by Peter Docker
Izzy finishes her coffee and heads for the door. Macca covers the telephone mouthpiece with his hand.
Where are you going, Izzy?
I need a smoke.
Hang on a sec.
War Zone
Izzy half leans on one of the big concrete bollards in front of the police station, feeling the sun on her face and smoking furiously. Macca comes out and lights up.
Are you travelling all right, Izzy?
Izzy grunts.
I’m just keeping you safe, Izzy.
Izzy smokes. A cop car drives past. The cops wave to Macca, who nods in their direction.
Safe from whom, Macca?
You’re in my world now, Izzy.
Izzy scoffs.
Izzy, trust me. Mort will go down. But we have to stop Smokey and Sweet One.
She pushes herself off the bollard and paces up and down.
I know they’re burying Josh today, he says quietly.
Yeah, well, I’m here, aren’t I?
Macca watches her.
Come on then. Out with it, he says.
She spins and looks at him. Stubs out her smoke. Lights another.
OK. OK, she says. I want to know why you sided with Big Bill.
He was a good man. A good cop.
Was? Was? Bloody hell, Macca! My father died for this?
It was nothing like this. They were bad cops.
So was Big Bill! Admit it!
It’s not as simple as that.
Make me understand, Macca.
The job changed him.
You could say that about those drug squad blokes who killed Dad.
They were doing evil to make money. Coz that’s how you make money. Doing evil on purpose. Big Bill didn’t want to be killing that kid. He lost control.
That’s what they said about My Lai.
That’s it, Izzy. That’s what this is. Big Bill is Calley. He wasn’t a bad officer. The thing just got too big for him to handle. Just like Big Bill. Can you imagine what it’s like to be the sponge for all the barbs and arrows coming your way from two hundred years of colonial rules – made up from somewhere in the south – fucking everything up. Everything that has ever happened to that community, everything to do with Balanda, whitefullas, everything that went wrong – it is all you! Everything.
Macca’s voice has dropped into another place. Izzy watches him, squinting against the sun.
I know what Sweet One is going through. He’s trying to give back manhood to his men. He’s gonna die for it. I’ve tried to be everything. Big Bill tried it. But when you go down that road it clashes with who you are – a cop! So you go back to being what you are – a cop. But it’s different now. The mob feel betrayed. You feel like you’ve betrayed them. You see them getting ripped off by the sly groggers. You see them choosing to be useless, to be defeated by it all. And you’re a whitefulla, and ya don’t understand, and ya want em to fight back – to beat the system. You know they could. They could beat this grog shit. If they would only try. If they would only try.
Izzy throws down her butt and angrily grinds it into the cement with the toe of her boot.
Calley was in a war zone. And they still found him guilty.
Macca lets her words hang in the sun-drenched air like the seeds of the silky pear floating on the wind.
Tell me who the girl is, he says.
So you can protect her too?
The soldiers have made their choices. I’m trying to contain the situation.
Izzy looks over at the four heavily armed police standing by the white 4WD.
You know, Macca, when I met them – there was no hate.
You think I’m coming from hate?
Izzy looks at the ground. A crow calls from up the street.
What are you going to do, Izzy?
I’m going for a drink. I’m sad.
You want a hug?
Izzy shakes her head. She strangles a sob. Then nods. Macca pulls her into a hug, and holds her tight.
Blogger
Izzy marches up to the nearest cop.
What’s your name?
Mahood.
Are you a Muslim, Mahood?
The name is English.
Good Mahood. I’m going to the fucking pub.
Izzy spins, and charges off down the street in the direction of the hotel. Mahood looks to his boss, standing behind him, who looks across to Macca. Macca holds his look for a moment, then nods, and goes inside. Mahood’s boss gives him a nod, and he hands up his shotgun, and follows Izzy down the street. The others all climb into the white 4WD.
Not a good day to be going to the pub, says Mahood drawing alongside her.
Why, my Muslim-sounding friend? Is it shut? Run out of beer?
It’s cheque day.
I’ll be right, Makmoud – I have armed guards.
That’s what worries me.
