THE BIG SUGAR ELECTION

By

MARK BARKLEY

Copyright © 1990, 2007

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of the copyright owner. 

Contents

Part I (Getting Upset) 

Part II (Getting Even)

Epilogue 

All characters and situations portrayed within this book are entirely fictional

and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

PART I

12.10 pm Thursday, February 12th, 2026

”Christ! That wasn’t there before. I’m sure.“

James McLaren buried his head in his hands as the KEEP LEFT sign buckled under the front bull-bar. Without missing a beat, Colin Bell spun the wheel of the land cruiser, disentangling his twisted trophy and kept talking as if he’d swatted a fly.

”We can’t be too far off his trail. I’d hate to think we lost him.“

”Not after that trip.“

James pushed his dark hair back as he thought of their cross-country trek across Callard Park. As he made a mental note of all of Colin’s ”trophies“, sick welled in his throat. And he wondered if the Chief would see the joke in all this.

”Eleven bushes and shrubs, six flower beds, four fence posts to the emu enclosure: replace. One bird: provide stress therapy. Three eucalypts: cosmetic tree surgery. Three picnicking pensioners: reimburse for mashed food items, crushed thermos and heart attack medication.“

He shook his head. He’d never seen an old man use that finger gesture. It was creative to say the least.

”Kerb and channeling: reconcrete. Two KEEP LEFT signs: replace.“

All for the pursuit of a lousy stray Alsatian.

”Could we just pull over? I’ll get my bearings.“

Colin’s wide white smile beamed beneath the brim of his battered akubra.

”I can see your hamburger trying to poke its head back up. I told you to eat light.“

James opened the glove box and removed a street directory.

”There’s the lookout. See if I can spot him there.“

He opened the door and stepped out but found no support in his legs. To his surprise, he staggered and fell flat on his backside.

”You right?“, Colin beamed out the cabin. He held up an apple for James to survey in all its half-eaten glory.

”Yeah I know.“ Picking himself up, James stretched his lanky frame and brushed down the grass wet patches from his trousers. ”Eat light.“

Steeling himself against the side of the dog van, he viewed its lone occupant. A border-collie lay shaking with front paws over both eyes. One paw lifted to view James with a whimper and he could feel his fellow traveller’s pain.

”Sorry mate. This is where I leave.“  

Since being appointed as the senior environmental health officer in charge of animal control, James often wondered in what way he had offended the Chief. Especially when it was insisted that on certain occasions, he was to accompany the officers on their rounds.

After gaining his composure, James began to walk to the highest point of Callard Park, terraced off into a lookout from where one could get a good vantage of the city of Callard.

A statue of its founder, Terence Callard, looked out from atop a pedestal over the fastest growing city in Australia.

It had achieved this in only a relatively short time, having grown from a collective of towns known as the Callard Shire. This shire was formed in the carve up when North Queensland seceded from South; its southern border forming a portion of the new state line; its northern border lying a few hundred kilometres south of Townsville, Australia’s newest state capital. 

”Any sign?“ shouted Colin, leaving the van’s cabin to inspect the wreckage he caused.

From the lookout, James surveyed the distant mountains that bounded the city on all sides. With the distant lush greens and yellows of tropical vegetation and the closer bustling reds and oranges of the city, it seemed more like a huge salad bowl in the noon day sun.

Or more appropriately, not a salad bowl, it could be more likened to a teacup.

It was a teacup for the storms it brewed.

Being February and summer in the tropics, cyclones were prevalent. They formed in the Coral Sea, whipping themselves into a frenzy and moved towards the mainland. By the time they’d crossed the coastline usually anywhere from Cooktown to Mackay, their movement inland would cause them to weaken into a heavy blanket of rain cover. 

Callard City, being inland and bounded by mountains, rarely felt the destructive wind gusts of the cyclones but frequently had to deal with the damaging floods that ensued.

Rivers and streams would swell and roads and bridges would often become awash, cutting off road routes and stranding traffic.

From the lookout, James turned his gaze to the city centre for the second reason Callard was likened to a teacup; for its china.

Or more precisely, Little China.

From where he stood, he could see the two white ceramic lions guarding the entrance to Crescent Street, recently designated a mall and the official centre of Callard’s Chinatown.

The city had people from every land and a rich mix of language and custom. Most arrived with Callard’s industrial boom which required an influx of laboratory technicians and with them the doctors, the solicitors and assorted professionals.     

James loved the city. Crescent Street with its red facade restaurants bustled with colour and crackers at New Year. He relished its eclectic and electric tastes, smells and accents.         

”What ‘re you doing up there?“

Colin neatly placed the KEEP LEFT sign by the van, as fussy as a flower arranger with the buckled metal tubing.

James ignored him and cast his eyes past the sprawl of suburbia. He looked to the distant green field for the third and most important reason why Callard was a teacup.

For its sugar.

In North Queensland, no industry has been so fraught with ups and downs, heartache and bankruptcy, pain and eventually triumph, as the sugar industry.

And its resuscitation was largely due to the breath of the man whose statue stood beside him. Terence Callard saw the future of the sugar industry in the production of alcohol as a biofuel.

It was through his tireless effort rallying government support and his all-in brawls with cane-growers that put the pulse back into the industry. He made cane-based alcohol the country’s life-blood.

After only a decade of production, Australia had become one of the largest world producers, second only to Brazil.

And this is where it all began.

Callard was ”The Big Sugar“.

Ask anyone down south that you were going north, they’d say ”Oh you’re going to The Big Sugar. Lucky you.“

From where he stood, he could see the distant stacks of the four mills which Terence Callard, an avid car nut, had named the Daimler, the Mercedes, the Stag and the Jaguar mills.

And the statue of the industry’s founding father pointed out over thousands of hectares of lush green cane fields.

James smirked at the irony which was obvious to everyone but statue builders and civic leaders. What an unbelievably cruel gesture for someone who died a crippled diabetic.

”Talk to me, Jim!“ Colin cried from below.

Turning from the view, James returned to the vehicle.

”I think he’s given us the slip.“

”Shit!“ Colin whacked the bonnet with his akubra. ”We were so close.“

”Was it the one or not. The one that’s worrying the kids.“

”I’m sure of it“, Colin blew hard and put his hands to his hips. ”I’m sure.“

”It’s no problem if..“

”I know what I saw.“

Colin’s tone left James thinking twice about burring up the big man. He already had a pretty good go at attempting to kill him without trying. He didn’t want to give him a motive to finish the job.

”OK“.

”Look, jump in. I’ll take you back to the office.“

”The office?“ Feeling his sphincter tweak, James baulked as Colin jumped back in. ”Look you go.“

”What?“

”You go. One of the blokes are picking me up.“

He pulled out his mobile and started fiddling with the dial keys.

”Who?“

”Just .. You go.“

Colin looked back and a watermelon smile flashed across his face. He reached into a bag nearby and pulled out another apple which he tossed through the window to James. As he caught it, he surveyed the fruit and pulled off three dog hairs.           

”Beautiful“.

”No worries“, Colin rubbed his muscular paunch, ”Hope things settle.“

He started the engine and moved from the kerb giving a short blast of the horn. James grinned and gave a little wave.

A hundred metres on, he could still see his suntanned features in the side rear vision mirror. He gave another reassuring lift of the hand.

With his teeth on high beam, Colin returned the gesture, jumped the gutter, turned the corner and was gone.  

With the vehicle out of sight, James waited a few seconds.

He looked left and right and took a deep breath to steel his nerves, pocketed his mobile and began the four kilometre hike through the park and city streets to the office.

12.25 pm

Having shaken his pursuing menace, the Alsatian waited in the undergrowth near the park road. Lifting his head clear of the leaves, he pin-pricked his ears. With his dark brown eyes set in his thick black fur, he carefully surveyed his surrounds.

Once satisfied that the coast was clear, he bounded from the cover and started an easy lope homeward, only stopping to sniff and wet the occasional tree on the journey.

His sleek muscular limbs moved easily. His wet black muzzle pointed and sought out the shortest route home.    

Home to the Alsatian was in a normal suburban street called Leggett Street and the closer he came to it, the more he felt assured of safety and less exposed to these yellow land-cruisers that always wanted to chase him.

The house he drew to was a grey fibro shack set on short concrete stumps. The stormwater downpiping, disconnected at the roof, dripped water onto the muddy black puddled yard covered in mounds of muck and dog dung.

As he entered through the wide open gates, he found his master, as usual, shovelling mud in the back yard. It was a mystery but it always seemed like he was digging up holes and filling them up again.

In the rear yard his two mates were snarling and wrestling with one another in the mud in front of the kennels.

King and Khan were almost identical tan black-backed bad-tempered Alsatians who were quick to snap and quick to snarl. They feared no living thing except the man with the shovel and the large sullen black beast making its way through the front yard.

They stiffened and quietened and rolled over in front of their kennels, with tongues lolling with obsequious fervour.       

The man with the shovel turned his head towards the approaching beast.

”Where‘ve you been, Percy?“

The black Alsatian growled and snapped and was given a sharp whack across the head with the shovel. He made a craven retreat to his kennel and a thought ran through the dog’s mind.

”Why couldn’t I have a tougher name like King or Khan?“

King and Khan quivered by their kennels. They knew that if either of them broke into a snicker or a smile, they would be reduced to a throatless mass of red fur.

