Sweet One

by Peter Docker

  Funny how night falls, and daylight reveals the full extent of the damage, Izzy muses. What would happen if the day fell on us?

  Sounds like a convo she’d have with Josh.

  If the day fell, it’d break something for sure, she can hear Josh say.

  And why is this day falling? Is he drunk?

  Yeah – been to the early opener.

  And they’d both laugh. Once he started, she’d have to anyway.

  Good, Izzy says to herself. Now I’m remembering conversations that never happened.

  Izzy looks down at herself, in her running gear, and smoking. Now Josh would be laughing at her. She would be protesting – something like ‘it’s the duality of human existence!’ And he would be laughing, and talking about the weakness of addiction. Izzy looks both ways up Burt Street. Nothing either way. She wonders briefly if old Septimus Burt ever strolled here, and how much more useless information Foster could squeeze into one story brief.

  She throws the cigarette down, and takes off in a run. She runs away from the hotel in the rough direction of town. East or west, who cares? She comes to an intersection. There is a sign pointing down to her left saying: Boolbardji School of the Air.

  Even the atmosphere gets an education, Izzy says to herself.

  A burnt-orange Sandman panel van comes burbling down the street from the other direction. Izzy clocks three black men in the front, wearing heavy woollen beanies, their heads moving up and down to the hip-hop blasting out from the back of the car. Classic Tupac. ‘Lord, can you hear me speak?’ The driver is a handsome young black guy wearing an Eagles beanie. He gives her a big wink, which makes her want to laugh. Izzy feels like she could be in Compton, LA. The orange panel van does a U-turn and slowly starts to approach her from behind.

  Here we go, Izzy mutters.

  The orange panel van pulls up alongside her. Izzy doesn’t look or slow her pace. The hip-hop still blasts.

  Hello, nice lady.

  Izzy runs.

  Hello, nice white lady.

  Izzy focuses ahead.

  You got anything for us, nice white lady?

  Izzy stops. She looks in at the young lads. They stare back expressionless.

  You boys oughtta pick on someone your own size.

  You look like a good size, nice white lady.

  I’d hate to see you nice boys get hurt.

  Hands grab Izzy from behind. Something is jammed up against her mouth and nostrils. She goes under.

  The vehicle stops. No one speaks. Izzy has a scarf or something wrapped around her head and eyes. She feels nauseous, sleepy. A front door is opened. The back door is opened. Hands grab her by the shoulders and guide her out of the vehicle. It feels like gravel or blue metal underneath her shoes. There is a slight tang in the air, maybe sulfur. All around is the grinding engine sound from the super pit.

  Ladder. Down, a voice close by says.

  Izzy feels for the top of the ladder with her shoes. She finds it, turns, steps on, and starts to go down the ladder. Someone comes after her. There is a wooden scraping sound above. Izzy’s feet hit an earthen floor, and she steps off the ladder. Hands grab her by the shoulders, and she is moved across to a wall.

  Sit.

  She bends to find a wooden crate behind her, and eases herself down to sitting on it. The crate creaks, but takes her weight. Beyond the darkness of her blindfold, a light flares. She can smell that a kerosene lamp has been lit.

  You can take off the blindfold.

  Izzy wrenches the thing off the top of her head, releasing her curls.

  Did you have to tie it so tight?

  Sitting opposite Izzy are two men, both wearing cast-off military fatigues, and Middle Eastern–style headdress covering all but their eyes. She can see the boots of another man on the ladder.

  I told you, one of them says to the other.

  Maybe they are smiling under their headdress.

  Is that you, Smokey?

  There is no reaction from the men with hidden faces.

  Smokaj Bin Laden? she asks sweetly.

  Now they must be laughing under there. One more than the other. She turns her attention to the other man.

  Which makes you the Sweet One.

  You wanted to talk. We’re talking, says Sweet One.

  Is this a blood feud? asks Izzy.

  Did you know that some Aboriginal soldiers returned from fighting the Second World War, to find that the government had taken their children?

