Sweet One

by Peter Docker

  What did he say? asks Izzy.

  He wants you to stay. I told him we have to get the van to the drop-off place.

  And?

  He wants you to stay.

  What do you want to do?

  Renal mob can’t afford to lose this van. We’ll get it back after.

  Over at the big fires in the scrub they hear the body arriving at the main place. A blood-curdling wailing song is taken up by all the women present at the fires, and the mourning chant floats up above the bush. For Izzy and Queenie still sitting in the van, it is as if a vice comes around their hearts. They open their doors, and climb out. They walk along the bush track towards where the ceremonial fires are. Queenie reaches out and takes Izzy’s hand. They walk to the sorry business ceremony like sisters, or like a niece with her aunt.

  White Cunts

  Macca strides into the Somerset Police Station. On the counter there is a newspaper with a headline shrieking STATE OF WAR.

  Macca is thinking about the bodies they found out in front of their fire pit that morning after the NVA overran them at Fire Support Base Coral. They must have killed fifty or more, but there were only half a dozen bodies. They could see the drag marks where the Vietnamese had hauled their dead mates away. All Macca could think was how small the dead enemy looked, almost like children. They dug a pit and threw the remaining bodies in.

  His phone goes off.

  McIntyre.

  It’s Foster, returning your call.

  The PM wants your head, Foster.

  Let me worry about the PM.

  You’re giving this whole thing oxygen by running her stuff.

  That funeral story, with photos of the dancers, has had the most hits on our website ever.

  Where did she file that story from?

  I don’t know.

  Don’t shit me, Foster.

  I’m not in contact with her. She’s embedded with the rebels.

  Rebels?

  That’s what we’d call them if they were in another country.

  I’ll embed you in fucking concrete if anything happens to her.

  She’s a big girl, Macca.

  Macca hangs up. He wanders out to the cell area. It has been converted into sleeping quarters for the officers that Macca said are targets. He sees Charleston sitting on his army-issue fold-out bed. Charleston is in a tracksuit, and is staring at the floor.

  Senior Constable Charleston.

  Sir?

  You smoke?

  Yes, Sir.

  Come out the back.

  Charleston gets up and follows Macca out to the yard at the back of the station. It’s still dark. The sun isn’t up yet. The yellow light spills out of the back door of the station. Macca holds out his packet. Charleston takes one. They light up.

  Where you from, Charleston?

  I was born in Baal, Sir. Grew up here.

  A local?

  We used to say that you could only call yourself a local if your grandfather was born here.

  Macca smokes. Smithers puts his head out the back door.

  Excuse me, Sir...

  Fuck off, Smithers.

  Smithers hesitates.

  I said, fuck off!

  Smithers disappears.

  You don’t like him, do you, Sir?

  I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.

  They smoke.

  I believe in the brotherhood, Charleston. But I hate it when the shit cops use it as a weapon to get away with anything they want.

  Like murder, Charleston says quietly.

  It’s the worst thing about being on the job. We cover up for the wankers, and then we all look bad.

  I was thinking, with the brotherhood, Sir – why doesn’t it work as a preventative thing? Seems like it only comes up after the fact. If a bloke goes crazy one night, and kills a fulla in the cells, for example – it probly won’t’ve been his first time. He would have punched another drunk who took a swing at him, thrown a couple of prisoners into the back of the van and forgotten to open the door, put a couple of lads in the back and gone out the salt pans for a big hoon – and someone else, another copper, would’ve seen it. I’d hope my brothers would stop me from doing something stupid.

  Macca looks at the ground, scuffs it with his shoes. Digs a little hole with his toe, and then fills it back in.

  The WA Police has a long history of being at war with the blacks, says Charleston. Why is everything different when it comes to dealing with blackfullas? Every-bloody-thing.

  I can’t stand pricks like Smithers, Macca says. I spent years and years arresting useless drunk blackfullas too. Getting punched, kicked, spat on, vomited on, pissed on, abused – Smithers thinks he’s the only one who’s ever been called a ‘white cunt’.