After her first swing through town with Charlie Muchacho the Tamil sympathiser when she saw no one bar the black girl with that look in her eye at the chalet motel, Izzy is surprised to see Aboriginal people moving about in the street. Just near the turn down to the hotel there is a big Aboriginal bloke in a big hat and a pale green shirt butchering a wallaby on the bonnet of his car. The mass of flies attracted to the blood on the bonnet doesn’t seem to bother him at all. He doesn’t look up as Izzy and Mahood go past.
Izzy comes to the pub, doesn’t hesitate, and goes straight inside. It is a low-ceiling affair, a 70s add-on to a much older building. The bar is a long metal-topped thing reminiscent of a male urinal. There are two old prospectors in battered hats covered in badges at one end of the bar, and a group of younger blokes in work clobber on plastic chairs in the opposite corner. Mahood follows her in and sits just inside the door. The blokes on the plastic chairs look over for a bit, then go back to their beers and conversation.
Izzy checks her phone. No messages. No calls. 11:37. 2:37 in Shepparton. They’ll all be gathering in the church. Uniforms everywhere. News cameras. The Prime Minister and his security.
The bloke behind the bar has his back to her. There is some kind of window back there, and he is serving an Aboriginal bloke two cans of Jim Beam. He turns to face her. He is a tall skinny whitefulla with an Elvis haircut. Who would’ve thought Brylcreem was still available somewhere? Somerset is that somewhere.
Two beers, she says.
Green or white?
Green.
Tall Skinny Elvis produces two cans of VB and snaps open their tops. Izzy puts money on the bar.
Hey, Mahood! You want a drink?
Mahood shakes his head.
And a water for my gun-toting friend, says Izzy.
Are you a crim? asks Tall Skinny Elvis.
Journalist.
Hmmn, says Tall Skinny Elvis.
Izzy takes the bottle of water and plonks it down in front of Mahood.
Gotta keep hydrated, she says.
Izzy stands back at the bar.
Who’s the other beer for? asks Tall Skinny Elvis.
He’ll be here soon, says Izzy.
She picks up a cold green can, and raises it in an imaginary ‘cheers’. She drinks, and feels the cold beer go down into her belly and reach out like a pointy white light starfish to jab at her joints and extremities. The tang smacks her lips and tongue. She drinks again, and the can is empty. Tall Skinny Elvis watches her.
Two more? he asks.
Izzy nods, and squishes the belly of the green aluminium can together with her fingers.
You want me to leave that one there? he asks, looking at the untouched can.
I said he was coming, didn’t I?
Tall Skinny Elvis places two more VB cans on the metal-topped bar. Izzy has a swig. She can see that there is another kind of bar out the back, maybe a beer garden, which only seems to have blackfullas in it. There is music coming from out there too. Izzy notices that her right index finger starts to tap along to the beat coming through. She stares at the tiny bubbles forming and reformi
ng on the rim of her tinnie. When they have all bubbled themselves out, she takes another sip, and the process starts again.
Izzy looks up and two white blokes arrive at the bar. They are both in dark blue KingGee trousers and shirts and steelcap boots. Whatever they do sure gets dusty. They have that hardened tired look of men who have worked hard. Men who have only ever worked hard.
Two white cans, says the shorter darker one.
The taller fairer one has his sunnies pushed back onto his head with the white stripes across his sunburnt face to show where he had been wearing them when he was in the sun. They drink their white cans. Sunglasses Face raises his tin to Izzy.
Cheers.
Cheers.
Izzy drinks.
What’s ya name? he asks.
Izzy.
Short for Isabelle? asks the shorter darker one.
Or Isadora? presses Sunglasses Face.
Short for Iz-Izzy.
They all drink.
I’m Bullet, says Sunglasses Face.
You a shooter?
Card player.
Izzy looks to the shorter darker one.
I’m Biscuit, he says.
You a baker?
Disco biscuits – as in a predisposition towards, he announces.
Biscuit and Bullet cheers and drink. Behind Tall Skinny Elvis there is a commotion at the little barred windows, as two Aboriginal blokes push and shove and shout at each other.
I was here first!
Fucken murdering bastards, says Bullet.
Can’t hold their piss, agrees Biscuit.
Izzy looks across to see the two Aboriginal blokes burst out laughing and hug each other, repeating the joke over and over.
I was here first!
Laughter.
I was here first!
