The Burning Boy
by
Bryon Williams
Copyright Bryon Williams 2010
Smashwords Edition
First published by Brymar Drama Workshop
bwilliams@ngvemail.com
Subject: Crime – thriller – action adventure
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by photocopying or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
The author asserts all moral rights.
Copyright Cover Design – Bryon Williams and Helen Morgan
About the Author
Bryon Williams, ex-actor, script writer, stage and television producer and director, and recently turned novelist, is now settled on the beautiful Gold Coast of Queensland, Australia. His previous novels, The Grumpy Old Withered of Oz, a comedic semi-autobiographical book about the frustrations of his life as a carer in the not-so-fast lane of the Zzzzzzzzz Generation, and The Twilight Escort Agency, an hilarious and bawdy look at a mythical escort agency for the ‘more mature’ client, were published in 2009 and enjoyed a very successful launch and reader response, as has his third novel, the whimsical fantasy Code Name: Millicent – The Cat Intelligence Agent Who Came Out of the Cold. In a completely different style, this was followed by a thought-provoking metaphysical romance, The Tourist from the Light, promoting an alternative philosophical view of life which challenges the thinking of mankind.
Also by Bryon Williams
The Grumpy Old Withered of Oz
The Twilight Escort Agency
Both published by Zeus Publications
http://www.zeus-publications.com
Code Name Millicent: The Cat Intelligence Agent Who Came Out of the Cold
The Tourist from the Light
Published by Brymar Drama Workshop bwilliams@ngvemail.com
Dedication
For my son Ben and all the other sons and daughters whom I pray will never again be forced to take up arms to defend their freedom.
Introduction
The sun was just beginning to set behind the distant mountains, casting a reddish golden glow and purple shadows over the valleys of the surrounding countryside. There was a sense of quiet stillness and uninterrupted peace.
Two elderly men stood silently, heads bowed, deep in thought before the concrete effigy of an unknown soldier. The inscription on the plinth read, ‘In memory of the brave men and women who paid the ultimate sacrifice for their country in the line of duty.’
Beneath, the record of previous conflicts was inscribed, ‘Vietnam War – 1962-1975.’ And below the line, ‘At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we shall remember them,’ someone had roughly painted a line of black graffiti on the ancient, weatherbeaten memorial: ‘And all those who survived.’
The younger of the two men, a slightly balding, plump little Vietnamese man with a kindly face, placed his hand on the arm of his Australian friend and whispered, ‘It’s time to go, Steve.’
Steve, despite the onset of old age, still retained the essence of the now-faded qualities of the strong, attractive young man he once had been. He shook himself from his reverie, nodded and turned. Walking with a slight limp and aided by a cane, he slowly made his way back towards their car.
‘Y’know, Tan,’ Steve said, ‘I think this will be my last time.’
Tan patted his old friend’s shoulder as he opened the passenger door and smiled.
‘What’s the matter, you poor old bastard, not feeling too well? Getting ready for the Pearly Gates, are we?’
Steve bristled as he bent to climb into the passenger seat. ‘I can still give you a whipping, you bloody old power point.’
Tan chuckled as he pushed the door closed, moved around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel.
‘No, I’ve got to let go, Tan,’ Steve continued seriously. ‘This will definitely be the last time.’
‘You said that last year, Steve, and the year before that, and …’
‘Alright, alright,’ Steve interrupted testily, ‘don’t go all oriental on me, just drive.’
On the way home to Port Melbourne, Steve sat silently, hardly noticing the familiar passing scenery. Although he had now determined it was finally time to bury the past, he turned his head and looked across at his old friend and business partner who sat hunched over the wheel, concentrating on the road.
‘Why do you keep coming back, Tan?’
Tan paused and then shrugged in his typical oriental way.
‘Respect … Atonement.’
In his mind’s eye, Steve again saw the handsome, charismatic Vietnamese youth who had saved his life and as is the way of older people, he could not stop his mind wandering back to the distant past when they were young and to the events that had almost destroyed them both.
Chapter 1
It was October 12, 1967, and in the sterile, clinical gymnasium, Steve puffed and strained as he pedalled an exercise bike. Electrodes, cables, headphones and sensors were attached to him, originating from a bank of monitors and dials nearby.
He was now almost thirty, tall, with an impressive muscular build, short, dark, curly hair with early signs of grey beginning to appear. From his determined expression and dark blue eyes it was difficult to read his mood or what he was thinking or feeling; his face was a mask of utter concentration.
Before him was a screen exploding with graphic scenes of war: a horrific audiovisual montage of gruesome sights and amplified sounds of battle: explosions, flames, vicious hand-to-hand combat, bloodied, wounded men, fighting, screaming in agony. Dying. But only an occasional twitch of his eyes and laboured breathing betrayed any reaction.