  I read that somewhere, says Izzy.

  That makes you a minority.

  Is this a jihad?

  There is a sharp intake of breath from at least one of the men. Izzy waits. There is no response.

  Do you see yourself as Jandamarra?

  I’m nothing compared to him. Nobody.

  The dark eyes that fix on Izzy are unblinking and fierce.

  When Jandamarra killed white men, a lot of black families who were unconnected were massacred, says Izzy.

  They can’t do that now, says Smokey.

  Are Xavier and Queenie safe?

  ‘Not safe out there in Freedom Street, not safe inside the can, with their shotguns and their stun gas, licensed to drop ya where ya stand.’

  Kev Carmody, says Izzy.

  I told ya she was good, says Smokey.

  We are no different from those people you saw at the Old Tyre Camp, says Sweet One. Only difference is, we know why we are where we are, and who put us here, and who keeps us here.

  Smokey pulls down his facial covering, and lights a cigarette.

  Oh, don’t fucken smoke down here, says Sweet One.

  Fuck off, says Smokey.

  Those things will fucken kill ya, says Sweet One.

  Izzy notices some blood has seeped through the sleeve on Smokey’s forearm.

  What happened to your arm?

  Had a rough taxi ride.

  Izzy looks around. There are weapons stacked against the wall, and a lot of boxes and crates. It’s hard to see how far back the dugout goes.

  Tell me something, Sweet One. How do you come to be called Sweet One?

  Ngwarla, says Sweet One, touching his fingers lightly to his lips hidden behind the cloth.

  Izzy repeats the gesture.

  Ngwarla, she says.

  Ngwarla. It’s what Jamu called me.

  Ngwarla. Sweet One, she says, and repeats the gesture. Some type of food?

  Sugar-bag.

  Sugar-bag?

  Honey. Bush honey.

  Your Jamu? Izzy asks.

  My Law boss.

  Izzy decides to try something else. She looks over at Smokey.

  What happened at the airport?

  It’s exactly as Kizzo told you. I’d had a rough flight. My head was all wrong. I just got through customs when I pass these rednecks in police uniforms doing the chat. Sets me off.

  What chat?

  The dirty-boong chat. I wish I’d killed him.

  How do you know what Kizzo told me?

  We knew if we could get you to visit, they’d move me. They’d do it quietly, says Smokey.

  I was expecting two cars as well as the Isuzu, says Sweet One.

  What would’ve happened to them?

  IED, says Sweet One.

  You’re putting people at risk.

  We’re already at risk. It feels like a war. To us it even looks like a war. But not to the haters. The haters have disguised it. Like it’s somehow really all our fault. It may not be a war but it is a false peace. There is no peace for us. Me and Smokey go and fight. That turns out to be a false war. So here we are, back in the false peace where we belong.

  Once Mort and his cheery mates work out that you have accomplices, the local population are going to get a severe workout, says Izzy.

  I’ll deal with Mort, says Smokey.

  Let it go, Coorda, says Sweet One out of the corner of his mouth.

  Says you.

  The men laugh.

  When I write about this, are you goin
g to kill me?

  Why would I do that, Izzy? I need someone to tell my story. You’ve done profiling study; you must know all those proper university five-dollar words to describe my type of brain.

  I don’t think psychoanalysis will work with you. What about those Americans you shot in Pakistan?

  Sweet One looks at Smokey.

  What, says Smokey.

  You made another call, didn’t you? asks Sweet One.

  I called in the A-Team.

  On them?

  Smokey nods.

  You are a funny bastard. What about the gear? What about the money?

  I told them the Americans knew where it was.

  You’re cruel, Smoke, cruel.

  So they weren’t just shot? asks Izzy.

  They shoot them, one digit at a time, says Sweet One.

  The really scary part is when they’ve shot off all your fingers and toes!

  What next? says Sweet One.

  They both laugh. Sweet One glances at his watch.

  Time to go.