Percy left no doubt in his peers’ minds that his name was short for ”Percy-Cution“.

Alex Pauley looked at his dogs and went back shovelling his mud. Every time he looked at them, he heard a cash register ”Ching!“ in his head. They were going to be his ticket out of this slop.

Once his business takes off of siring guard dogs for the rich and wealthy, he’d be able to say goodbye to this muck-hole and quit burying their manure he was constantly standing in.

Resting a while, he leaned on his shovel and dreamed.

He was going to be a success like the rest of his brothers.

That wasn’t just because he was the youngest of a very large family. It was because he was regarded by his elders and siblings as the one who was least likely to succeed at anything he put his mind to.

”The one regarded least likely to succeed,“ he thought to himself.

”Boy, my sisters could talk. They all became dole-bludging dope-hazed earth mothers. Queens of a tree-house in the scrub of northern New South Wales. Yeah, they succeeded! Every year dropping a baby like a feral vegetable.“ 

But it was his brothers who all became very successful that he put the gauge to.

He smiled a toothless grin and continued to rest his short thin frame on his shovel. Filth stained his blue singlet and tattooed arms. Sweat fogged his steel framed spectacles and glistened off the earring in his left lobe.

”There’s nothing going to stop me now,“ he thought.

Although he was starting to get a few drive-bys from some annoying Council vans regarding alleged complaints relating to his dogs.

Still, they’re only ”alleged“ complaints and ”alleged“ is always a word he stresses when he conveys the messages to his father, the mayor, Arthur Pauley and his brother Milton, the self-made millionaire and local councillor, whenever they enquire about his progress.

Alex smiled again and went back to shovelling more mud.

1.35 pm    

In the centre of the central business district, there stood the concrete, timber and glass Taj Mahal of the City Council offices.

Set amidst sunken gardens with ornate fountains, it rose in three levels to dominate the landscaping and surrounds.

Under the burning sun of early afternoon, James walked through the staff car parking area to the main entrance. His short-sleeve business shirt was drenched in sweat and his throat was parched.

Once through the wide doors, he paused in the foyer as he’d done on many an occasion, admiring the high set ceiling which gave an air of palatial grandeur. The upper levels opened out into the foyer area, their balconies tressed with ferns and manicured garden boxes.

Within the building, the main complement of the Council’s workers, its officers and clerical staff, were housed on the first two levels. From where James stood, the three compartments of administration fanned out before him and in James’s simple way of looking at things, their list of duties were as follows.

To his far left was housed the Financial Services Department, accoutred to the task of gathering money off people, through Council rates and general registration fees.

The central compartment before him held the Engineering Services Department, entrusted with the administering of public works such as water supply, sewerage and traffic management in the city.

To his far right was the section to which James belonged, the Community Services Department or as it was more commonly known in the city, the Health Department. Its duties comprised of, in James’s view, anything and everything that didn’t fit in with the latter two categories.

It was primarily given the task of upholding community hygiene and James’s role as one of its environmental health officers was to go forth into the city and make it a healthier place to live in. He and his colleagues audited its restaurants and hostels to name but a few to ensure cleanliness was observed. Other duties, on the broader level, involved environmental protection such as oil spill prevention and the control of rat and mosquito infestation. And on the more local level such residential problems as dog complaints and noise issues which often cause neighbours to erupt into fisticuffs.

In the centre of the foyer stood a stylised display of fibreglass sugarcane stalks wrapped around a picture of a pair of very overexcited male and female models beckoning you inwards.

”Welcome To Callard City“, read the caption, ”Get A Taste For The Big Sugar“.    

A smaller sign underneath, printed on A3 paper, caught his eye.  ”Council Elections Are Only 38 Days Away. Are You Enrolled?“

James read the message and lifted his gaze to the upper levels of the foyer before him. These levels contained the offices of the mayor and the eleven councillors of the city elected by the citizens for a three year term.

On these levels were also the committee rooms and Council chambers where the democratic process of local government took place.

The councillors, who formed committees concerning finances, health and public works, would sit down and meet the senior officers of each department and other officials who were better connected than James at getting a window desk. They would discuss various proposals, consider recommendations and make decisions on how the city should be run. These decisions were then ratified in a full Council meeting and the proposals would be brought into effect.

Or so was the theory.

In thirty-eight days time, the people of Callard would go to the polls to elect a new Council.

”Thirty-eight days,“ he lifted his eye to the ceiling. ”Give me strength.“    

He turned and walked through a side doorway to his office and made his way to his desk. 

”Hey hey“, came a voice from behind, ”It’s James ‘Cross Country Rally’ McLaren. Hey champion, better make yourself scarce.“

Ignoring the comment, James slumped into his chair and brought up his computer screen. He could feel the breath on the back of his neck as he tapped away at the report for his morning safari.

”Did you get any vision? Y’ know. Something we can send to Funniest Home Videos.“

James kept typing, eyes fixed on the screen.

”You’re ignoring me, aren’t you?“

Gerry Gees had the warm welcome of an airborne mosquito and that unenviable capacity of stating the bleeding obvious. He generally meant well, but wouldn’t just come up and talk to you, so much as attach himself like some stray dog-yard off-cut caught in the cracks of your sandals.

He was short and stout, in his mid-twenties and had a happy fat face, but it was widely known that many a person would dearly have loved to part those fat cheeks with a fist.

”How many years ‘ve you been with us? Six years?“, he continued. ”It was nice knowing you.“

Without looking up, James tapped away.

The stale coffee breath was now in his ear, ”The Chief’s not going to like this.“

”James!“ an imperious voice boomed across the office. It sent people scurrying back to their desks, killing all idle chat.

”You’ll be sorry,“ sang Gerry, hurrying back to his desk.

James’s fingers sweated as he typed the final full-stop and hit print.

Keeping his head down, he could feel the presence of the Chief Environmental Health Officer bearing down on him in calm and deliberate steps toward his desk.

He looked up to see a huge man in his mid-forties. He stood six foot four and was well proportioned with muscles conditioned by youthful years of boxing championships.

John Hennessy was bred from Irish stock; his hair was red and his eyes were blue and creased kindly at their corners from years of laughter and carousing. His complexion was fair and, if one could be glib and say the tropics are full of cancer above the Tropic of Capricorn, his forearms were scarred from the removal of skin growths.

”James.“

He leaned over, placing his huge knuckles on the desk.

”About an hour ago, I received a call from a lady who lives near Callard Park. She’s found an emu in her vegetable patch.“

”Oh .. Oh, that’s good.“ James breathed a sigh of relief and slumped back in his chair.

”That’s good?“ The Chief’s tone was steel.

”How was it, John?“

”Very hungry as I understand it.“

”No no.. Is it OK? When we lost sight of it . Around the bull-bar. I thought .. I thought the worst.“ 

Two pieces of paper were handed  to James by someone passing by the printer and he passed them to his boss’s outstretched paw.   

As the Chief read, his perplexed look grew more intense. He slowly shook his head from side to side. As he flipped to the second page, his face grew redder and he began to walk slowly back to his office, pausing only momentarily to address Gerry.

”Gerry, have you seen Kevin or Vince?“

Gerry jumped to his feet as if spring-loaded.

”No, Chief! I believe they called in sick.“

The Chief looked at him in silence and then kept walking, still shaking his head.

3.10 pm

To the people who lived in Leggett Street, Alison Wells was crazy. Although no-one would openly come out and say that, most would tactfully refer to her as ”a few sandwiches short of a picnic“.

Her house in the street, apart from being slightly unkempt in appearance, had a very distinguishing feature; its windows were painted white from the inside.

Every Thursday, she would step out of her house at ten minutes past three and slam her door closed behind her. The slamming of the door followed a careful ritual she would undertake which would include five times checking if the back door was closed, six times checking that all the windows were closed and seven times checking that the stove was turned off.

This particular afternoon, she stood for a while on her doorstep; a wizened woman in her eighties having a mournful chat with herself. She adjusted the long sleeves of her shirt and pulled her wide-brimmed straw hat tightly over her ears.

Suddenly becoming annoyed at something that she said, she set off in a flurry of movement down her garden path, gripping tightly to an old shopping bag.

She turned at the gate post and set off down the road to the corner store, stopping only to have a meaningful chat with certain trees.

3.20 pm

”McLaren!“

James looked up from his computer screen at a man once described as ”the bespectacled Buddha in the sweat-filled force field“.

”My office,“ he added.

”Sure, George.“

James had very little time for George Butts but treated him with guarded deference. He knew that this man could make life very difficult if he was ever crossed.

George Butts was Assistant to the Chief, a position he obtained through years of extensive lobbying and patient report writing to certain councillors. They found him to be a ready yes-man and extremely useful when it came to getting favours done. But the respect he was held in throughout his Department was best illustrated by his nickname; Bumworm.

James walked behind him, watching his short squat frame waddle, as if trying to keep a coin between the cheeks of his backside.

He paused to address two of James’s female colleagues.

”You two. What’re doing tomorrow morning?“

”I’ve got a food poisoning complaint,“ stated one.

”And I’ve got to follow-up on a bad restaurant that I ..“

”Cancel them,“ cut in George leaving them both gaping.

”Both of you. I have this complaint here from Councillor Tapp. There’s a very bad smell in his area. Check it out and report back to me. No later than eleven. Understood.“

He placed the complaint form on the desk in front of them, leaving a small pool of sweat behind, then continued on his way to his office with James in pursuit.