Intercut with the horror were sudden scenes of sublime peacefulness; soft, misty mountains, calm oceans with dolphins playing, open deserts and rolling landscapes, children running and laughing along a golden beach: quiet, gentle scenes.
Steve’s face barely reflected the changes in the scenes before him. His eyes remained resolute but his breathing was heavy with beads of sweat gathering into tributaries that flowed down his straining, glistening arm, chest and neck muscles, soaking into his pale grey tracksuit, spreading into dark patches of perspiration stains.
He was undergoing what his therapist had devised as an ‘emotional flooding process’; the theory being if the mind was regularly flooded with disturbing images and contrasted with pleasant images, it would eventually become desensitised to the disturbing images and able to accept the contrasts more readily, thereby causing them to lose, lessen or level out any emotional impact. It was part of a fairly new and experimental treatment designed for returned Vietnam veterans who were suffering from Post Trauma Stress Syndrome, as it was then described. In the first two world wars it was known as ‘shell shock’ or ‘battle fatigue’ and mostly unsuccessfully treated with drugs, rest and recuperation. Many never fully recovered.
Not that Steve was actually a returned soldier. He had been a young, contracted news cameraman but his eagerness to record the real experience of combat took him close to the front line of the action many times and he had witnessed horrors he had never imagined possible: the horrors that man was capable of committing against his fellow man. His mind had eventually paid the price.
Dr Robert Heston PhD, experimenting and specialising in Neurological Rehabilitation, stood watching the gauges and dials and taking notes of the readings. He was in his early thirties, from a wealthy background, traditionally good looking, tall, well built, with straight blonde hair expensively fashioned in the style of the seventies. A white technician’s lab coat covered his dark grey Giotto suit.
Heston’s particular interest lay in the fairly new study of Post Trauma Stress and it occupied his thinking almost to the exclusion of anything else. His manner was professional, but clinical and lacking any real warmth. He switched off the projector and amplifier.
‘Alright, Steve, that’s enough for today. A half-hour session on the punching bag and that should do you. Then wind down, have your shower and get changed. I’ll see you in the office.’
He walked to Steve and began disconnecting the leads. Steve slowed his pedalling, allowing his system to cool down and unwind.
‘Well, Doc, how did I do today?’
‘Not bad, not bad at all,’ Heston replied absently while studying the chart.
When the doctor had left, Steve fiercely pounded the punching bag that was plastered with hand-written signs that read, ‘Fear!’ ‘Injustice!’ ‘Murderers!’ ‘War!’ and the like, with powerful blows that caused him to sweat even more profusely. After the allocated time, he stopped punching but his breathing rate remained high for a couple of minutes until he purposely controlled it with deep intercostal diaphragmatic breathing and steadfastly brought it back to normal.
The steaming hot shower helped to blast the tension from Steve’s body. His reflection in the shower room mirror showed heavy scarring on his back, left shoulder, rump and leg. Turning off the water, he grabbed a nearby towel and began briskly rubbing himself down. He dressed in a pair of light grey slacks, a white short-sleeved cotton shirt and slip-on shoes, stuffed his discarded track suit into his sports bag and, with a slight limp, made his way to Heston’s office.
He knocked and entered to find Heston sitting behind his desk, writing up his notes on the session.
Steve smiled and said, ‘So, Doc, how am I feeling?’
Heston looked up and returned the smile. ‘You tell me.’
‘Never better.’
‘Well, I’d go along with that diagnosis,’ Heston agreed.
Steve allowed himself an even bigger smile. ‘It’s good to have a second opinion.’
He sat in the chair opposite Heston, who referred to Steve’s file.
‘Pretty constant reaction readings over the last five weeks … Not bad.’
‘Does that mean I’m out of the woods?’
Heston shrugged, not prepared to commit himself. ‘Let’s say it looks promising … very promising. How are things going generally? Any depression or anxiety attacks?’
Steve got up, moved to the window and looked out at the early spring Melbourne morning. The mist had lifted with the promise of a fine, warm day.
‘Nothing major.’
‘Headaches?’
Steve shook his head.
‘Temper explosions? Aggression?’
Another negative response.
‘Any trouble concentrating or remembering things?’
There was a pause while Steve turned to look at him blankly.
‘What? Sorry, did you say something?’
Heston smiled and Steve laughed at his own gag.
‘What about the nightmares?’
The smile disappeared from Steve’s face.
‘Occasionally; not as often as before.’
‘Not a big problem?’ Heston asked.
Another pause and Steve replied, ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’
‘Enough pills?’
Steve nodded as Heston wrote final notes on the file.
‘Good. Well, I’d say most of it’s in your hands now. But keep up your group therapy sessions. Barring any catastrophe, you should go from strength to strength.’ Heston smiled professionally without it quite appearing too warm and said, ‘I’d say you’re on your way home, mate.’