Laughter.
Tall Skinny Elvis serves them without missing a beat. Bullet notices that Izzy gives him a bit of a look.
You wait til you see em later on. This is tame, Bullet offers.
Biscuit smiles at her.
Eh, mate! You on a stakeout? Bullet calls to Mahood.
Something like that, says Mahood.
But you’re not meant to be invisible, or anything?
No. You can see me.
You think the killer might turn up here at the pub?
Can I borrow your Glock, mate? asks Biscuit hopefully.
Mahood decides not to lower himself with an answer.
We could get rid of a few right now. How many’s out there? Twenty? Thirty? How many rounds you got?
They laugh and drink.
Did you see my mates outside with the shotguns? asks Mahood.
He has their attention. They take a drink. Try to look tough.
They have a lot less sense of humour than me.
The boys turn back to the bar. Biscuit clocks the two spare cans of VB on the bar next to Izzy.
You been stood up, Izzy? he asks.
He’s coming, says Izzy, and takes a big slug of beer.
Where from? asks Bullet.
Shepparton.
Long way to come, comments Biscuit.
For you, maybe, says Izzy, and takes another big drink.
She slams the empty can down on the bar. She watches Tall Skinny Elvis behind the metal bar. He goes back to the little metal-grilled window. Izzy’s eyes go to the customer waiting there. The Aboriginal girl standing at the window looks through, and their eyes meet. Izzy has a sharp intake of breath. She is young, maybe fifteen. It is the same girl she saw the motel guy delivering to the white bloke in the room. She would remember those brown eyes anywhere. The Aboriginal girl doesn’t look away or flinch from Izzy’s scrutiny. She holds Izzy’s gaze defiantly. Izzy isn’t quite sure what passes between them in that moment. She certainly remembers Izzy. Does she know everything? The motel guy is dead now. The girl’s debt is wiped. So here she is on cheque day – at the pub. Tall Skinny Elvis cuts the eye contact by going to serve the girl, his skinny frame blocking Izzy’s line of sight.
Oi! yells Izzy. Oi! How old is that girl?
Tall Skinny Elvis completes the transaction by handing out a couple of white cans of Jim Beam. He turns back to Izzy.
You want another beer?
Two more.
Well, keep it down.
How old is that girl?
Where are you from? chimes in Bullet.
I’m from Australia, Izzy retorts.
Yeah, well, not this part of Australia.
Tall Skinny Elvis hands up the beer, and takes some of Izzy’s money.
Are your alcohol laws relating to serving minors different to the rest of the world? asks Izzy.
You don’t have to live with them, says Biscuit.
They are fucking animals, says Bullet.
Animal Bar for fucking animals, agrees Biscuit.
Mahood has stood up, and wandered up behind the three at the bar.
Last drinks, Izzy, he says quietly.
Izzy turns to look at him. She can feel the beer buzzing around her brain like a swarm of bees. And not the benign local kind – those vicious European bastards that dance like a bee, and sting like a bee. She looks at Mahood hard.
You know what, Mahood? You’re right.
She turns back to the bar.
Can I get takeaway?
Sure, says Tall Skinny Elvis.
I have to go home and write a blog, she says, and sculls her last beer.
Animal Bar
Smokey lights a cigarette, shielding the light from any watchers by cupping his hands. He sits in the dark at the foot of a big old gum tree. His mind travels over his past country. He thinks about when he started smoking. Holding the cigarette in his palm with the burning tip inward was all about not being seen by teachers and parents. Only later would it come to mean shielding the light from an enemy who wants to shoot you. All he ever wanted to be was a soldier. He learned the protocol of the third cigarette lit from the same match or lighter as bad luck when he was thirteen. And he knew where it came from. In the trenches of WWI a sniper would see a match struck, and by the third soldier getting a light he would have the bead and fire. Smokey never knew if this was real or soldier myth. Didn’t matter. Protocol is protocol. He played soldiers until his childhood was slipping away. When he was alone in the house, then he’d do room-to-room clearance with his plastic M16. He’d climb up onto the roof and snipe at the blokes in the railway yard. In his mind he saw the rounds hit them, and they’d go sprawling in the dust. Then his childhood was gone. And it was no longer a game. The enemy weren’t in his imagination. And his weapon wasn’t plastic anymore. Well, not the barrel, anyway.