”Miss Kershaw?“

George stopped in front of the Chief’s secretary who was busily typing.

”Have you found my new chair yet?“

”Not yet sir,“ she replied, her eyes not leaving her typing, ”I’ve been typing this report for you all afternoon.“

”Well I’d hate to be responsible for you getting RSI, Karen,“ he looked down on her. ”Will you look for it please? It’s grey with big armrests.“

Karen mumbled into her screen, ”Yeah an’ wired for ten thousand volts.“

”Pardon?“

”When I find it, I’ll pin it down with bolts.“

”If you wouldn’t mind.“ 

George showed James into his office, “Sit.“

Picking up James’s report from his desk, he flapped it in the air.

”McLaren, what’s this? .. This here? What’s this?“

Beads of sweat stood on his balding pate.

”What am I going to do with this?“

James sat quietly as he paced his office ranting.

What budget number can I put these items to? D’ you know how much paperwork you’ve given me? Do you?“

George slumped to his seat and waited till his breathing became even.

”Is that all for now?“ James started standing.

”Not quite.“ George pointed him back to his chair and opened a folder.

”Whatever you are doing tonight, cancel it. You’ve been invited to dinner and you’ve graciously accepted.“

”Oh,“ James offered dryly, ”How good of me.“ 

”You should feel privileged, McLaren. Your hosts will be none other than Councillor Milton Pauley and Mister Maxwell Horn.“

Staring blankly at the wall in front, James just waited for that wave of euphoria. 

”To what do I owe this honour.“

”Are you acquainted with the proposed Sun Temple shopping complex? The latest for Horn-Hagama Developments?“

James winced. He could feel what was coming next.

His mind wandered back to past events. Namely the previous proposal of Horn-Hagama, the Landseer Restoration and Commercial Development Plan.

The Landseer homestead was a stately Queenslander built by the pioneers in the early 1900’s in an area which had now become the city centre. The house and sprawling gardens, deemed to be of historical significance, were acquired with much controversy three years ago by Horn-Hagama for what they were pitching was ”sensitive redevelopment“.

Strict planning provisos were put in place to preserve its wide open verandahs and old world charm. A new restaurant and function room were drawn for the interior, still keeping the glorious facade, and the gardens and pathways were to be preserved adjacent to new heritage-style shops and kiosks. 

That was up until that one night last year when the homestead mysteriously burnt down.

While visiting his parents in Brisbane, James watched the flames of it on the news and remembered the pain he felt in the pit of his stomach.

The vision of Max Horn on camera was heart-wrenching. All that distress seemed genuine. He claimed shock, he claimed horror, he claimed insurance and then sent in the bulldozers to level any charred remains.  

Hence the land became vacant. The ideal site for the Sun Temple, Horn-Hagama’s first shopping complex in Callard.

”I’ve seen some rough architecturals, George. But I don’t think they’ve lodged a DA.“

”In good time,“ George slapped the folder shut. ”They want to meet all plan processors. Nothing sinister. Just put names to faces. All quite casual. You’ll be doing all food.“ 

”That’s not my area. Dave does plans now.“

”It’s not a debate. Can’t be helped. Short staffed, you know. You won’t be alone there. Trades waste, building, all the usuals.“

”And Councillor Pauley? His involvement is?“

It was probably a little impertinent to ask. It was no secret Milton Pauley spent nearly every weekend cruising the Whitsundays on Max Horn’s yacht.

”A watch dog. Wouldn’t you agree?“ George stared down any defiance. ”Dinner will be at seven-thirty at the Lotus Gardens. I expect you there on time.“

”D’ you want me in a tie?“

”Don’t push it.“

George gestured to the door and James made his exit.

Opening the folder in front of him, George ticked a paper then slapped it closed. Organizing the foot soldiers was so tiring. Yawning loudly, he put his hands behind his head and reclined backwards, but found no support. The chair buckled, he flapped his arms and hit his head hard on the back wall, leaving his legs ungraciously cycling in the air.

”Miss Kershaw!“ he bellowed, dusting himself off. ”Where is that chair?“

4.05 pm

Percy was bored. He lay in front of his kennel, biting his matted fur and licking his testicles.  

To the rear of the yard, King and Khan pawed each other with playful jabs.

It had been two weeks since he was brought to this property, the other pair arriving soon after him. He had no idea of his purpose here. Every time he would seek guidance from his master, he would be struck on the back of the head with a shovel.

To him, life was better in the country. There was plenty of space to run around and wildlife galore to hunt down. He missed the thrill of the kill; the joy of outwitting a small furry mammal and tearing it to pieces.

His hunt for food these days consisted of sneaking up on a bowl of mashed-up dog food from a can. He’d sniff it and paw it but it would always relent and let itself be eaten.

It just wasn’t the same.

He rolled over and caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. The ears pricked up and his body tensed.

Bent in stature and bow-legged in gait, a female human walked on the other side of the road, switching from hand to hand a bag full of something. She walked slowly and as she walked, she talked.

Percy grew apprehensive that she may be being guarded by someone. But after a few seconds, he noticed that she was very much alone. 

Between the fence posts of the wide open gates of Pauley’s property, he viewed her. It was like a target moving unwittingly between two allotted points.

Instincts of the hunter, that he felt he’d lost for good, reared up in him again and he was very pleased. He was on familiar ground here.

Sharply, he barked to his companions, calling them to arms. They responded with haste, rushing to sit at attention by his side. Their eyes faced forward with almost military fervour.

The sleek beast rose to his feet and called his charges to form in formation behind him. This was going to be a team effort. He was not going to suffer any dissension from his henchmen.

As far as he was concerned, a pack that preyed together, stayed together.

They moved slowly and easily, passing through the gateway with their sights firmly set on their doddering quarry.

Fully laden with groceries, Mrs Wells moved slowly but not so easily. Her thin bent frame was brittle with age and her joints ached with severe arthritis.

The skin on her arms was dried, wrinkled and marked with bruises. Sinews on her arms stood out from her struggling muscles.

She talked to herself. She talked of sad times past and sad times present. She was a spinster of many sad tales of lost love, near love, cheated love and promises never followed through and each cut a strand from her thin thread of sanity.

She talked of the weather, so hot and so humid, the weeds and the pests taking over her garden and just generally everything and anything going wrong with her life.

A guttural growl from behind her heralded the worst events to come.

She turned and saw them; the three beasts bearing down on her in a slow stalk. Letting out a shriek, she staggered backwards dropping her bag.

Percy barked and in a deft manoeuvre, King and Khan moved to block her exit. They surrounded her in a triangle, circling and pacing slowly.        

King suddenly made a quick lunge towards her but a sharp and savage retort from Percy soon put him back in his place. Their quarry was screaming now, shaking and pale-white. King realised now why he’d been sent back. He could smell it too now; the sweet smell of fear.

Percy’s intention was clear; extract as much fear as they could as one would squeeze an orange dry. And this feeling, the more their victim squirmed, he enjoyed it. It was strangely intoxicating.

By a signal from the leader, King moved in and grabbed the bottom of the shopping bag. Dragging it backwards, he emptied its contents of bread, milk and tea-bags onto the footpath.

Her screams were now starting to attract attention. Men and women were beginning to come warily out of their houses towards her.

The old lady collapsed to her knees with her hands covering her face. Khan lunged at her and tore the straw hat from her head and her hair stood out wildly.

Sensing the end was near, the big black dog moved in. He grabbed the calf of her right leg between his teeth and her panic-stricken struggling caused her flesh to tear and bleed.

She was writhing on her side, yelling and screaming. The air filled with the pungent smell of urine.

The three dogs suddenly heard people running towards them in high voice.

”Get off y’ bloody mongrels! Piss off y’ bastards!“

They drew back from the prostrate figure and bid a hasty retreat across the road to their home.

Mrs Wells sat up, gagging with tears and shaking her head. She pulled her wet dress over her knees to regain some semblance of dignity.

People were gathering around her now, asking if she was alright. She suddenly felt ashamed.

”Please leave me alone,“ she said, shunning her eyes from them. ”Leave me alone.“

Bending over to put her arm around her, Amy Wilson, her next door neighbour, noticed the puncture marks on her leg.

”Oh no!“ she cried in horror, ”Those bloody mongrels!“

Mrs Wells shrugged the embrace off with stubborn childishness. She picked up her straw hat with part of its brim torn away and put it back on her head. She pulled it down over her ears and as she did so, its brim tore further.

This started her crying again.

”Come on, Alison,“ Amy put her arms around the poor old woman again. ”You’re not going anywhere darlin’. You’re comin’ with me to the doctors.“ 

7.20 pm

That evening, as James walked up Crescent Mall, the outside tables and chairs were quickly filling up with diners, savouring the street atmosphere. Even though it was fairly early in the evening, they wanted to get the best seats to view the buskers and street theatre the Mall was famous for.

James too was going to theatre of a different kind only he would be involved in this well staged play. As he approached the entrance of the Lotus Garden restaurant, he saw two of his fellow players, Jeff Gibson and Laurie Roach, officers in Built Environment and Trade Waste respectively.

He approached them and they exchanged smirked glances.

Jeff spat his chewing gum into a nearby bin.

