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  The connection is lost.

  Yeah, Macca, Izzy says to herself. So have you. You’ve always been a...

  Izzy redials.

  Baalboorlie Police.

  Senior Constable Dillon, please.

  One moment.

  Izzy pulls out her packet and selects a cigarette with her lips. She puts the packet away, pulls out her lighter and lights another killer. Killing it. She can feel the story starting to flow.

  Senior Constable Dillon?

  Hello, It’s Izzy Langford here. Macca said you might speak to me.

  Macca?

  I just spoke to him in Queensland.

  Who is it, again?

  Izzy Langford. I’m from the Melbourne Star. Macca said to call you.

  I might have to speak to Macca.

  He’s a bit pissed at the moment.

  Pissed? Or pissed off?

  You know how he is around Anzac Day.

  There is a silence. Then Dillon’s laughter down the phone.

  Call me Dillon, everyone does. I’ll talk, Izzy. If I can.

  What are they saying about the death in custody, Dillon?

  Ah. Nasty.

  Yes.

  The aircon gave out halfway.

  Really? Halfway?

  Must’ve. He was cooked to death.

  Heat stroke? Definitely?

  Heat everything. Burnt to a crisp. I can’t be quoted.

  Nothing like that. I’m gathering a picture.

  A picture?

  Thanks, Dillon.

  They ring off.

  The front door of the modest 70s brick place opens, and out comes Charlie and his blonde woman. He carries a small black Adidas bag. They stop on the front step, and kiss. The blonde woman turns to Izzy standing by the Patrol.

  And don’t you try to fuck my man! she says suddenly.

  Izzy smiles.

  I won’t.

  I’m serious. You got your own man?

  Yeah, says Izzy.

  Well, where is he?

  Afghanistan, says Izzy, the word falling out of her mouth before she realises what she’s said.

  Izzy has admitted to having a man. And that man is overseas on active duty. The effect on Charlie’s woman is instant. Her face drops.

  Oh love, she exclaims. Wait a sec, she says, and disappears back inside the house.

  Charlie stows his Adidas bag in the back of the Patrol. Izzy looks to him with a question in her eyes, but Charlie the cab driver merely shrugs. Izzy’s eyes go away to the western horizon beyond the flat red town to where the sun is getting ready to set. Another minute goes past, and Charlie’s blonde woman reappears with a thermos and some sandwiches wrapped in silver foil. She brings the offerings to Izzy and hands them to her with a smile. The feeling of being in another country is suddenly overwhelming to Izzy. Not just because of how different the place looks, and how different the people sound – but knowing how different the reaction of her university-educated friends would be, thousands and thousands of kilometres to the east in inner-city Melbourne. She is seeing a soldier, and he is on active duty in Afghanistan. But not out here. This is old Australia. This is the Australia that her father and Macca fought for, she catches herself thinking. That Josh is still fighting for. This is the country he believes in.

  Good on ya, girl. What’s ya name?

  Izzy.

  Izzy. I’m Sharon.

  Sharon steps back. Izzy is about to say something, thanks or whatever, when Sharon turns, and runs back to the front door. Izzy is surprised to see that Sharon is crying.

  You take care of her, Charlie Muchacho! Sharon calls, wipes some tears, and goes inside.

  Charlie starts up the Nissan Patrol, and backs out. Izzy looks down at the thermos and sandwiches. She carefully sets them aside on the centre console. Charlie drives in silence with one hand on the wheel. Izzy glances sideways at him. He strokes his long wispy moustache, and appears to be deep in thought. Izzy realises that she has done exactly what she would have done in another country – quickly organise a fixer to translate and move yourself around, avoid the authorities, whilst talking to everyone that they will or have already talked to. The authorities always catch up with you eventually, and hopefully by that time you have what you want (and have made copies).

  After a while, they leave the goldfields city behind as they drive north.

  Sharon’s oldest brother died in Vietnam, says Charlie.

  Izzy nods.

  Some wounds take a long time to heal, says Charlie.

  Izzy nods again.

  My dad was there, she says.