Steve grinned back, hardly able to contain his elation.
‘You still want me back next week?’
Heston considered for a moment. ‘Let’s leave it for a month, see how you go. But if you have any doubts, any problems, call me.’
Steve stood and shook Heston’s hand vigorously and gratefully. ‘Thanks, Doc.’
As Steve walked to the door, Heston asked, ‘How’s Sally?’
Another grin as Steve turned and replied, ‘Wonderful. You know, Doc, I don’t want to downgrade your treatment but if it hadn’t been for Sally I think the answers to those questions you just asked me might’ve been a lot different. It’s funny but when I first met her at that party of yours, I thought she was the original Ice Lady, way out of my class. And when she started showing a bit of interest I thought she might have been slumming – you know, out for a bit of rough trade on the side just for a giggle. Well, you know how I was then, Doc; I couldn’t have followed through even if I’d wanted to.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘But now …’ the boyish grin again, ‘it’s just wonderful. She’s a very special lady.’
Heston made another note and allowed himself an almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction as Steve left the office.
Chapter 2
The SS Luger, an old, disreputable-looking, rust-streaked cargo ship, ploughed its way through the international waters of the Southern Indian Ocean. It was travelling just outside what was then the twelve-mile limit of the Australian continent, which could now be vaguely seen on the dazzling, blue, sunlit horizon. On board, the crew went about their business but along the port-side rails, a row of rather poorly dressed passengers pointed and chattered excitedly as they gazed out towards the distant landfall. Their Asian faces betrayed their nervousness, anticipation and relief, tinged with fear of the unknown.
Towards the end of the line, an elderly Vietnamese couple, Nguyen Diem and his very frail-seeming wife, Cuc, stood quietly, not joining in with the excitement. There were tears in Diem’s eyes. His wife noticed them and squeezed his hand. Embarrassed at being caught showing his emotion, he quickly wiped the tears away with the sleeve of his well-worn jacket.
She merely smiled and reassuringly stroked his arm.
‘Our son will be so surprised to see us.’
On the bridge, Captain Jonas looked out to sea through his binoculars while the ship’s mate, Ben Brandwell stood beside him, watching the refugees with a cynical smile.
‘Look at ’em,’ he sneered. ‘They can smell it … almost taste it.’
But Captain Jonas was watching something up forward. He handed Brandwell the binoculars. ‘We’ve got company.’
Brandwell took the glasses and followed Jonas’ directions. In the distance, what appeared to be a Royal Australian Navy River Class launch was approaching. Jonas moved to the ship’s tannoy microphone, flicked the switch and announced, ‘Now hear this. This is Captain Jonas speaking. A Royal Australian Navy patrol boat is approaching off the port side. There is no need to panic. We are still in international waters and they have no jurisdiction. They’ll probably take a look at us and pass on by. All passengers will move back away from the rails until they pass. If they do request to board, keep calm and return below. I repeat, there is no need to panic.’
Having Jonas’ words translated by several of the refugees in the queue, his instruction not to panic of course was completely ignored and the refugees began to scatter away from the railings, chattering even louder in fear. At that moment a crew member arrived on the bridge with a radio message. He handed it to Jonas who quickly read it, looked up at the crewman and nodded. ‘Confirm. Permission granted.’ The crewman retreated from the bridge as Jonas and Brandwell shared a conspiratorial look.
With a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders as they moved well back from the rail, Diem whispered, ‘We must not worry. The captain assured us that their organisation would look after us. We have their guarantee.’
But his wife was not quite as gullible. ‘Many of our people have been tricked with false promises.’
To which he replied, ‘We have paid them a great deal of money. And they appeared quite eager for us to join the group. I am sure they will honour their contract.’
He sounded more confident than he really was, trying to reassure his wife’s concern.
‘Besides, if things come to the worst, we will appeal to the Australian Government. You are ill. You need treatment.’
Cuc looked at him sadly and gently reminded him, ‘They refused us before.’
Diem tried not to show his fear and patted her arm. ‘We were not this close.’
Gently he took her by the arm and led her off to where the patrol boat was beginning to come alongside. She was very weak and needed his support.
The skipper of the patrol boat, Captain Bryce, a rugged, middle-aged naval type, accompanied by a couple of uniformed crewmen, boarded, making their way up the ladder and arriving on deck just as Captain Jonas and Brandwell joined them.
Jonas’ manner was friendly and relaxed while Bryce appeared cordial, but stern and official, and the inscrutable Brandwell stood nearby watching with cold, hard eyes.
Jonas stepped up to Bryce, extending his hand and smiling warmly.
‘Welcome aboard. I’m Captain Jonas and this is my mate, Mr Brandwell.’