”Jimmy. Y’ lookin’ well mate.“

Laurie was scratching his back on the restaurant’s wooden post and nodded to the door, ”Bumworm an’ his mates are already in.“    

James took a deep breath,“ Great. Let’s bring on the bullshit.“

They filed through the main entrance and were greeted by a cheerful Chinese waiter who showed them through to their table.

Grouped on one side of the table were their hosts. Milton Pauley sat in the middle discussing something with his friend Max Horn, seated on his left. Seated on Pauley’s right was George Butts; his head bobbing up and down in full agreement with anything being said.

George turned and saw the procession making its way towards them. The chest suddenly puffed out, ”Here come my boys now.“

”Take a seat fellas,“ Pauley stood up to shake his hand.

”Who’s drinking? George get the fellas some wine.“

As George raised his hand for the waiter, James looked the Councillor up and down and took the hand in greeting of one of Callard’s self-made millionaires.

Milton Pauley was short, paunched and thickly set in stature and looked like a man of great physical power, but there was no strength in his handshake. His grip felt like fondling a dead fish.

A smile broke across his well tanned face, flexing his manicured moustache; black like his well kept hair.

It flashed through James’s mind that this was the man who pulled off one of the most sensational real estate deals in Callard’s short history.

He quickly recalled when this man bought a large tract of rural land for a pittance nearby the Jaguar mill and through his seat on Council, pushed to rezone the land to General Industry. It was then developed into a fuel depot and upon selling the development to the Callard Fuel Authority, he pocketed a clear profit of four million dollars.

That thought was interrupted by the aromatic whiff of a plate of garlic prawns sailing past on a spitting sizzling platter.

”Good!“ Max Horn tapped his chopsticks like drumsticks. ”Let’s eat. I’m starving.“

He was similar in build to Pauley but more muscular and more tanned. Jumping up cheerfully, he extended a paw in greeting.

”G’day“. His handshake made James wince in its vice-like grip.

Orders were taken and for over an hour, a steady supply of food streamed from the kitchen and piled on their table to be devoured feverishly. George supplied a few bottles of shiraz, which he knew his hosts were partial to, and made sure their glasses never ran empty.

Upon completion of the meal, Pauley finally sat back and addressed the table.

”Fellas. Thanks for coming. It was a good feed, yeah? An’ get some more of that into you.“ He gestured George to pass a bottle on.

”This is how we like to do things. One on one, y’ know. Face to face. You got a problem, you just pick up the phone. Now we can put a face to a name. You blokes got business cards?“

The three officers looked at each other sheepishly and proffered their cards.

James had a dark feeling they were going to get their garbage bins forensically analysed.

”We know what you blokes want,“ chimed in Max. ”We’ve done this before. There’ll be no dramas. But I just want to say the Sun Temple’ll be the jewel in the crown. The jewel in the crown for this city. It’ll be hu-u-uge.“

”And fellas. Jobs, jobs , jobs.“ chimed Pauley. ”We wouldn’t want to stop that?“

”Absolutely,“ they took a self-congratulatory clink of their glasses.

”But what we want to know fellas,“ Pauley stared the three down. ”D’ you see any problems?“

Feeling out of the loop, George piped in, ”Milton, I ..“

Pauley’s raised hand rendered him silent as he kept his gaze on James and his colleagues.

James cleared his throat for the three of them, ”Send us the plans. And if they’re as good as you say.. There’s no dramas.“

”Good.“ The black moustache straightened over a cheesy grin. ”Good .. Drink up, fellas.“       

As he spoke, the waiter placed in front of him a small plate with a piece of paper on it, weighed down by a container of tooth-picks.

Pauley eyed it like a rare cockroach. Those things existed in the world; just not at his table.

”This has been .. This has been cleared. By Alan.“

”Alan?“ the waiter started stacking fruit-laden plates on his arm.

”Alan Chan?“ chimed in George, his eyes bugging out in disbelief.

”Oh. Alan Chan,“ the waiter balanced some spoons on a plate. ”Alan Chan. Lotus Palace.“ He tapped the top of the drinks menu on the table with his finger. ”Here. Lotus Garden. More coffee, sir?“    

Furtively, George pulled Pauley aside to offer panic-stricken whispers, “Councillor Pauley, everything was arranged for Lotus Palace. That’s what I said to you. Lotus Palace.“

He pulled out a pocket diary and stabbed a page to death with his finger.

”You said Lotus Garden. Yesterday, when you rang. You ..“  

Pauley waved him quiet and turned to the waiter, ”Yeah mate I will have some more coffee.“

”Right away, sir.“

As the attendant disappeared, he quietly slid the plate across the table towards Max, who obviously had a similar distaste for rare cockroaches.  

He stared at the plate, looked back at his friend and pushed the plate back to its original position.

By now the attendant had reappeared, placing a coffee cup under the red-faced Councillor’s nose.

Clearing his throat, Pauley picked up the slip of paper.

”This is outrageous!“ he declared, reeling back in horror. ”I’m not paying this.“

”Sorry?“ the poor waiter was stopped in his tracks.

”Look at this check. Look. Your spring rolls were cold. Your fried rice was dry. The prawns weren’t fresh. They were frozen. I only eat fresh prawns. And this corkage. That includes the bits floating round in the glass?“

The waiter pointed at the plates he was still clearing.

”You ate everything. Everything.“

”D’ you know who I am?“

Blank response.

”I’m Milton Pauley.“

”I’m Danny Fung. You still ate everything.“

”You,“ Pauley was now wheeling on him with some heat, raising his voice enough for the whole restaurant to hear. ”I’ve got influence. I can fix things that you don’t operate. Anywhere in this town. What d’ you say to that?“

The waiter responded by raising his right hand and clicking his fingers. Another waiter rushed into the kitchen and after a few seconds returned to the dining area. With the chef.

A man appeared, short but proportioned like a champion Chinese weight-lifter. His white T-shirt was stretched over bulging pectorals. His biceps flexed as he wiped his huge paws in a dish towel.

He walked towards the table and exchanged words with the waiter in Chinese.

The waiter then spoke in English.

”Bruce, he hates your food.“

”Huh?“ Bruce cracked his knuckles.

Having that awe-struck feeling of looking up to a cathedral ceiling, Pauley was having trouble taking his eyes off the wall-to-wall T-shirt now blocking out some of the light.

He allowed escape a little quiet nervous flatulence.

”I .. Now, Danny let’s .. “

”He hates your cooking.“

”I .. I don’t hate your food.“

”He ate everything. Everything.“

Bruce squatted down to get a better look at the Councillor’s wide eyes.

”You .. You’ve been on TV.“

”I .. Thank you.“       

”Did you hate the food?“

”Well, I ..“

”You have a nice face.“

That stopped Pauley’s mouth.

”Did you hate the food?“ Bruce kept on.

”No.“

”Do you want to pay the bill?“

”Well ..“

”Do you want to pay now?“

”Yes, of course,“ Pauley replied, pushing the plate to the man beside him. ”Pay the man, George.“

”What! But ..“

Pauley turned on him with gritted teeth, ”Pay the man. Pay the man.“

George made a slight groan as he reached into his wallet for a credit card.

If he didn’t know the Councillor better, he thought, one would think this was becoming a habit.

10.10 pm

A few blocks away from the Lotus Garden restaurant was a traffic light.

The licensee of a public bar, next to this particular traffic light, had strongly advised two of his patrons, both in their late twenties, to vacate the premises.

The pair obliged and staggered to the footpath outside. One saw the traffic light, lunged towards it and proceeded to drape himself around it.

”You’re not coming?“

”No!“

”Kevin, come on. All your mates’ll be there.“

” Uh n-n-no! Correction. Your mates’ll be there. I want nothin’ to do with those clowns. Not after Nicky’s twenty-first.“

”Oh mate! We’re Italian. I’m Italian. We’re violently in love with life.“

”Your violently pissed, Vincenzo.“

Vince Tomasi took no joy in rejection. He leaned his stocky overweight frame against the pole and hung on tightly. His head with its black curly hair shook from side to side.

”Still on about Nicky’s party. What is it with her? Your girlfriend. No sense of humour.“

Kevin Fitch leaned his much taller athletic stature against the pole. He wiped his blood-shot blue eyes.

”They threw her cat into the ceiling fan.“

”It was off.“

”No it wasn’t.“

”Well, nearly off. Was the cat hurt?“

”It’s not the point.“

”Oh .. Details.“

Vince hugged his pole more passionately.

”Didn’t I make it up to her? She got the gift, didn’t she?“

”Yeah, that was thoughtful.“

Kevin was now grabbing Vince, trying to prevent his downward slide, ”The Garfield jigsaw puzzle.“

”Oh Come on Kevin. Just one drink. They go back to Cairns tomorrow. Its only one night.“

Kevin knew that when Vince and his friends got together, they drank some red stuff you wouldn’t touch without protective gloves.

”Just one drink, mate.“

”Look, trust me. Today was great. But I’m not pullin’ another sickie. Not tomorrow.“

The pair had been planning this ”sick“ day for a few weeks. Ever since Kevin’s uncle invited them on a fishing trip off Mackay.

As a taxi came towards them, Kevin hailed it down. It stopped at the kerb just as he finally prised his friend’s loving embrace of the pole.

”Go home.“

He opened the taxi door for him and eased him into the passenger seat.