  They drive. The darkness comes down onto the goldfields.

  You can sleep if you want, says Charlie.

  He glances across at his blonde passenger to see that she is already gone.

  Big day in the country air, says Charlie to himself, trying to get his own father’s old WA accent exactly right.

  Fun at Skull Creek

  The tone of the diesel Patrol engine changes, and Izzy opens her eyes. The headlights pick up a sign on the left of the highway that reads: SKULL CREEK.

  Speak of the devil, says Izzy from her half-sleep.

  Ah, Izzy, says Charlie from behind the wheel. You were sleeping, so I didn’t stop at Neolora. You know Skull Creek?

  There are three that I know of. Gippsland, in Victoria, where the Gunaikurnai were massacred, Barrow Creek in the NT where the Kaytetye were butchered, and here.

  You’re a surprise, Izzy from the Star.

  Research. What can I say? It’s not my first brush with the story.

  Most people out here don’t even know what it means, comments Charlie.

  What else could it mean?

  Charlie guffaws.

  So what do you wanna do?

  Get a room. Then I want to look at the police station.

  The Patrol sweeps around the left-hander coming into the outback town. There is a blue sign: SOMERSET.

  The Holy Grail is meant to be there, says Charlie with a nod to the sign.

  Izzy sits up, and peers out into the dry hard night.

  Now who is the surprise, Charlie the cabbie from Baalboorlie? Somerset is the land of King Arthur, and the Grail.

  And those old blackfullas were killed defending their sacred waters, says Charlie. Makes ya think.

  The Patrol slows as it comes into the main street, which is about five hundred metres of shops, many of them boarded up, with houses beyond. The buildings are all colonial chunky flat-looking things. Izzy feels like she has driven up from Johannesburg to some small Boer hamlet. She sits forward. Something is moving around in a strange way in her guts, something like a balloon being let down in slow motion, bouncing around down there. There is not a soul in the street.

  Where is everyone? asks Izzy.

  This ain’t Melbourne, Izzy. It’s past nine. Everyone is home in bed.

  What about the Aboriginal people?

  You won’t see any blacks. The dead bloke was a big boss to them.

  The Patrol makes a right, pulls into the Somerset Chalets, and Charlie switches off his lights. They can see that the light is still on in the little office at the end of the units all lined in a row.

  We’re in luck, says Charlie.

  They both jump out and have a quick stretch. Then they head down to the motel office. Charlie pushes open the door and they go straight in.

  Tom Samarchio is behind his desk, staring at his computer screen. He is a big-gutted gudia with a spindly grey beard, wearing shorts, shirt, and thongs. A white wide floppy-brimmed hat lies on the desk in front of him. He has the aircon turned up high and an open can of bourbon and Coke on his grimy desktop. The cool air makes the overpowering smell of male sweat in the office even worse.

  Fuck! says Tom, pushing his glasses back on his pudgy nose, and leaning back on his swivel chair. Scared the shit out of me, Charlie! What’s wrong with a fucken knock?

  Jeez, Tom, I thought that this was your place of business, and therefore, as a
customer, that I should let myself in.

  Tom’s eyes fall on Izzy, and he drinks in her little power-pack form.

  Two rooms, says Izzy flatly.

  Tom flips open a ledger book on his desk.

  And your lovely friend has got lovely manners, too?

  Maybe the friend don’t like to be looked at like a piece of sirloin.

  I don’t lick my steak before I eat it, comes back Tom.

  Which would be hard if someone ripped out your tongue, Izzy says evenly.

  And she’s got a mouth, no wonder someone gave her a black eye. Like it rough, do ya, love?

  Izzy takes a step towards Tom. Charlie throws his hands up in the air like a rodeo clown.

  Whoa! Let’s just chill the fuck out, Charlie says.

  There ain’t no rule about what a man can do with his eyes, says Tom, and defiantly flicks a glance to her cleavage.

  Shut up, Tom. You got two rooms, or not? asks Charlie.

  Got one.

  Good. We’ll take it, says Charlie.

  Good. Give’s ya fucken credit card then, says Tom.