The ship’s mate nodded.
Bryce introduced himself. ‘Captain Bryce, Royal Australian Navy.’
‘This is an unexpected pleasure, Captain,’ Jonas smiled. ‘I mean, we are still in international waters, so how can I help you?’
Bryce looked around, taking particular note of an obvious group of bedraggled refugees whose curiosity had kept them on the deck.
‘Yes, you are still in international waters, Captain – just.’
He walked over to take a closer look at the decidedly uncomfortable group of refugees and turned back to Jonas with a smirk.
‘Part of your crew, Captain?’
‘Yes,’ replied Jonas, attempting to smile disarmingly.
Bryce studied the group carefully and they became very quiet and tense under his gaze.
‘Mixed lot,’ Bryce said as his casual scrutiny fell on Diem and Cuc. ‘And who would these two be, the cabin boy and the laundry lady?’
Jonas shrugged and gave an amused grin. ‘You gotta take what you can get these days.’
Bryce wandered back to confront Jonas. ‘And no doubt they’ve all got their appropriate papers?’
Jonas smiled, again he hoped disarmingly. ‘Well, that could be a bit of a problem.’
Jonas led Bryce to one side but their conversation could still be overheard. Diem translated quietly for the other refugees as Jonas continued in a reasonable tone to Bryce.
‘Captain, these people are genuine refugees and as such …’
But Bryce interrupted him. ‘Wrong, Captain, the Australian Immigration Department decides if they are genuine refugees, not you – or me.’
He turned to the group and addressed them, raising his voice a little, making sure he would be heard and understood.
‘If you intend entering Australian waters, you will be boarded by members of the Immigration Department who will process your papers. If you fail the Department’s medical examination, or if you are suspected of having criminal connections of any kind, or you can’t convince the Department that you would be in personal danger if you return to your country of origin,’ he shook his head hopelessly, ‘you haven’t got a hope in hell of getting in.’
‘What would happen to us?’ Diem called out.
Bryce shrugged. ‘I don’t really care. As long as you don’t try to land on Australian soil.’
‘We were actually planning to sail on to New Zealand,’ Jonas quickly interceded. ‘Their refugee laws are a bit more tolerant.’
Bryce smiled cynically, ‘You think so?’
The refugees began to noisily babble their objections but Bryce ignored them and turned abruptly to Jonas.
‘Now, Captain, I’d like you to make a space available for me to carry out preliminary interviews with these people.’
Jonas nodded reluctantly and turned to Brandwell. ‘Mr Brandwell, have the passengers line up outside the mess.’
Brandwell returned the nod and signalling a couple of crewmen standing by, moved towards the refugees who continued jabbering in protest, as Jonas escorted Bryce back along the deck. When they were out of earshot, out of the corner of his mouth Bryce said, ‘How’d I go?’
Jonas gave a nasty smirk. ‘Scared ’em shitless – as usual.’
*
Sally Grimes entered the rather dilapidated old building that housed the Brunswick Migrant Advisory Service and made her way down the corridor to her office. She was a remarkably attractive girl in her late twenties, slim, rather tall with short, dark hair, tinted auburn, and blue eyes that at first gave the impression of a very serious, business-like lady but could suddenly change to reveal the playfulness and humour beneath with people she knew and liked.
Dressed in a smart, tailored, navy blue suit with a white, ruffle-necked shirt underneath, she walked purposefully towards her office, nodding and greeting a few of the migrants she recognised sitting and waiting in the corridor. She opened the door leading to the reception desk, entered, and warmly acknowledged Glynnis, the receptionist.
‘Hi, I’m back.’
‘So I see,’ replied the pretty, plump, older woman. ‘How’d it go?’
Heading towards her office, Sally turned and pulled a face. ‘It was all a misunderstanding. The manager apologised and said he was appalled the girl thought he was harassing her. He explained the factory is very small and he was just easing his way past her.’
With a cynical look Glynnis replied. ‘Easing? With a hard-on? Seventeen times a day? What’d you say?’
‘I told him if it happened again I’d ease past him and ease his scrotum over his head.’
Glynnis giggled. ‘You didn’t.’
‘Well, maybe not in so many words but I think he got the idea.’
Sally disappeared into her office, went to her desk, opened her handbag, touched up her makeup and checked her hair in her compact mirror. She put her handbag on top of the filing cabinet, turned to her business diary and opened it but before she could continue with her work, the office door opened and Mr Wey, a well-dressed, middle-aged Chinese businessman, poked his head around the door.
‘And how is my favourite social worker this morning?’ he said with a broad, warm smile which always made Sally think of a Buddha. ‘Winning the battle against ethnic oppression?’
Sally returned the smile, obviously pleased to see him.
‘Not entirely, I’m afraid, but we have our little victories. How are you, Mr Wey?’