  We’ve all been called that, Sir.

  Well, in my case it’s true.

  Charleston laughs.

  Mine too.

  They laugh and smoke.

  I always wanted to be a cop, Sir. As long as I can remember.

  I fell into it after the army. Didn’t know what else to do.

  But now...

  You want out?

  Don’t you?

  You liked him, didn’t you? The Old Man? asks Macca.

  He was a great man. I used to go to the dawn service every year. My dad was in Korea. You wanna know something? The old bloke’s drill, when he laid the wreath – was always the best. Sharp. Put the blokes in uniform to shame. Do you march, Sir?

  Went this year for the last time, says Macca evenly.

  Me too, says Charleston.

  They stub out their smokes. Macca lights another one straightaway. He offers one to Charleston, who declines with a smile.

  What do you know about Maban?

  Charleston glances around.

  Who told you about Maban, Sir?

  Macca holds his gaze. Charleston looks out at the bush through the wire fence.

  I’m trying to get what we’re up against, adds Macca.

  The Old Man once told me that there is a great power in the country.

  In the dirt?

  Macca looks down at his feet.

  Charleston shrugs.

  I’m only a white cunt, Sir.

  I hear ya, says Macca.

  Macca smokes.

  I met a Clever Man once, in the NT, says Macca. They said he had that Maban on him. Some kind of magic.

  What was he like, Sir?

  He was like the Invisible Man and a fucking Jedi all at the same time.

  I know what you mean...

  Was the Old Man...?

  I ... don’t think ... I don’t know...

  Macca smokes.

  Did you know him from Vietnam, Sir?

  It was a big war.

  A crow calls out from overhead.

  They say his granddaughter is special, says Charleston.

  Who says?

  You know, just talk.

  Name?

  Queenie.

  Macca butts out his fag.

  Smithers is at the door again.

  Excuse me, Sir...

  I thought I told you to fuck off.

  The Commissioner is on the line for you, Sir.

  Macca pats Charleston affectionately on the shoulder as he goes inside.

  What did you tell him? demands Smithers.

  You better stay out of my fucken way, Smithers.

  I’m a senior officer. I’ll have you charged with...

  Charleston glares at him.

  You don’t get it, do you? he says.

  I get it all right. You’ve been talking out of school, says Smithers.

  You’ve gotten us all killed.

  You don’t believe all that blackfulla mumbo-jumbo bullshit?

  Why didn’t you bail that Old Man?

  These people have got to learn...

  Charleston grabs Smithers by the throat and slams him against the wall.

  NO! WE HAVE GOT TO LEARN!

  Charleston holds him for a moment, then lets him d
rop.

  Do What We Always Do

  Macca sits out in the police yard. He sits on the same empty fuel drum that the Old Man sat on as he smoked his last cigarette. The sun is well and truly up now. He stirs his instant coffee with a stick he picked up from the ground. He throws the stick away and sips at his tasteless coffee. He pulls a face to himself and puts the mug down so he can light a cigarette. Overhead, a crow calls out. It is the same crow who spoke to the Old Man. Macca doesn’t know this, even though he allows his mind to wonder what the crow said. Allows himself to wonder if the crow could give evidence, would he be a credible witness? If that old crow had shadowed the unusable prison van that day, and witnessed the last moments of the prisoner? Macca has seen it many times before – blokes who lived through unbelievable shit in Vietnam, only to die useless pointless deaths in peacetime back in Australia. Although Macca knows for sure that there was never any peace for the Old Man. Not here. Not in this country.

  Macca smokes. No joy in it. Just habit. Addiction. Weakness. He feels the sun warming his parched dry skin and his filthy suit. Macca looks around, as if he was suddenly not alone. He kept getting the feeling when he was talking to Charleston earlier, before the sun was up. He keeps thinking he hears the whisper of a song on the wind. They say this desert wind can send you crazy if you let him get inside you. If you go against the flow. He lifts the big black CIB mug, and it has just touched his lips when a massive explosion shakes Somerset. Macca’s coffee spills out, burning his chin, and staining his shirt.