  Izzy pulls out her Diners card, and hands it over.

  Here it fucking is, then, she says.

  Tom swipes the plastic. She keys in her PIN without taking her eyes off him. Tom leans back in his chair and grabs a key from a rack behind him.

  One oh nine, he says.

  Thanks, says Charlie. Now what was hard about that? For a moment then, it felt almost like human beings communicating.

  You need anything else? asks Tom, looking at Charlie.

  Izzy gives the pudgy Tom a look. What was that tonal change all about? That was a between-men thing. Charlie shrugs as though he doesn’t understand the tonal inference. Izzy knows from experience of interviewing people whose language she doesn’t speak that meanings can be conveyed by many avenues aside from the words themselves.

  No, we’re good, says Charlie. I’ll be sleeping in the Patrol, in case you were wondering.

  I wasn’t, says Tom, and smiles at Izzy.

  Izzy smiles straight back at him, and takes him by surprise. They turn and head back out to the Patrol.

  Can we drive up to the police station? asks Izzy.

  You are the customer, says Charlie.

  You don’t have to sleep outside.

  It’s warm.

  I’m small. I’ll have the couch.

  Ah. You are forgetting about my Sharon.

  Ah.

  I’ll sleep in the Patrol.

  Good idea.

  Charlie backs the Patrol out, and they head up to the police station. It takes a minute. Charlie pulls up out the front, parking next to a squad car.

  It looks new, says Izzy.

  Couple of years old, says Charlie.

  They take in the fortified building. It looks more like a place that Hitler would hide out in than a police station.

  Are they expecting a nuclear strike? asks Izzy.

  WBP, says Charlie.

  Izzy looks at him.

  World’s Best Practice, he says, and they both laugh.

  Do they have a yard?

  Around the back.

  Izzy grabs her camera from the bag at her feet, jumps out, and heads down the side of the concrete building. Charlie loses sight of her in the plants by the side of the building.

  Izzy emerges out the back, and looks through the cyclone fencing. There is a police paddy wagon, and a police 4WD, with one other older Troopie between Izzy and the cop vehicles. Izzy scrambles up the wire to get a better look at the Troopie. She squints her eyes. Light from the back of the police building is glinting on something in there, on the back seat. She holds onto the wire with one hand, holds out her camera, and hits zoom with her thumb. The camera lens picks up the suit jacket lying on the back seat. Pinned to the jacket is a little row of medals. The light glints on the silver metal running across the green and white ribbon that denotes Vietnam. Izzy breathes sharply. They are the same medals that Macca and her father have. Izzy snaps off a couple of shots. The flash goes off. She checks the shots, and decides to go for one other angle. She frames up the medals again, and this time gets the out-of-focus side of the police car above them in the composition, with some of the blue police writing and a glimpse of police lights on top. In her mind the headline jumps into existence:

  IS THIS HOW WE TREAT OUR HEROES?

  She snaps, and her flash goes off again.

  Hoy!

  Izzy jumps down. Senior Constable Lishtokitz is standing at the back door of the police station.

  What are you doing? demands Lishtokitz, his coffee mug still in his hand.

  I’m coming around the front, says Izzy, and marches back the way she came.

  She gets back out the front, and stashes her camera in the Patrol.

  You OK? asks Charlie.

  Good, Charlie Muchacho. Give me a sec.

  She turns and heads into the station. There are these big concrete pillars that are waist-high, supposedly to stop ramraids, and Izzy takes a couple of prep run-up steps and leaps over one of them. She laughs back at Charlie, and goes to hit the NIGHT button near the front door – which slides open before she can touch the button. Izzy goes inside. Lishtokitz approaches the counter from the other side.

  My name is Izzy Langford. I write for the Melbourne Star. What’s your name?

  Senior Constable Lishtokitz.

  Can you spell that?

  What were you doing out the back?

  I was taking a photo.

  You can’t take photos.

  I already did.

  You’ll have to hand over your camera.

  Not a chance. The subject was in full view of the public.

  What subject?

  Did you arrest the Old Man?

  He was drunk.