”Take this man home, mate. He’s got money on him.“

Looking at his drunken passenger, the driver turned blankly to Kevin, ”Thanks a lot.“

Vince’s head rolled back and forth as he gazed out the window.

”I am really disappointed in you.“

”Yeah, life’s tough.“

Tapping the top of the taxi, Kevin stood back to let it go.

”Be there tomorrow.“

The taxi then took off, taking his best friend into the night-time traffic.

12.10 am Friday, February 13th   

Feeling his bad dreams return like unwelcome shadows, James tossed and turned in his bed that night.

The waves of regret, that he thought he’d come to master, came crashing and collapsing around him again.

He lay on his back and gasped for breath as his thoughts took their course. They flowed though his mind as if his head was submerged face-up in a shallow stream.

And they were always the same.

There was a river of lights. Blue, red and white. They were blurred and would stream along and bleed into one another. In their midst were images.

Divers with face masks, black wet-suits and air tanks. They dived within the river. There was urgency in their mood as they submerged themselves into the lights. And they were gone.

A brief flashing red light. A white stretcher. And it was gone.

Blue and red and white lights.

A searchlight pierced the black of night, cutting a beam into dark water. It was balanced on the rail of a bridge. And then it was gone.

Blue and red and white lights.

The blue and the white slowly drained and the stream turned red. Waves moved backwards and forwards on the liquid. A drop would fall to its surface and concentric circles moved outwards.

In the liquid was a slip of paper, floating back and forth like a leaf falling in the air.

An image slowly appeared on the paper like a developing photograph, moving backwards and forwards in a tray of liquid made red by the light of a photographic dark room.

A face appeared. A face of a young girl smiling with a front tooth missing. Her dress was white and her curly blonde hair was partially covered by a crinkled white veil.

Her face grew larger. It had rosy plump cheeks and glowed angelically. Her eyes were wide and bright with the innocence of youth.

But something was happening. There was something wrong.

The skin began to pale and stretch back and forth. Her eyeballs rolled backwards, turning deathly white and her mouth opened in a soundless scream.

Suddenly her skin was alive, seething and writhing.

Her eyes disintegrated, leaving dark sockets. The flesh was torn from her skull. The face fell back into the red liquid and vanished.

He gasped as a shock of pain cut deeply into his brain like an ice-pick. His back arched wildly and he screamed to the ceiling. His dreams held him prison.

Deeply, he clawed to his sheets. It wasn’t finished yet.

There were faces. Dark faces moved around him. They lunged towards him with the focus of a fish-eyed lens. They laughed and they spat at him.

He rolled in terror under their mocking and taunting. A piece of timber fell across his face and he awoke with a start.

Gagging breathlessly, he gripped his sheets wet with bed sweat. Wheezing and coughing, he put his hands to his face and pushed back his drenched hair.

”Why me?“ His thoughts were infected with remorse and inveterate bitterness.

Staggering into the bathroom, he stood aghast at the mirror looking at the face before him.

The dark eyes stared wildly, set deep in the gaunt face. The hair stood on end, damp and unruly, receding sharply back from the forehead. Gingerly, he felt the scar above his left eyebrow.

”What a mess!“ He immersed himself again into the acid of his thoughts. ”Why is it? When you’re faced with two courses of action. You always choose the wrong one. Always.“

His thumb ground strongly into his brow.     

”You had the choice of girls. You chose Marie. She was happy on your arm when you won the college cricket trophy. We strutted when we were winners. Seeing me starry-eyed, talking love forever and all that shit. Where was she when the stone came through the window?“

His ex-wife left three years ago to live in Perth and he didn’t care if he would never see her again. For someone who had great pride in himself, he hated imperfection and it piqued him to realise it was within himself. How could he have been fooled into caring for a woman like that? The anger was directed more at himself than at her. How could he have weakened?

”And on the night.“ He drew back into his internecine war. ”How many ways home did you have? Why did you choose that way? You can’t change that.“

He opened the bathroom cabinet and reached for a canister of valerian capsules. Cupping water running into his hand, he quaffed a few and the mirror reappeared. 

His dark brown eyes stared back at him, entranced now without emotion or dimension of feeling.

Black Friday had begun early for him.

It was going to be a long night.

8.30 am

The mood was bright and cheery in the Health Department office.

It was true it was Friday the thirteenth, but it was still Friday and the weekend was just around the corner.

One person in particular, slumped at his desk, was not sharing the general exuberance of the office. For Vincent Tomasi, this Friday was very black indeed.     

Kevin Fitch walked down the aisle separating the various desks, carrying a glass of fizzing alka-seltzer.

Placing the glass on the desk next to his friend, he reached into his own shirt pocket to take out a pair of sunglasses. He carefully grabbed the curly hair on the back of Vince’s scalp, lifted his head to place the sunglasses on the end of his nose and slowly pushed his head back onto the desk.

”Thanks.“ His voice was hoarse in empathy with his brain cells, crying for mercy.

He leaned his head back and clamped hands to the sides of his head.

”Oh man. I had this bad dream. I dreamed I was getting off a train. At a station after a long trip. I think it was Italy. An’ I lost my tickets. Gone. Nowhere.“

”Is that all?“

”Because I lost my tickets, they weren’t going to give me my luggage. An’ then I woke up.“

”Yeah, well that’d do it,“ Kevin offered intently.

” I just hope I can get back in that dream. I’ve gotta get my luggage.“ 

It was at that moment, Gerry Gees saw the pair and decided to join in. He stood behind Vince, for a better position at stating the obvious.

”Had a bit too much to drink last night?“

Without flinching or looking up, Vince croaked back.

”Gerry, piss off. Or I will pierce your ears.“

”That’s a bit savage. The Chief was asking about you yesterday.“

Vince and Kevin looked at one another with grave concern.

Kevin turned to Gerry, ”What did you tell him?“

Gerry smiled smugly and went off to annoy someone else.

8.30 am

Amy Wilson woke up that morning, very worried about her neighbour.

The previous evening, a doctor applied disinfectant and bandages to the wound on Mrs Wells’s leg. When most of the blood had been cleaned away from the bruised skin, it appeared that the wound was smaller than originally anticipated.

However, it was not the physical damage done to her that drew Amy’s concern.

Mrs Wells was emotionally shaken and extremely distraught by the ordeal. Amy had to console her many times that evening, in the car and at the doctor’s surgery, as several times she broke down into tears.

She suggested to her that she would have been more than welcome to stay at their house that evening, but the old woman politely declined, opting to lock herself into her own little fortress.

After Mrs Wells slammed the front door behind her that evening, Amy stood on the footpath, listening to all the barrel bolts and chain-locks clank into place.

That morning, she peered over the side fence into Mrs Wells’s property to see if there was any movement, but there was nothing. She walked next door, went up the path and tapped lightly on the front door.

After a few seconds of silence, she tapped again.

She thought to herself, ”Perhaps she’s still asleep. I’ll try later.“

As she turned to walk away, a hoarse feeble voice was heard. The old woman’s face must have been pressed hard up against the back of the door.

”Go .. away .. please.“

Amy faced the closed front door.

”Alison! Are you alright?“

No response.

”Alison!“

Once again, there was silence.

She waited a few more seconds and rushed home to tell her husband. They discussed calling an ambulance, but decided against it.

They decided that the first thing to do, as the doctor had suggested the previous evening, was to contact the Health Department about the dog attack.

Quickly she reached for the telephone.

8.45 am

Vince was sitting in his chair when Karen Kershaw, the Chief’s secretary, approached his desk from behind.

In her hand was a folder with a letter attached that she’d just typed. As she passed by Vince’s desk, she dropped it into his ”IN“ tray but with such considerable thrust that the force sent the tray sliding over the edge, spilling its contents all over the floor.

She kept on walking, without so much as checking her speed, leaving Vince sitting there, wide-eyed, wide-mouthed and infuriated.

”Oi,“ he called out but she kept on walking.

”Oi! You!“

This time she stopped and turned around, looking mildly irritated.

To all the red-blooded males who worked there, Karen was probably the most attractive woman in the Council. She was blue-eyed, slender, golden-haired and in her early twenties.

But what made eligible bachelors think twice about approaching her, was that she was also cursed with a fierce temper.

Grown men had been known to throw away letters that she had just typed up, rather than take typing errors back for her to correct.

Vince, unlike most men of the department, did not find her attractive but rather, for reasons best known to himself, took an instant dislike to her; which she sensed and reacted to.

He stood up and pointed to his tray on the floor. 

”Are you tryin’ to break a land-speed record?“

Picking up the paperwork strewn around his desk, he opened the file she had just delivered.

”An’ look at this. The date on this letter. What’s your story?“

”What’s my story?“ Karen advanced on him. ”Have you seen the pile of typing? We’re up to our ears.“

Vince slapped the letter, ”This is fifteen days.“

”Did you say it was urgent?“

”Everything I do is urgent.“

”And if you wrote in something that resembled English,“

She pulled out of the file Vince’s hand-written letter. It contained passages crossed out and arrows going everywhere marking changes, all in his indecipherable scrawl.

She held it up for all to see.

”This .. I’d expect to see on a kindergarten wall,“ she said sarcastically. ”But, judging by who wrote it. Why am I not surprised?“

Blood rushed to Vince’s face. He made a slight advancement towards her but all movement was halted by a loud and dominant greeting.