  Macca throws the cup down and runs inside. Smithers is by the radio.

  I want a report! Macca yells. I want everybody on the streets! Smithers – you stay here.

  Smithers doesn’t even think of protesting. He seems to have shrunk since the encounter with Charleston. Shrunk and dried out. His eyes are all flicky, and his mouth is held tight. Macca marches straight out the front door, followed closely by Charleston.

  The Coke depot! yells Smithers after them.

  Charleston and Macca pile into a squad car and take off. Other cars streak out of the car park to cover the town. The depot is up at the top of the hill, on the other side of the town centre.

  Macca stands there, knee-deep in Coke shit. The Coke bomber has used a charge that was way too big for the job, as bombers mostly do. The surrounding streets of Somerset are blanketed with the bright red and silver remains of thousands upon thousands of Coke cans. It hasn’t even been half an hour since the detonation, and the town kids are going through the rubble to search for any cans or bottles intact. The Coke detritus snow covers everything – like Somerset got drunk last night, threw up, and slept in its own vomit.

  Macca looks across the landscape of twisted metal and ripped-up concrete and wood. The entire site has been levelled. There had been a cyclone fence out the back – but it has been wiped out completely by flying debris. The road looks like it has been sluiced with truckloads of blood. Macca squats and considers the millions upon millions of ants milling around in and out of the cola spillage, as if they are unsure how to proceed with the unprecedented bounty, or maybe there is so much sugar and caffeine that they are all drunk already. The whole place looks like it has been smashed by a giant fist that came from the stars.

  Macca’s eyes go to the tree. The only thing still standing. Most of the branches are gone and all the leaves. The tree has a blackened scar at the base where bark was peeled off a long time ago. Why would the old people cut the bark off this tree? Not to make a canoe. Not out here. Some kind of sign post maybe? Macca looks past the flattened rubble to the bush stretching away on the other side. That’s the way he would’ve gone after planting the bomb.

  A single crow comes in low and fast from behind Macca. He feels his wings thrashing through the air as he goes just over his right shoulder. The crow pulls up quick to land on the scar tree. In one jump he reverses himself on the eye-level branch, and eyeballs Macca, holding his head on an angle so that he can look directly at him with his eyes that are set on the side of his head. First one side, and then the other. Macca has to force himself not to look around to see who the crow is looking at. There is no one else there. Is this the same fulla from the backyard of the cop shop?

  The crow stares at him. Then he takes to the air, quickly wheeling around to head for the bush where Macca was looking before. Where Smokey must’ve headed. The crow calls out one long cry as he goes. The shiny black aerialist is lost in the grey black of the bush background.

  Macca’s phone goes off. Macca jumps. He swears, and fumbles the thing out of his pocket. He looks after the crow, and knows what the call will be even before he answers.

  Macca.

  It’s Smithers here. I’ve got him.

  What?

  I’ve got him in the cell!

  Aransen?

  Murali. And he don’t look so sweet to me.

  The line goes dead. Macca looks down the hill to the station. He swears. He redials. The line is dead. He swears again. He and Charleston pile back into the squad car. The car picks its way through the debris. The kids don’t look up from their scavenging. Occasionally, one of them straightens to drain the contents of some half-mangled receptacle, then bends to continue the search. The car gets free, and they fly down the hill and pull up near the station. Macca can see the sniper is gone from the roof. He climbs out. Across the road is a group of countrymen all painted up in yellow ochre, looking across at the station. One of them holds a metal bucket with a smoky fire in it, and swings it gently like a priest with a thurible. They all gently stamp their feet in unison to the song they are singing. Macca has a look, but at this distance he can’t tell. The ochre washes everyone’s features out. And he doesn’t even know what the girl looks like.

  Wait here, he says to Charleston.

  He climbs out of the car, and Charleston backs it away. Macca strides for the front door, taking out his service revolver.