‘You have a minute, Ms Grimes?’
Sally smiled and stood, pointing to her visitor’s chair. ‘For you, anytime.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, easing himself onto the chair. ‘I thought you would be interested to know that I have taken care of Chen Wing and his family.’
Sally was thrilled. ‘That’s marvellous! How did you manage it?’
Mr Wey shrugged dismissively. ‘It does not matter. The only thing that is important is that they will not have to move out of their home now.’
‘And who’s picking up the tab – again?’ Sally smiled.
He shrugged again, self-deprecatingly. ‘I know how hard it is moving to a strange country. I have done well. It is my duty to pay for my good fortune.’
‘Well, you’re certainly doing that, Mr Wey.’
Changing the subject, he produced a manila folder from his briefcase and pushed it across the desk to her.
‘Now, with regard to the Asian Orientation picnic: there are a couple of points I would like to discuss with you.’
Chapter 3
Jonas and Bryce entered the captain’s cabin. Both men were relaxed and had dropped their official manner. Bryce removed his cap, tossed it on the bunk, and sat in a chair. ‘How was the trip?’
‘Not bad,’ Jonas replied, moving to a cupboard and removing a bottle of Scotch and two glasses which he placed on his desk and began to pour. ‘Bit of excitement one night off the Cocos Islands – fucking band of pirates.’
‘Any damage?’ Bryce asked.
Jonas shrugged. ‘One of the crew was sliced up a bit, woman passenger was raped. Brandwell shot the randy little bastard. Nothing serious.’
Bryce chuckled as Jonas handed him his Scotch.
‘What you’d call a killer of a climax, eh?’
Jonas smiled.
‘We’d doubled the watch as usual but a few slipped through but we got most of ’em before they could get over the rail. One of the boys lobbed a stick of gellie into their junk. Seemed to discourage ’em.’
‘Would tend to,’ Bryce smiled and sipped his Scotch. ‘Well, anything interesting in this batch?’
Jonas shrugged and returned to his desk picking up his drink.
‘Pretty much the same as usual; too long on a waiting list – or not a hope in Hades of qualifying.’
He sat at his desk, removed a folder from the drawer and continued as he skimmed through the contents.
‘A few Viets who made a packet out of graft during the war and had to get out of the country to spend it, a Khmer Rouge killer who got a bit over enthusiastic and blew away his section leader, a dope runner from Thailand …’
‘Well, he’ll come in handy,’ Bryce chuckled.
‘No doubt that was the company’s idea,’ replied Jonas as he handed the folder to Bryce.
‘What about the old couple? Isn’t it a bit unusual transporting nogs that age.’
‘They’re a special case. He speaks fluent English … and, he’s a chemist.’
Bryce nodded his understanding.
‘Useful. What’s wrong with the old lady?’
‘What d’you mean?’ Jonas said, looking up sharply.
‘She looks like she’s gonna cark it any minute.’
Jonas really hadn’t noticed.
‘She’s just old. We’d only get him if she was allowed to tag along. Surprised she’s lasted the distance.’
‘It’s more than age, mate,’ Bryce replied knowingly.
Jonas made a mental note to check this out.
‘I got instructions through Bangkok that they were to be included.’
Bryce drained the last of his drink and stood. ‘I’ll see what I can pick up when I talk to ’em.’
‘What’s the word on the Coastal Protection mob?’ Jonas asked as he downed the last of his drink and joined Bryce at the door.
‘What there is of them,’ he replied caustically. ‘The Naval patrol boats are miles away to the south on exercises. An RAAF coast patrol flew over at first light this morning heading east. They would’ve reported your position.’
‘Well, that’s no problem. Our course is confirmed to Auckland with a cargo of farming equipment as far as the Port Authorities are concerned.’
‘Well then, you’re pretty clear.’
‘Good,’ said Jonas. ‘We can do without company for the next few hours.’
*
A light hearted Steve exited Heston’s building and paused to enjoy the sensation of happiness and relief at being momentarily cleared by his therapist. As he started to walk down the street he passed a flower stall. He stopped, returned to the stall and purchased a large bunch of purple and white lysianthus to take home to Sally.
*
The last few refugees were lined up outside the door of the mess waiting to be interviewed, their faces strained and tense. Some of them were holding whispered conversations. Brandwell and a couple of the crew stood leaning against the bulkhead, watching. Suddenly the mess door was flung open and one of the refugees stormed out muttering curses under his breath. Brandwell and the other crew members straightened and tensed, ready for any trouble. The refugee glared at Brandwell and turned to the others, speaking heatedly in broken English.
‘Hopeless! It is hopeless! None of us will be allowed in!’
Furiously he stepped towards Brandwell who eyed him coldly.