  Izzy watches them closely. She surprised them with the shot Americans line. They didn’t know. And she’s not buying their little word game to try to cover their tracks.

  I’ve only just started, says Izzy.

  Good.

  Get your blindfold. Turn around.

  I need a photo.

  No photo.

  Why am I here? I thought you wanted this story to be in the paper. So far I’ve mainly got shots of your mounting body count.

  We brought you in to warn you about Mort, says Sweet One. Warn you to stay the fuck away from him.

  Let me worry about Mort. Tell me a story, Smokey. The next instalment of the Baalboorlie Letter.

  I’ll tell you a story, Izzy. It’s a story of Empire. There are two men, best mates from the same village, who grew up together, and became soldiers for the Empire together in the Gurkha Rifles. Poor men have been doing it for millennia. Stationed in Afghanistan, they learnt about camels. Then the two mates leave the British Army and with their savings, they buy camels, and move to Australia. They end up out here in the goldfields. They marry Aboriginal women. They prosper. Their families prosper. They buy property. Eventually the ‘Afghans’ grow old and die. Then all their property is taken away from the two families by the Resident of Boolbardji. They owned a tea house, a bathhouse, and a laundry business, as well as their camel freight business. The families were plunged into poverty. And still these same families gave up their sons for the country. Eventually, they have two descendants, a boy and a girl, and those two are promised to each other.

  So this killing is about atonement?

  I’m an Australian soldier. Interview terminated, says Smokey.

  Sweet One nods to Smokey. Smokey takes out Izzy’s BlackBerry, and gives it back to her.

  They adjust their facemasks.

  What about the masks?

  You know the photo of the Kellys on horseback?

  With their rifles rolled in blankets?

  Can you see their faces?

  OK. But youse look crazy.

  We are crazy.

  Smokey takes a step towards Izzy, holding out the BlackBerry. Izzy steps in to take it. He hands it over but in the moment that he is about to step back, he realises that Izzy has been watching him very carefully. What starts out as an innocuous stumble from Izzy turns into a lunge. She goes past Smokey to Sweet One, gets a fistful of the cloth covering his features, and yanks it downwards. Smokey shoves her back against the earthen wall of the bunker and a pistol appears in his hands aimed right between her eyes. Xavier stands there next to Smokey, blinking and almost smiling at the floor.

  You’re the fucking crazy one, bitch!

  What are you doing, Xavier? she demands, ignoring Smokey’s pistol.

  Nothin.

  Don’t get mixed up in this.

  I was born into it, Izzy.

  They’ll kill you.

  What’s new?

  Why?

  It doesn’t matter if I’m him or not. You can still do the story. I could be him.

  But you’re not.

  Not yet.

  Put your shit back on, then.

  Smokey and Xavier comply.

  Smile, now. Say ‘Revolution!’.

  They say nothing. Izzy takes a shot. She looks at it: happy.

  Now, turn around, says Smokey.

  She pockets the BlackBerry and looks back over her shoulder.

  Not so tight, this time.

  I’ll decide the tightness, says Smokey.

  Said the actress to the bishop, says Izzy.

  She closes her eyes as Smokey puts the blindfold on her. Izzy puts her first foot on the bottom rung of the ladder when old habits kick in. Still blindfolded, she half turns back to the bunker.

  What a load of fucking bullshit! Is this what you brought me here for?

  She waits for a moment. No response.

  I’ve been to bloody Tarin Kowt. I am familiar with the term ‘asymmetric warfare’.

  It’s a fancy name for dirty tricks, says Smokey. Do unto others...

  I know about BlackCu.

  That stops them. Izzy imagines them doing double-takes.

  Are you familiar with how powerful a private security firm can get in a war zone dripping with drug cash when it has control of predator drones, and allowed to use them? says Smokey.

  Under Thorpe’s command?

  There’s a group of them.

  And they are still serving members?

  It was set up as an operation to get moles into Xe Services. But once it was going, it became a really useful entity.

  And by useful, you mean profitable?

  No answer.

  Xe? Blackwater?