  He comes in slowly. There is no sound. No movement. He comes past the counter, and then he sees Smithers lying facedown. He points his .38 towards the cells area, as he bends forward to feel for a pulse. Both his knees crack as he goes down, and his finger reaches for Smithers’ throat. He’s alive. Macca comes up, both hands now on the pistol grip. He moves towards the cells. Ahead there is the click-clack of a door being closed. And there is Mort, right in front of him. Mort’s hands are empty. He looks at Macca’s pistol. Macca points it at his heart and steps forward, just enough so that he can see into the cell. He watches Mort. The pistol is steady. He glances in, then back to Mort. Sweet One is in the cell. He is hanging by the neck from a belt hooked through the top window bars. His body is limp and pale. Still. The belt at his neck grotesque. His dead eyes stare straight through Macca. Macca is back on Mort. He searches for something in Mort’s eye. Some response. Anything. His eyes seem cloudy, like they are full of smoke. Mort smiles. It is such a shock that Macca almost flinches.

  You can go home now, Macca, he says.

  Yeah, says Macca, but he can’t quite get his mouth to work properly.

  He was sure he wanted to say something else. He can feel Sweet One’s dead eyes staring at the side of his head, beating down like the merciless midday sun. Mort holds his hands out, like Jesus gesturing to the children, like he is expecting Macca to hand over his weapon. Mort takes a tentative step towards Macca, his hands still held out in placation. Macca shoots him in the heart. Mort drops. Macca turns and hurls his pistol at the prone figure of Smithers. It hits him with a dull thud. Macca stalks out of the station, his breathing ragged, and his steps unsteady.

  Macca comes out of the police station. He sees Smokey coming towards him. The cops behind Smokey have their weapons trained on him. They see Macca and stop shouting. Macca glances over at the ochred-up mob across the road. They watch him closely. Macca draws level with Smokey. They both stop. Macca takes in the vest Smokey is wearing, the plastic explosive taped onto it, and the handheld detonator in his right hand, thumb on the red button. Smokey�
�s left hand hangs by his side. Blood drips from this hand. Macca looks down at the puddle of blood gathering on the road beside Smokey’s left boot.

  Jesus, digger – what’ve you done to yourself?

  Smokey glances down at the puddle as if he is not sure what Macca is talking about, as though he’d forgotten. He looks up. Macca looks into those light grey eyes. Something in there shivers, and then recovers itself.

  You going in? asks Macca quietly.

  Smokey nods, the tiniest of movements.

  You wanna smoke? asks Macca.

  Sure, Macca, agrees Smokey, his lips hardly moving.

  Macca takes out two smokes, puts them both in his mouth, lights them, and passes one to Smokey. Smokey takes it with his bloody left hand. They inhale. Macca’s eyes go to the front of the vest Smokey stole from Samarchio. Where it falls open, the flesh is red raw. Flayed. Smokey sees Macca’s look.

  I never liked my skin, says Smokey evenly.

  Macca smokes. They watch each other.

  The colour...

  Macca looks up the street. Beyond the cops with their weapons pointing, there is a short-based Land Rover, and sitting in it is Izzy. He can see her blonde curls over the top of the camera lens pointing at him, as she snaps off stills. Macca swivels his head in a big exaggerated movement, so as not to freak Smokey out, and looks back at the squat concrete police station. There is no movement there. Across the road the ochred-up countrymen sing softly and sway in their gentle dance, the smoke dancing floating all around them. He turns back to face Smokey.

  I love my country, Macca.

  I know, mate. I know.

  They finish their smokes. Macca throws his butt onto the road and steps on it. Smokey glances down, and then drops his butt into the little puddle of blood near his left boot. The butt fizzles out in the blood. Smokey looks back to Macca.

  You haveta go in, mate?

  No one here gonna be missed.

  Smokey gives a little nod, fixes his eyes on the police station, and steps past Macca. He resumes his mechanical walk towards the police station. Macca doesn’t move. Then he gives a little nod to the empty space where Smokey was a second ago, and steps off. He looks back across the road but the ochred-up mob are nowhere to be seen.