  It was Anzac Day.

  What?

  The one day of the year, and all that?

  There is a noise behind Lishtokitz, and out comes Smithers.

  There is an investigation running. There is no comment from this station, says Smithers.

  And you are?

  In charge ... Sergeant Smithers.

  Did you remand him to Baal?

  Ya need to call a JP for that, girlie. Learn ya law, then get back to me, says Smithers.

  And to call a JP, you have to be a deputy registrar. Do you have that qualification?

  The Senior Sergeant is a deputy registrar.

  But he didn’t call the JP. You did.

  This conversation is finished, says Smithers.

  Thank you, Smithers, says Izzy.

  We aim to serve, says Smithers coldly.

  Smithers. With a name like that you should have been a butler, says Izzy. Then you could really serve.

  There is a beat before Lishtokitz registers what Izzy said. Izzy sees his little creeping smile, and takes it as encouragement.

  Smithers, a cocktail please, says Izzy, bunging on an accent that the Duke of Somerset would be proud of. Shaken, not stirred.

  You better piss off girlie, before you realise how far from home you really are, says Smithers.

  Izzy gives Smithers a smile, and then spins on her heel.

  Home is where the heart is, she throws back over her shoulder.

  Izzy climbs back into the Patrol. Charlie starts up the engine.

  Home, Jeeves.

  You’re in a mood, says Charlie.

  This is going to be more fun than I thought, says Izzy.

  Fun?

  They’re in it up to their necks. I can smell it on them.

  Charlie heads back down to the motel chalets in the Patrol.

  Remember, Izzy – it’s called Skull Creek, not Fun Creek.

  What did Tom the motel bloke mean ‘do you need anything else’?

  Ah.

  What, ah? Booze? Drugs?

  Yes, he can get them, but no.

  But what?

  Cabbies have a rep.

  What rep?

  Bunji-men.

&nbs
p; What’s a bunji-man?

  Goes in for the black girls.

  The Patrol pulls up out the front of room 109.

  He can provide that?

  The story is already growing in Izzy’s mind. She has that delicate feeling of fun and dread about knocking the scab off this sore. See how deep the rotting pus-hole goes. God, she thinks, who do you have to fuck to get a drink?

  Charlie turns off the Patrol.

  Look, love. They have it in Melbourne. They have it here.

  This is a town of what? Seven hundred?

  And half of them would be black, adds Charlie.

  Who are the customers?

  Where there are men, there are penises. And where there are penises, there will be a sex trade ... Or is it the other way around? That’s what my old man reckoned, anyway.

  But here, the First World is preying on the Third, using money and privilege as power, says Izzy.

  Melbourne brothels are full of women trafficked from Asia. No one gives a shit.

  They’ll give a shit about this.

  No they fucken won’t.

  They both get out.

  You coming into the room?

  Thanks. I need a shower.

  Charlie brings his bag, she takes hers, and into the chalet they go. A bench runs along one side wall, there is a double bed, two plastic chairs, and a television. Everything is brown. Izzy sits on the bed, and pulls out her laptop. She doesn’t look up until Charlie is coming out of the bathroom, fresh and clean.

  I’m going to get something to drink from Tom, says Charlie. You want something?

  I’ll have a big one of whatever’s going.

  Charlie goes. Izzy plugs her camera into her laptop and quickly reformats the pictures she took. She opens up a window and continues typing away like a crazy woman. She is still going when Charlie turns back up with two bottles of red.

  Ah, now you are talking, my Baalboorlie cab-driving friend, says Izzy with no slowing of her fingers.

  Charlie pulls out two teacups from the cupboard, and fills them both to the brim with red.

  Rules of Engagement

  The TV in the little brown room is muted. The reception is fuzzy. Izzy sits on the bed. Charlie sits in a brown plastic chair. The alfoil from Sharon’s sandwiches is screwed up into a silver ball on the bench. Charlie pours the last of the first bottle of red. Izzy’s phone goes off: ‘Ace of Spades’. Charlie starts air-drumming along with her rock’n’roll ringtone. Izzy smiles, and answers.