  Yep.

  Izzy hears the flick of a lighter, and smells Smokey’s smoke.

  I made myself a promise once, Izzy, says Smokey. We both did.

  A different promise? Tell me, urges Izzy.

  Time for you to go, says Smokey.

  A promise under fire?

  Izzy feels Xavier’s touch on her arm.

  How did you know it was me, Izzy?

  Your eyes, Xavier ... You’re not a killer.

  Izzy is dragged and pushed up the ladder by strong hands. As she goes up the ladder, she is already picking the eyes out of the interview, and looking for the through line. She’s covering the secret war. She’s got direct access to the mujahedeen. False identity seems small fry. Her mind wrestles with the false war and the false peace.

  In This Together

  There is a knock at the door. Detective Bremmer picks up his Glock from the laminex coffee table. No chances with this bastard. He waits. He should say, ‘Who is it?’ That would be the normal script. He aims his pistol at the door, and waits. There is another knock. Bremmer picks up his glass of Jack Daniel’s with his spare hand and drains the liquor.

  It’s me. Mapleton.

  Mapleton?

  Yeah. Let me in.

  Bremmer can hear the urgency in Mapleton’s voice. He is spooked too.

  Are you alone? Bremmer asks.

  I got your text.

  What?

  I got your text.

  Bremmer stands up slowly, keeping the 9mm aimed at the door.

  What text?

  Just let me in.

  Are you alone?

  Course I’m fucking alone!

  You fucken better be.

  Bremmer crosses and opens the door with his left hand. Mapleton scrambles into the apartment.

  TRG still outside? asks Bremmer.

  All down the street, says Mapleton.

  Bremmer pours two more slugs of Jack.

  I got a text, says Mapleton.

  Not from me.

  Your number.

  Bremmer feels in his pocket for his phone. Nothing. Always the same pocket. Check the others. Nothing. And at that moment Bremmer replays in his mind the scene of him leaving the bar earlier. He was having a quiet one after work with all those
dees from Perth. They were talking about the killer’s next move. The next link in the chain. Talking about the thoroughness of the man. There were a group of young Aboriginal men skylarking near the door. The talk with the Perth detectives was already setting Bremmer off as he was leaving. Those G-men had put the wind up him with all that talk of him being a possible target. Him and Mapleton. He told them it was bullshit. They had nothing to do with the death of the old blackfulla. That was those GPL4 arseholes, people not smart enough to pass the test to be a copper. He had to get out to think. As Bremmer shouldered his way through the drinking miners and cops all straining to catch a glimpse of those tits behind the bar, one of the Aboriginal men briefly fell against him. It was the most innocuous of touches. He felt nothing. He realises now that he never saw the man’s face.

  Wha’d the text say?

  Come over.

  A chill goes through Bremmer. The guy was right there, drinking in the bar with all the cops who are looking for him. At that moment, Mapleton’s phone goes off. Beep beep. Message. Mapleton pulls out his phone. He gets a strange look on his face.

  It’s from you.

  What’s it fucken say?

  The bathroom.

  They turn as one to face the bathroom door. Sweet One is standing there in his dark clothing, wearing a balaclava. He is just standing there, holding the Beretta Dolphin with silencer as though it’s nothing. Bremmer begins to swing his pistol onto the target when Sweet One shoots him in the forearm. The Glock goes flying.

  Face down.

  Bremmer takes a step forward, holding his bleeding arm.

  We had no idea there’d be an investigation.

  A man is dead. There is always an investigation, says Sweet One.

  How could we know there’d be suspects?

  You’re making it worse for yourself.

  I’m not scared of you.

  Yes. You are.

  Bremmer and Mapleton get down onto the floor as they were told. Sweet One searches them. Bremmer is bleeding freely.

  The place is surrounded. You’ll never get away.

  I got in.

  Sweet One takes the handcuffs from Mapleton’s belt, as well as his pistol, and retrieves Bremmer’s pistol from where it landed on the floor. He handcuffs the two detectives together.