”Mr Fitch! Mr Tomasi! How are you?“

”Oh shit,“ quivered Vince, suddenly feeling a turning in his gut.

Karen scampered back to her desk, avoiding the oncoming path of the red-haired giant who was now bearing down on Kevin and Vince.

”Feeling better?“ The Chief’s tone left no doubt that he was extremely unimpressed.

The pair knew instinctively that it would be very foolish to think up a good story, explaining their absence of the previous day. The Chief had that rare quality of being able to talk to you very quietly and politely, and leave you, in no uncertain terms, feeling that he’d just reached inside of you, ripped your heart out and eaten it.  

”You both look a little sun-tanned,“ he enquired, towering over his charges.

”Uh .. Yes, Chief.“ They averted their eyes and mumbled to the carpet.

”It’s good to get some sun. When you’re a bit off-colour.“

He turned to them each in turn but they kept their eyes low.

”Look at me please,“ he said, quietly and firmly. They riveted their red faces to his steel blue gaze. ”Do we understand each other?“

”Yes, Chief,“ they chimed.    

”Good. Enough said.“

The Chief passed a slip of paper to Vince.

”I’ve got a job for both of you. Do you know Lindisfarne Lodge?“

”That’s a boarding house for the poor and homeless out woop-woop somewhere, isn’t it?“ Kevin scratched his head, ”Arthur Pauley owns that.“

”In fact the Mayor owns the full twenty hectares of cane field it’s sitting on.“

Indicating the slip of paper, ”This complaint has been passed to us from the Mayor’s office. About the condition of the place. It says the yard is littered, the premises are filthy and there’s a dog fouling the yard. But just be careful with this one. Give me all the details so I can report back.“

”What’s up, Chief?“ asked Vince.

”There’s something not right about this. Just be careful.“

Kevin chipped in cheerfully, ”Chief, it’s us. There’ll be no problems. Trust me.“

”Kevin.“ The Chief put his large right hand on Kevin’s shoulder. ”Leave your joke book behind on this one. And Vince?“

He turned to Vince and eyed the black stubble on his lip and chin.

”There’s an electric shaver in my top drawer. Tidy yourself up please.“

”Sure thing, Chief,“ Vince replied and started to walk away.

”And Vince?“ The Chief’s voice became quietly concerned. ”When you return the shaver, could we have another little talk?“

It had been a topic of slight amusement to some people, but the Chief often worried a little about the level of Vince’s drinking. Whenever he invited Vince for a ”little talk“, they knew it meant he’d be getting a mild admonishment verging on a temperance lecture. In his own words, the Chief didn’t mind what anyone did in their spare time, as long as it didn’t affect their work performance. Vince would often counter, that for him drinking was not the problem; stopping was the problem.

The Chief watched Vince walk away and turned to Kevin, shaking his head.

”The finest two minds that low wages can buy.“

8.45 am

The telephone rang and a hand reached for the receiver.

”James, can you take this?“

”Sure .. James McLaren, can I help you?“

”Can you help me please? My name is Amy Wilson. I’d like to report a nasty dog attack.“

”Sure Mrs Wilson.“ He pulled a pen and pad to him. ”Could I have some details please?“

”My next door neighbour. Mrs Wells. Mrs Alison Wells. I’m very worried about her. The poor dear. She’s not the full quid, if you know what I mean.“

”I think I understand.“

As Amy Wilson recounted the events of the past evening, an argument was raging a few feet away between Karen Kershaw and Vince Tomasi. He pressed the receiver closer to his ear.

”If you come out here, I’ll show you exactly where the dogs are,“ said Amy.

”That’d be the best idea. Is Mrs Wells there with you?“

”She’s locked herself up in her house. The poor thing. She has very strange ways, if you know what I mean.“

James looked at his wrist watch.

”Give me about half an hour. Maybe you and I could have a chat with her?“

”I think that would probably be the best. And your name again, please?“

”McLaren. James McLaren.“

He was now staring at his desk calendar. The bold print ”Friday 13“ loomed back at him and filled his gaze.

9.00 am

”John. Have you got a minute?“

George Butts hovered nervously at the front door of the Chief’s office.

The Chief sat behind his large desk signing letters and without looking up from his writing, responded with forced enthusiasm.

”Of course, George.“

It was probably not the best chemistry for effective management, but the Chief often found it difficult to hide the contempt he held for his Assistant. He saw George as a very weak-willed and obsequious promotion-seeker, with ambitions more pronounced than ability. He viewed George’s steady rise to seniority, which occurred largely through the recommendations of certain members of Council, as an ominous sign of things to come; sensing that the knives were already being sharpened for his own back.

The Chief managed to keep a working relationship with him largely by barring him from serious decision-making and confining him to handle most of the administrative paperwork.

”About my proposal. The flashing neon arrow,“ said George, rubbing his sweaty palms. ”To direct people to the lawn cemetery at night. Did you manage to discuss it with Health Committee on Wednesday?“

”I certainly did,“ replied the Chief with a nod as he kept on writing.

”Really,“ George reacted with restrained eagerness. ”You mentioned my recommendation. That the shape of a crucifix be incorporated in the arrow?“

”Yes, I did“, the Chief responded dryly.

”And?“

”We were going to give an award.“

”Really?“ George’s eyes lit up with unabashed excitement. He sprang into the room and stood jittering with glee.

”Yes.“ The Chief put his pen down and looked at his Assistant impassively. ”We were going to give an award to Councillor Bob Steele for the most creative use of the word ”dropkick“.“

He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

”Up until that meeting, I’d never heard it used in that context.“

Quietly, he revelled in his Assistant’s red faced discomfort.

”And Councillor Fahour hoped Christians weren’t the only ones who could die. But she didn’t want to discourage you.“

The Chief returned to signing letters.

”George, I told you last week that I was going to Adelaide next week, didn’t I? For the waste management conference.“

”Yes, you did.“ George beamed. The thought of being in control for a few days thrilled him, but he fidgeted uneasily.

”John,“ he said, feeling agitated. ”That chair you’re sitting in. It may have been delivered to your office by mistake.“

”No, there’s no mistake,“ responded the Chief unemotionally. ”The chair was delivered to your office but, you see ..“ He looked up from his paperwork, ”I took it.“

”You what?“

”It’s like this,“ continued the Chief in a conciliatory lilt. ”I’m an old-fashioned guy. And a great believer in hierarchy, y’ know. The boss should have the biggest car and the boss should have the biggest office and desk. So when I saw the delivery man taking the chair to your office, I saw it was better than mine. So I told him to put it here. I mean ..“ He waved his hands in a placatory gesture, ”You understand, don’t you? Think of staff morale.“

At that moment, Vince appeared at the doorway, returning the electric shaver he had borrowed.

Seeing the shaver, George turned onto Vince, ”Hey, where’d you get that?“

Vince replied innocently, ”I’m just returning it to the Chief.“

”Oh .. Well I had one just like it. Hey!“

He grabbed Vince’s hand holding the item and turned it over.

”It’s got my initials on it!“ He pointed to an engraved G.B. on the handle.

Vince paused and exchanged a collusive glance with the Chief.

”I thought this was yours, Chief. Y’ know, from that presentation from the Angora Society.“ He showed the shaver in even movements to George, ”You can’t go at a goat with wide blades. Mate, you need something electric. But those guys were great. Strange humour though.“ Holding the G.B. up to George,  ”Goat Busting.“

Without expression, they both looked at George who was in a quandary. His sweaty face and beady eyes darted back and forth from the Chief to Vince.

”Well ..“ He stumbled, flustered and tongue-tied, ”D’ you mind if I borrow it?“

”Why of course you can.“ The Chief stood up and came around the desk to his Assistant and placed his hand on his shoulder. He took the shaver from Vince’s hand.

”Vince, can’t you look after my stuff? This is filthy.“ He quietly scolded Vince and handed the shaver to George.

”If you could just give it a little clean before you return it, George. I’d really appreciate that.“

George took it and looking slightly flushed and dismayed, waddled out of the office.

The Chief looked at Vince for a second, then moved to his desk and opened the drawer. He took out a jar of jelly beans, removed the lid and offered its contents to Vince.

”Just leave the red ones.“

9.00 am

On his way to his appointment in Leggett Street, James chose to drive via the road abounded by the wooded green of Callard Park. After wiping his brow, he took a quick glance at his watch.

It was nine o’clock and, much to his dismay, the air was already heavy and oppressive.

The road wound before him through fields of gums with their peeled white bark and branches like stark fingers stretched skyward. Tall dark hoop pines arrowed the sky which was partly patchwork with blue, but mainly filled with clouds; some white, some grey and rain-laden.

A sudden sight to his right in the distance caught his attention. It took focus and it shocked him.

He quickly pulled his car to the side of the road and brought its engine to a halt.

A sickening turn went through his stomach as he gazed up the hill to his right. Leaving his vehicle, he walked up the hill and stood before the object of his disgust.

It was an Anzac memorial statue; striped with red spray paint  and standing amid vases, smashed and strewn by vandals.

The statue was that of a soldier astride a horse. The head of the horseman was severed and lay shattered on the grass beside the statue. Unintelligible slogans were scrawled on the base.

James pulled out his mobile to call through the find to the city park’s management.

He took in the images, not knowing that they were later to come back and haunt him.

9.05 am

The telephone rang and a hand fumbled for the receiver.

