until only the Old Man’s heart and his voiceless song throb through the crushing heat. Eventually his heart begins to slow, the compartment is filled with the stench of human flesh cooking, and the song is released.

  Stockbow doesn’t wake until one of her iPod earphones has fallen from her left ear. Howell drives. The road snakes away in front of them to the shimmering horizon.

  How long have I been asleep?

  Hours.

  Prisoner settle down?

  Stopped banging ages ago.

  Didn’t have much rhythm.

  They count different.

  Stockbow drinks from her water bottle. The engine rattles away beneath them. Howell leans forward, resting with his elbows on the steering wheel.

  You want me to drive?

  I’m not fucken stoppin.

  They drive in silence. Stockbow leans over and taps the small CCTV screen on the dash. Nothing. She puts her left earphone back in and selects a track. Jimmy Barnes: ‘Driving Wheels’. She slumps back against her closed window and stares out at the passing low scrub and red dust country. She doesn’t really go to sleep but doesn’t really stay awake. The country hypnotises her with its sameness, with its bigness, with its unknowability. Her hangover vibrates with the drums and bass on ‘Driving Wheels’. She vagues right out.

  Eventually Howell’s voice cuts in.

  You wanna ring the prison?

  Are we that close?

  Look around.

  Stockbow leans over and taps the CCTV screen. It flickers then stops, for a moment a perfect black-and-white image of the prisoner pod. The Old Man is facedown. The screen flickers again.

  We should check on him.

  I’m not stoppin.

  He’s facedown with his shirt off.

  Howell’s lips go tight and he slows the van.

  Just get him to put his shirt on and drink some fucken water!

  The van pulls over, raising a little red dust cloud on the shoulder of the highway. They are getting close to the big sheds and big yards stuffed with big machinery that is the industrial area on the outskirts of Baal. The GPL4 off
icers climb out. Stockbow takes the keys and Howell stretches. She gets the outer doors open. The metal is hot to touch. She can see the Old Man is shirtless and facedown. She can see the pool of blood from his bleeding face.

  We gotta get him out.

  Howell arrives at the back of the vehicle.

  We can’t open the inner door, he says.

  He’s bloody hot.

  They live in the fucken desert.

  HEY! OLD MAN! HEY!

  There is no response from the Old Man.

  He might be dead, Stockbow says quietly.

  He’s not fucken dead. They live in the desert.

  Let’s open up.

  I’m ringing Rankin.

  He pulls out his phone and dials.

  Rankin.

  Yeah, it’s me. We got a problem.

  Broken down again?

  It’s the prisoner. Passed out.

  What’s wrong?

  He’s hung-over and didn’t drink his water. Took his shirt off.

  Turn the aircon up.

  The aircon doesn’t fucken work.

  Since when?

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  Get his shirt on. Take him to prison.

  We can’t deliver him unconscious.

  Take him to the hospital. I’ll meet you there.

  The phone goes dead. Howell rings again. Nothing.

  What? Stockbow demands.

  Fucken reception.

  Wha’d she say?

  Get his shirt on, get him to drink, get him to hospital.

  He’s not gonna drink. He’s out to it.

  He’s just hung-over. Get his shirt on.

  You’re hung-over.

  So’re you. Get his shirt on.

  I’m not touching him.

  It looks like we knew he was hot and did nothing!

  How could we know?

  The aircon’s not even fucken working!

  Everyone knows that.

  Not him! Howell says, jerking an angry thumb at the prone figure.

  He fucken does now!

  Just get his shirt on.

  They open the inner door and the heat and the stench of burning flesh blasts out at them.

  Fuck, she says under her breath, and climbs in.

  The heat is overwhelming and Stockbow breaks out in an instant all-over sweat. She rolls the Old Man over and sees the burn on his guts.

  Shit.