Smokey inhales deeply. He has to constantly force himself to remember where he is. Probably just tired. Tired to the fucken bones. Hate is the only thing keeping him awake. Hate is his uniform now. Hate will get him through. His hate has taught him. Taught him things that other men don’t know about themselves. How far he will go. How far he won’t. He doesn’t think about what he won’t do. He tells himself there is nothing. The hate has chewed up the fear long ago, and spat it out. That’s how hate grows – it is not so much a virus, as a military recruitment officer promising travel, adventure, action, and national adulation. At first Smokey thought his hate was a secret. That no one else could see it. Like two people having an affair in a country town, and thinking no one will notice. Like two blokes working in a railway yard in remote WA, and one of them starts rooting his mate’s missus, thinking they’ll never get caught, that the two families won’t be destroyed, that the errant wife won’t disappear into the city, and that a little boy won’t have to grow up out there with just his father. Yeah, well, this is nothing like that.
Across an expanse of dirt is the back entrance to the Animal Bar. There are bare lightbulbs strung up high to light the caged area full of Aboriginal drinkers. They are brightly coloured, as though for a party. There is a party going on, but not for the drinkers. The constant shouting, screaming, and loud music is the
flat track of background ambience for one of the levels of hell. There is no humanity in this abrasive flat track. And no individuals. It is the sound of a culture rotting away, and the individuals being discarded like genetically modified crops, where each generation lacks the ability to go to seed, and regenerate itself. Smokey stubs his cigarette out on the back of his arm, grinding the hot ash into his flesh as he breathes in the funeral rites for the undead.
A dusty Toyota ute pulls into the car park, and parks on the other side of the big gum tree there.
...And the country provides, whispers Smokey to himself.
Bullet and Biscuit get out. They are drinking white Jim Beam and Coke cans, and smoking. They stand at the tray of the ute and chat as they finish their smokes. Smokey watches their nervous hand movements. He sees them glance around the car park without really noticing anything. Their eyes keep coming back to the cage full of Aboriginal drinkers. Smokey knows that look. Knows exactly what it means. Bullet and Biscuit throw their cigarettes down and stamp on them with big steelcap boots. They reach into the tray and pull out two axe handles. They are not exactly heroes – what do they need the axehandles for? No one else will be armed.
Smokey is up and crossing the space like a shifting shadow. Bullet and Biscuit drop their Jim Beam cans and they make dull tinny noises as they hit the dust.
What youse up to? Smokey asks loudly, enthusiastic like the little brother who wants to be included in the game.
Oh, fuck! You scared the shit out of me! says Biscuit.
Where’d you come from? asks Bullet.
Nowhere. What youse up to?
Bullet drops his voice, and steps in to Smokey.
Boong bashing. You want in?
We’ve got some whipper, offers Biscuit.
Smokey chops Bullet hard on the back of the neck, and he crumples to the dust, squashing his empty Jim Beam can with the side of his face. Biscuit is turning to face him when Smokey’s flat hand knife-strikes him to the throat. As he falls Smokey punches him in the temple.
Like taking wheat off blind chooks, says Smokey to himself, and looks around.
He picks them up and loads them both into the back of the Toyota like they are bags of wheat.
There is a massive commotion coming from inside the cage of the Animal Bar. Two women are hard up against the wire fence, punching and scratching at each other’s head and face, as they shout abuse in desert language. The smell of the grog-sweat, the blood and the piss, and the sound of flesh smacking flesh under the screaming pitch of abuse, slash into Smokey. He bites down hard on his bottom lip until he feels the flesh break open, and tastes the blood in his mouth. He is wondering if he is the only one who can see this. The only one smelling this. The only one listening to this. He knows he’s not. There’s Izzy. He wants to grab the axe handles and go and smash into the unconscious white boys in the back of the Toyota; to vent his fury on their bodies, to maim them like the poor bastards drinking in the Animal Bar are surely maimed. Their spirits hang off them like tattered saddlebags full of salt. Smokey doesn’t get it. It’s like him shooting members of his own regiment, when he can see the enemy firing rockets at him from the next hill. Kill the fucken enemy.