‘This is why we came to you!’ the Asian man bellowed. ‘We have been made fools of! There is no risk, you told us! We were promised safe entry into Australia! Papers, documents, and even work if we wanted it! We paid for it! We paid a lot for it!’
Bryce’s voice was heard from inside the mess, ‘Next.’
Nervously the next man entered the mess but the disgruntled refugee was not finished yet.
‘If we are sent back, word will spread! No one will fall into your trap again! Your organisation will be finished! You hear me?’ he screamed.
Suddenly, and violently, Brandwell erupted into action. He slammed two successive punches hard into the man’s stomach. The Vietnamese gasped, doubled up and crashed to the deck. A couple of the other refugees moved to protect and assist their comrade but Brandwell was too quick for them. He whipped out a .22 calibre hand-gun and covered them, which forced the would-be defenders back against the bulkhead while the other two crewmen stepped in threateningly. The refugees cowered back in fear, leaving their comrade writhing on the deck at Brandwell’s feet.
Chapter 4
A battered old five-tonne truck kangaroo-hopped its way along a country road on the outskirts of Melbourne. It was making terrible grinding noises as it limped along the road emitting clouds of stinking black exhaust fumes. The driver, a wiry Aussie character named Ken Splicer, was in an absolute rage of frustration, cursing the machine as if it were a capricious girlfriend.
‘Come on, come on, Su-Su you evil bitch! I should’ve known you’d pull a swifty on me,’ he yelled as he ground the clutch into another gear. ‘Come on, you bloody slack whore, the first fuckin’ decent country-haulin’ job in three months an’ you have to go and get ya fuckin’ period!’
He thumped his calloused fist on the dashboard and continued the tirade.
‘Well, tough luck baby, ’cause you’re goin’, see?’
He slammed his foot on the clutch and again attempted to change gears but Su-Su was not having any of it.
‘Shit!’ he screamed in frustration.
He stuck his hand out of the driver’s window and beat the side panel of the door in his anger.
‘Get your arse into gear! Come on. Come ON, Su-Su, my little baby,’ he pleaded, changing tack and almost cooing. The clutch crunched into gear and Su-Su jumped forward.
‘Good girl, my sweet-arsed little darlin’.’ Splicer smiled displaying a row of yellowing teeth surrounded by his sun-wrinkled face.
A frustrated car driver roared past blasting his horn.
‘Fuck off!’ Splicer yelled after the fast-receding sedan.
Su-Su continued to whine, shudder and complain as she lumbered down into the outskirts of the city and into the suburbs.
Heading for Elwood and Steve’s garage, Splicer was pulled over by a police patrol car, their blaring siren warning him off the road.
‘Oh, fuck!’ he sighed, as he pulled over and leaned out of the driver’s window.
He pleaded with the two patrolmen saying that he only had to go another couple of blocks to his mate’s garage and then everything would be fine.
He was ordered to follow them to the nearest police station and produce his road-worthy certificate or they threatened to confiscate the truck.
Unashamedly playing the poor, hard-done-by Vietnam vet, who was trying desperately to make a living and support a moaning non-existent wife and five kids, they eventually relented and allowed him to proceed on his way with a stern warning and a ticket requesting him to produce the road-worthy certificate within twenty-four hours. Any further discussion was curtailed by a radio message requesting their attendance at an accident back along the highway.
Eventually, with much cajoling, cursing and swearing that would have made a hooker blush, he was able to encourage Su-Su to give her all and finally arrived at Steve’s garage, where she came to a shuddering stop outside the service bay. Splicer exploded from the driver’s cabin and on the verge of apoplexy, immediately began to thump Su-Su’s hood and bonnet and kick her panels and tyres, as he continued to berate her.
‘You slimy shit!’ (Kick) ‘I oughta drive you straight into the fuckin’ Yarra!’ (Kick) ‘How’d ya like that, doll face?’ (Thump) ‘Muddy water up ya exhaust an’ rust in ya carburettor!’ (Thump)
He stormed around to the front of the truck and glared straight into her radiator. ‘Got scared, didn’t ya? You thought if I did this job I might make enough dough to trade you in? Didn’t ya? … Well, you were bloody right! I’ll get that nice, clean, reliable Merc we saw last week. Hah! How’d ya’ like that, ya’ rusty slut?’
But there was little response from the seriously exhausted vehicle apart from a loud, leaking hiss of air from a rear tyre, which sounded for all the world like a resounding fart of protest.
The young, slim, attractive Tan, now in his early twenties, alerted by the abuse and commotion, appeared out of the workshop and stood, hands on hips, grinning at the not unfamiliar sight of Splicer berating and physically attacking the love of his life. Wiping his hands on an oily rag from his pocket he meandered over to Splicer and asked, reasonably, ‘Woman trouble again, Splicer?’