”Kevin .. Front counter, please.“

”OK.“

Kevin rubbed his forehead gingerly as his head still throbbed a little after the previous evening.

He walked from his desk and as he turned at the doorway leading to the enquiries counter, he viewed the face of a man jittering as if on the verge of a fit.

”There you are. You take your time, don’t you? I’m a busy man.“ He waved a piece of paper in front of him. ”What’s this?“

His eyes were blue and blood-shot and stood out wildly as if spring-loaded. And the normally pasty and pale expression was blood-red as was his balding pate.

”Mr Smith, are you OK?“ Kevin approached him and spoke calmly, ”I can get you some water?“

Bernie Smith was a local food proprietor who ran a donut shop in Callard called the ”Crusty-O“. In work circles, he preferred to be affectionately known as the ”Prince of Donuts“. But Kevin, who had the unenviable task of inspecting his shop, could have suggested some more colourful nicknames.

”Don’t get smart with me!“ Bernie snapped. ”What’s this?“ he repeated, flapping the piece of paper before him.

Kevin arrested the letter from its shaking hand.

”I don’t know why you’re getting so upset. This is only a list of five small items.“

The thing that Kevin couldn’t understand, was that apart from the five minor items he found, the ”Crusty-O“ kitchen was excellent. The trouble lay with its proprietor, the English-born Mr Smith, who, though only short in size, had an arrogance and mouth which far outweighed his stature.

To take a point to the extreme, if you told him something was black and quite evidently black, he would argue and argue with you that it was white. He could not be told, he could not be advised and he could not be made to admit that he was in any way wrong.

So, as Kevin was finding out, to suggest to him that five things were defective with his kitchen was tantamount to a declaration of war.

”You barge into my shop. Without so much as the decency of arranging an appointment. You sneak around like a thief in the night. You harass my staff like a storm-trooper. And then I get this,“ slapping the letter. ”Accusing my shop of being a doss-house.“

Kevin gazed warily into the vibrating blue eyeballs.

”Look, calm down, Mr Smith. Let’s look at this.“ He picked the letter up and shared it for them both to read.

”Five items. Three minor cleaning, see. Clean under a chest freezer. Clean the flexible gas connections to a stove. Wipe down an exhaust canopy. Hardly life threatening. And here. Two minor structurals. Replace some laminate strips to a shelf and replace rubber door seals to an upright fridge. Who’s accusing you of a doss-house?“

”You are.“

”What? It’s standard maintenance. Go claim it on tax.“

”You sneak around. Sneak around. Wait till I’m gone. Then pounce on my staff and harass them.“

”Harass?“ Kevin could feel his head really throbbing. ”Your staff ‘re some of the politest people I’ve met. They’re in the hospitality industry. You should join it some day.“

Bernie was almost blue with a choking fit.

”Don’t you talk that way to me. I run a good business. I run a good business and you send me this!“

He slammed his open palm on top of the letter resting on the counter top. The noise reverberated around the reception area.

”Bureaucrat!“

Kevin could only see a mouth now.

”Under-worked and overpaid.“

His head was throbbing. And there was a mouth.

”You call my shop a doss-house!“

The mouth was spitting. There was spit and bad teeth.

”You don’t pick on the shambles of a bakery up the road.“

The wet lips were huge now.

”No, it’s plain to see. It’s a rule for one and not for the other. You mark my words.“

The throbbing was exploding.

”It’s as plain as the nose on my face!“

And he exploded. Kevin slammed his open palm down on the letter between them.

”You know what’s plain around here?“ Kevin snapped back. ”You know what’s plain? You are a dickhead!“

Bernie recoiled, shocked into breathlessness. His mouth and eyes open like a stunned groper.

Pointing at him, Kevin continued to let his mouth bypass his brain.

”Mate, I rest easy at night, y’ know. Knowing that I’ll be here until I retire, until I resign or until I’m sacked. But you’ll be a dickhead for the rest of your life.“

The words hit Bernie like a body-blow. Quickly, he regained what was for him, his normal red complexion of rage.

”I’ll have you.“ He began walking away. ”You’re finished.“

Kevin watched him go and looked around him. During the whole incident, there were about five people in his vicinity and they were now all scowling at him.

Feeling embarrassed, he walked back into the main office area.

”You didn’t handle that well,“ he thought. ”You’ve opened your mouth to change feet .. Again.“ 

9.20 am

Standing in front of the white door of Alison Wells’s house, James tapped lightly and tried to peer through the stained white window adjacent to the doorway.

Amy Wilson stood with her arms folded a few steps behind, watching patiently. Two minutes of door knocking had passed with no response.

”Are you sure she’s in there?“ James peered as best he could through the window.

”Oh, she’s in there all right.“ Amy tapped her fingers on her elbow. ”She’s a stubborn old coot.“

”Is that right?“ James said, half to himself and half into the window in front of him. ”Are you stubborn, Mrs Wells?“

No response.

He was almost ready to give up when he heard a gentle scratching on the other side of the door. The rattle and clatter of locks and chains followed.

The door opened slightly, still held secure by a single chain. After a few seconds, an eyeball appeared, blinking suspiciously on to the outside world.

”Who ‘re you?“ demanded the old woman.

James smiled reassuringly.

”My name’s James McLaren. I’m from the Health Department. Mrs Wells, I’d just like to have a talk with you, if I may?“

”About what?“ she replied tersely.

”About what happened last night,“ he said.

Alison blinked and remained silent.

With the most disarming smile he could conjure, James continued, ”I only just want to have a chat. Please.“

She paused momentarily, still peering and blinking her eyeball.

The door closed quickly and the last chain was unfastened. Slowly it reopened and she stood and beckoned James to enter.

Once through the door, he turned and looked around the dimly lit hallway. The musty air smelt as if it hadn’t been displaced in years.

Amy Wilson made a move to enter as well, but was greeted by a stern frown and a door suddenly slamming in her face.

She stood dumbfounded.

”Well of all the .. That’s gratitude for you.“

9.20 am

For a man who was normally buoyant, optimistic and full of confidence, Kevin sat at his desk looking very worried.

His fears were to be confirmed as he saw the awesome frame of the Chief striding towards him.

He stopped in front of Kevin’s desk, bent over and spoke quietly and firmly, ”Kevin. I’m hearing this story. Something about Bernie Smith’s head. That’s not true, is it?“

Kevin blushed with embarrassment and choked for a suitable answer.

”Well ..“

”No, I didn’t think it was,“ continued the Chief, sensing the discomfort of his charge.

He knew that Kevin would never intentionally lie to him and, by the same token, he knew that Kevin would never intentionally tell him the truth.

The truth to Kevin was a pineapple; he would grasp it by its spikes and machete it into a form that was sweet and easy to swallow. Just one look at Kevin’s face and the Chief knew he didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

”Just remember though,“ said the Chief, with endearing firmness. ”The Prince of Donuts may have modelled his product on his mouth. But he’s also the campaign manager for Lance Tapp. Anything that rocks the boat, could make it difficult,“ he pointed to himself, ”for us all. If you get the drift.“

”Yes, I get the drift,“ replied Kevin sheepishly.

”Good. Now why aren’t you and Vince gone?“

He viewed his wrist watch, ”I’ve got to be upstairs for Council all morning. I’ll be back by lunch.“

Kevin grabbed some folders as the Chief strode away.

”Let me know exactly what you find. And Kevin. Just watch out on this one.“   

As he bent his head between his legs to pick out a carry bag under the desk, Kevin suddenly sensed someone’s presence shadow over him, casting a sudorific aura.

”Could I see you for a second?“ George Butts stated tersely and set off waddling down the aisle.

Kevin stood and followed him, and instead of heading for the Assistant’s office, he found they were veering towards the Chief’s office.

They entered and there standing at the far end of the office was Bernie Smith, his bald head glowing like a large red egg. George closed the door behind him.

”That’s him.“ Bernie jumped to his feet.

Seated next to him was the tall lanky figure of Councillor Lance Tapp,  reclining elegantly back in his chair with his hands crossed in his lap.

He stared at Kevin reproachfully, his head still, as if not to disturb his luxuriant black curly hair.

George proceeded to move behind the Chief’s desk and sat down.

”Sit down, Mr Fitch,“ he directed, pointing to a chair in front, central to their scornful glare.

As Kevin nervously took his seat, George adjusted his glasses and folded his hands on the desk top.

”I have reason to believe that you have caused Mr Smith here, a grave injustice. Wouldn’t you see it along those lines, Councillor Tapp?“

He glanced in earnest at the seated figure. Lance Tapp remained silent, staring stonily at Kevin.

Bernie took advantage of this respite and threw his hands into the air with theatrical vigour.

”I will not be spoken to like that! I am a citizen and a rate-payer and a business man of high regard. My premises are impeccable. I will not be harassed by this man!“

George turned sternly to Kevin and added primly, ”Well? What‘ve you got to say to that?“  

Tapp swung his chair around, fingers crossed in his lap, as if indulging in a fireside chat.

”Mr Fitch, do you know who this man is?“ He indicated in the direction of Bernie.

Nervously staring at the Councillor and his campaign manager in turn, Kevin sat there silently.

”I think you were asked a question?“ said George. He stared at Kevin grimly, his hands folded on the desk.

It was at that moment, the office door burst open.

Standing there, filling the door space, was six foot four of red-faced Irish, boiling in controlled rage.