‘Don’t talk about it, Tan, don’t talk,’ he grumbled. ‘Steve around?’
‘No, he’s out for a while. What’s up?’
‘What’s it look like? Bloody Su-Su’s come down with malaria. She’s shakin’ like a fuckin’ AK47 with hiccups.’
Tan smiled at this not infrequent behaviour of Splicer’s.
‘I’d say she seems to be running a bit of a temperature.’
‘You fuckin’ amaze me,’ Splicer replied drily. ‘Can you have a look at her?’
Tan glanced back into the workshop and grimaced. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Aw, come on, Tan, I’ve gotta present a road-worthy to the cops in twenty-four hours and I’ve got a haulin’ contract out in the country. They’ll fuckin’ cancel me.’
‘I’ve already got an urgent job on the hoist, Ken.’
‘I’ll give ya a hand to put her up on the manual hoist –Come on, mate,’ he cajoled.
Tan rubbed his hand over his jaw, trying to decide if he could somehow accommodate Splicer’s predicament, and finally relented.
‘Okay, we’ll have a look at her but I can’t promise anything.’
Splicer heaved a relieved sigh and made his way over to Su-Su.
‘Right, this is ya last chance, ya cantankerous bitch. Either shape up or it’s el cruncho over the nearest fuckin’ cliff.’
He climbed in the cabin and fruitlessly attempted to get Su-Su’s engine started just as Steve drove into the yard and parked near where Tan was standing. Reaching for the bunch of flowers he’d bought, he got out of the car.
‘You been raiding the cemetery again?’ Tan observed dryly. ‘You’d better give them to the captain of your support group,’ he said, nodding towards Splicer. ‘He needs a roadworthy and he’s got a hauling contract out in the country and Su-Su just died on him.’
‘Typical,’ Steve replied, grinning.
After a pause and trying to sound unconcerned as they made their way to Splicer and Su-Su, Tan asked, ‘And how did you go today?’
Steve replied casually, ‘Not bad.’
He looked at Tan who was obviously desperate for more details, laughed good-naturedly and relented.
‘I don’t have to go back for a month, unless I feel I need to.’
Tan grinned broadly and playfully slapped Steve on the back. Steve laughed again and ruffled Tan’s short, black hair and they began to mock-wrestle like two happy young kids playing in the schoolyard. Eventually Steve draped his arm over Tan’s shoulders and they wandered off towards Su-Su and the irate Splicer.
*
Back in the Luger’s mess, Captain Bryce sat behind a table interviewing a swarthy, shifty-eyed Asian man in his early forties going under the name of Hoang, which in all likelihood was a false name. Hoang was forced to stand facing his seated interrogator to increase Bryce’s dominance over the nervous refugee. Diem sat nearby at the table acting as an interpreter. Hoang looked at Diem suspiciously wondering if the old man was a collaborator or a secret part of the organisation. Bryce added to the tension by making Hoang wait while he finished reading a file which lay open on the table in front of him.
He glanced up, noticing the suspicious look Hoang was giving Diem.
‘Mr Diem is acting as an interpreter.’
‘I do not need an interpreter,’ Hoang shot back. ‘I would speak with you alone.’
Bryce silently appraised the man and then nodded to Diem, who rose and left the room. Bryce calmly returned to appraising the file.
‘No passport and no identity papers, I see.’
‘I told you my village was flattened to the ground. Everything was destroyed.’
‘Oh, what a shame,’ Bryce smirked sarcastically, ‘Surely you’ve had time to replace them?’
‘I did not dare apply. I was on the NLF’s wanted list. I escaped to Cambodia.’
Bryce glanced at the file and calmly added, ‘And then into Thailand where you worked for a dope-running syndicate out of the Golden Triangle. I see you had a little problem with your section head – you blew his head off. You were eventually picked up in a government raid and imprisoned in Bangkok. With outside help and considerable bribery you escaped in 1974.’
Hoang’s eyes widened, stunned by the detail of the file on him.
Bryce looked up, laughed harshly, and continued.
‘With that record, do you think you’d stand a chance of getting into Australia, or any other country if it comes to that?’
There was a long pause while Hoang slyly re-evaluated his position. Eventually, and not surprisingly to Bryce, the wily refugee played his trump card.
‘I have gold,’ he whispered, his eyes narrowing conspiratorially.
There was another pause while Bryce appraised him.
‘How much?’
Hoang opened his shirt revealing a money-belt around his waist. He opened one of the bulging pockets and removed a small ingot which he placed on the table in front of Bryce. Bryce leaned forward to pick it up but the refugee quickly covered it with his hand.
‘There would be more … once I am safely ashore.’
Bryce leaned back in his chair and smiled.
‘Lucky you didn’t fall overboard. With that lot, you would’ve gone straight to the bottom.’