Panic-stricken, George sprang up from his chair and his hand flicked a jar of pencils on the desk, sending them flying to the floor.

Kevin turned to the Chief. He had never seen him so furious before. His teeth were bared, his eyes were wild and from where he sat a few paces away, he could swear he heard blood pulse through his ears.

”What’s going on, George?“ he addressed his shaking Assistant quietly.

”Well .. Well I ..“ George stood with his hands fidgeting uncontrollably at his sides.

The Chief drew breath, expanding his chest, bringing stress to his shirt’s upper buttons. He stood aside from the doorway and with a motion of his head, indicated to George to leave the office. George obliged by scampering out with great haste.

He turned to Kevin and repeated the motion and Kevin quickly followed.

The Chief closed the door after him and turned to stare fiercely at Lance and Bernie; the latter looking noticeably timid, decided to sit down next to his friend.          

”Gentlemen.“ The Chief spoke quietly and intensely. He moved to stand behind his desk. ”I can understand how you must feel. But there ‘re ways of going about things.“

He leaned on his desk top, pressing down his knuckles till they turned white.

”But while I’m in charge here, there‘ll be no witch-hunting. If there are any butts to be kicked, I will kick them. But I will not condone brow-beating. I will not condone terror tactics. And I will not have my office turned into a kangaroo court. Do I make myself clear?“

Lance Tapp gathered his courage and pointed a firm finger at the Chief. 

”Now look here ..“

The Chief raised his hand to silence him and continued.

”Mr Tapp, if Mr Smith wishes to lodge a complaint, he may do so. But he must address me.“

With an agitated movement, Bernie stood up. His complexion was much paler and his head shone like the plastic pate of a circus clown.

”He called me a dickhead.“

The Chief stared at him sternly. ”Did you provoke him?“    

Bernie’s lip jutted out, ”Well .. That’s beside the point. He called me a dickhead.“

The Chief stared at him a few seconds longer and then moved around the desk. He walked to his door and opened it. Three people, who had their ears pressed against the door, scurried away casually.

He looked out into the main working area.

”Karen, could you come here please?“

Turning back into his office, he smiled coldly at Bernie.

”Thank you, Mr Smith. I will look further into the matter for you. And Mr Tapp, ” he looked at Lance, ”There is a full Council meeting upstairs that is waiting for you. Your secretary advised me that you were here.“

Karen Kershaw appeared at the doorway and the Chief turned to her, ”Could you please show Mr Smith the way out?“

He then turned to Lance, ”Mr Tapp, I assume you know your way around.“

The pair filed past the Chief and Lance looked at him indignantly, as if to say that he was not going to forget this incident in a hurry.

After they had left, the Chief leaned out the doorway and called out.

”George?“

A few seconds later, his Assistant stumbled in.

Look .. I can explain ..“

The Chief lifted his hand and silenced him with a stony glance. He pointed to the objects strewn on the floor.

”Pencils, please.“

As the Chief left the office, George went down on bended knees to clean up the mess.

9.35 am

Within the dim light and the stale air of the lounge room, James was made to feel welcome. He had noticed a complete turnaround in Mrs Wells’s attitude since his arrival, changing from hostile to very apologetic and defensive.

Her lounge room was immaculately clean, yet she kept apologising to him for it being so untidy. She insisted on making him a cup of tea and after seeing that he was comfortable on the best sofa in the room, she went to work in her kitchen.

The windows of the lounge were different to those of the rest of the house, as they were only painted on the lower panes. The upper glass was clear, allowing light to pass and be muted by the thin fabric of the curtains.

James let his eyes stray around the room and noticed a photo on the wall opposite him. He stood up and moved to view it closer.

It was a photo of Mrs Wells in her younger days, possibly her mid-twenties. She was dressed in a scout’s uniform and flanked on either side by a group of boys in similar attire. She held a wide beaming smile, in contrast to her troops who looked very grim and sullen.

He smiled and thought to himself that she must have been quite a lady in her time. He imagined her at the head of a long line of scouts, hiking through the forest. She’d be bending her knees under the weight of her back-pack, filling her lungs with fresh air and singing rousing tunes. Always eyes-forward and happy and leading her troops, who’d be kicking and punching one another and firing sling-shots off into the bush.

His mental rambling was interrupted by the reality of the present. She hobbled through the doorway, heavy-laden with a tray of biscuits. Her frame once strong and agile, now frail and bow-legged; her laughing face now a tired and sere leer.

”Let me help you with that, Mrs Wells.“

Rushing over, he took the tray from her hands and placed it down on a centre table.

”I .. I’m sorry I don’t have more.“

”Oh no. This is very generous.“

She bent over the table to serve the tea and he noticed her bandaged right leg.

”That looks like a nasty wound. I’d like to get a photo of that if you don’t mind.“

”Oh, there’s no problem there, really.“ She offered him his tea. ”I don’t know why people are making so much fuss.“

She sat down and James followed suit in the sofa opposite her.

”You shouldn’t say that. Something like that shouldn’t happen to anyone. And what’s to say that a young child could be the next one. No, this is very serious.“

He placed his tea on the table and drew out a notepad and pen.

”If you could tell me as much as you can about the incident, Mrs Wells, I would appreciate it.“

To the best of her ability, Alison Wells relayed the events of the previous afternoon. As she spoke of the actual attack, she began to choke with emotion.

”Mr McLaren, I .. I don’t know what to do. I can’t leave the house.“ Her voice was shaking, ”I can’t leave the house.“

He leaned forward trying to offer some comfort.

”Now, don’t worry. I’ll do my best to help you.“

She looked at him with tired and sad eyes.

”Would you? I .. I know you must be very busy. You must have more important things to do.“

James almost felt moved to tears.

”I’ll do my best.“

9.40 am

After his little incident in the Chief’s office, Kevin felt the wisest thing he could possibly do was make himself scarce around his work-place. He grabbed Vince and headed out to find his car. 

As they drove past a shopping centre on the outskirts of town, Vince, sitting in the passenger seat, pointed to a snack bar in the complex.

”Listen, could we stop in there for a minute? I just have to do a follow-up.“

Kevin dutifully obliged, guiding the vehicle into a car-space in the complex.

”Want me to join you?“ Kevin enquired.

”No. I’ll do this one on my own,“ Vince replied and reached into the back seat to remove a folder from his brief-case.

Kevin sensed his friend bracing himself for a possible argument. ”Are y’ goin’ to put the boot in?“

”We’ll see.“ Vince alighted from the vehicle and walked to the snack bar.

”Fran’s Snacks“ was a small takeaway premises doing a modest trade with local workers and shoppers passing by. It was located in an area of higher profile fast food restaurants so it often found itself struggling hard to survive.

The proprietress, Francesca Curillo, was wiping down her tables and chairs on the cement walkway at the front of her premises, as Vince approached her.

She was short and squat with plump facial features and black hair drawn severely into a bun at the rear of her head. She wore a black dress draped prudently well below the knees, which Vince thought to be extremely impractical in the hot summer.

Mrs Curillo viewed Vince’s arrival, without the slightest sign of hospitality.

”Mrs Curillo,“ Vince’s voice was tempered with an official tone. ”How ‘re you today?“

”Don’t ask,“ she shouted back, lifting clenched fingers before her in a gesture of emphasis. ”You wouldn’t want to know.“

Vince reeled back slightly. It was good to get the conversation off on the right foot.

She waved Vince to have full run of her shop, to which he reluctantly obliged. With Mrs Curillo close on his heel, he walked into the kitchen and with one glance, knew that none of the cleaning work, he had asked to be done two days ago, had been carried out.

He bent down to look under the fryers and saw the dried grease, built up over a few weeks, still lying on the floor. Grease was also smeared in trails down the stainless-steel backing on the wall behind and hung like stalactites off the gas connections under the stoves.

He moved to look around the upright refrigerator and saw dirt still lying around the base. Bending down, he put his hands in a cluster of black spots on the floor, releasing the pungent smell of crushed ants.

”Mrs Curillo, this is disgusting.“

”What do you mean?“ she shouted, her clenched fingers waving before her in protest. ”You should have seen this place before I took it over. Where were you then? It was a peeg-sty. For days I spent cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. So don’t you talk to me about .. dees-gusting!“

Vince opened the refrigerator door and saw pools of dripped blood still laying where he saw them the previous day. The fridge was a relic; the area around the element was completely iced over and looked more like the wall of an igloo. He moved some of the contents around inside and found a jar which he looked at and couldn’t work out if it contained something white growing in something green or vice versa.

He recoiled in horror.

”What .. What ‘re you growing in this fridge?“ Vince kept looking inside at the contents, waiting for something to move.

”Is this a science project?“

”What do you mean? What’s wrong?“ Mrs Curillo reached into the refrigerator and put her hand on a thawed piece of steak on a dish. ”Everything’s cold! What’s wrong?“

Vince looked on in stunned amazement.

”I .. I don’t believe you just did that!“

He pulled her hand out of the refrigerator and closed the door.

”What did I tell you, Mrs Curillo? Cross-contamination. What did I tell you?“

She moved away to wash her hands in the sink.

”Eh! You tell me one thing. The one before you tells me another.“ She wiped her hands on her dress front and raised her clenched fingers to him again. You know what you people are? You’re inconsistent. Incon-sees-tent!“

”Alright,“ Vince raised his voice an