There was another pause while Bryce appeared to be considering the proposition. Then he said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Hoang removed his hand from the nugget and Bryce leaned forward and picked it up.
Meanwhile, Brandwell was still standing over the fallen refugee who huddled on the deck clutching his stomach and groaning. Captain Jonas walked down the ship’s corridor and calmly took in the scene.
‘Trouble, Mr Brandwell?’
‘Not really,’ he replied.
‘Get him back to his bunk.’
Brandwell replaced his gun, roughly pulled the man to his feet and dragged him off down the corridor. Jonas turned his attention to Diem, standing apart from the rest at the end of the line.
‘Where’s your wife, Mr Diem?’
‘She is not feeling well,’ he replied evasively. ‘I will answer all of the questions for both of us.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
Diem tried to cover up his wife’s condition.
‘She is old and tired. The strain has been too much for her. She will be better after she has rested.’
‘I hear she hasn’t been well for a while now?’
Diem smiled nervously.
‘No, the long trip, and now this,’ he raised his hands helplessly, ‘has weakened her … She will be well soon.’
‘Just the same, I think you’d better take her down to the infirmary.’
That in itself was a joke as the infirmary consisted of a grubby cabin with a couple of rusty steel bunks, a table with a bulkhead and door separating it from the other areas of the hold which held the equally filthy hammocks.
Diem became even more nervous but still maintained his impassive Vietnamese smile.
‘I’m sure that will not be necessary.’
Jonas’s face hardened. ‘I think it is. I’ll send Mr Brandwell down to give you a hand.’
‘But, Captain …’
Jonas’ look stopped him from continuing.
‘It’s not a request, Mr Diem.’
Having made his point, Jonas walked off down the corridor.
Chapter 5
Steve’s car pulled to the kerb outside the Brunswick Migrant Services building just as Sally was exiting through the front door onto the street. When he honked the horn to attract her attention and waved, she stopped and waved back. He jumped from the car and ran to her holding out the bunch of flowers he’d bought.
‘Hiya, gorgeous. How’d you like to make love right here on the pavement?’
Sally laughed. ‘You’ve been watching too many commercials. Besides, it’ll cost you more than a bunch of flowers.’ She paused, smiling at him. ‘I take it your visit with Robert went well?’
Steve could barely control his excitement.
‘Couldn’t be better. I’m off the hook for a month’s trial period … on the condition I have sex at least twice a day,’ he added smoothly.
Sally gave a mock groan.
‘Oh, well, if that’s what the doctor orders,’ she looked at the flowers, ‘you’d better get a job at the flower market.’
He kissed her quickly and suddenly remembered.
‘Oh, by the way, I’ll be home a bit late. I’m having a drink with the guys after work.’
Sally smirked. ‘So much for doctor’s orders.’
‘Hey, they’re part of my support group,’ he retaliated innocently.
He kissed her again, turned to go back to his car, changed his mind and came back to kiss her again.
‘I’ll ring Interflora.’
She laughed as she watched him jump back into his car and pull out into the traffic.
*
‘Then why was your application denied?’
Bryce was sitting opposite Diem who, with head lowered, was tentatively trying to answer Bryce’s questions.
‘My wife failed the medical examination,’ he answered quietly.
Bryce studied the old man carefully. ‘TB?’
Diem nodded reluctantly. ‘We are both very old. Even with successful treatment it could be years before we could re-apply. We thought we would never see our son again.’
This was a bit of information the organisation didn’t have. He raised his eyebrows and asked, ‘You have a son in Australia?’
‘Yes, he is the only one still alive. We lost four children in the war. Their school was bombed by the Americans. A mistake, they said.’
Bryce smirked. ‘Friendly fire.’
‘But not so friendly,’ Diem replied.
‘And where does your son live?’
‘In Melbourne. He doesn’t know we are coming. So you see, he would look after us. He would see that his mother received proper treatment.’
‘Is he an illegal too?’
‘Oh, no, he was sponsored. He is now a citizen,’ Diem replied proudly.
Bryce made a few notes on his pad. ‘What’s the boy’s name and where does he live?’
Diem suddenly realised that he may be putting his son in grave danger and refused to answer. But Bryce persisted.
‘We need proof that your son does actually exist.’
But Diem had dealt with officials before. He took a small, leather pouch from the inside lining of his coat, undid the draw-string and removed a small diamond, placed it in front of Bryce, and said. ‘You fix it with the authorities and I will take you there.’
Bryce looked at the pouch.
Later, in Captain Jonas’ cabin, Bryce stood watching as the Captain examined the booty he had extricated from the desperate ‘passengers’. He picked up the small diamond Diem had given Bryce and examined it. The stone glistened in his fingers as it caught the light from the desk lamp.
‘Not a bad swag, eh?’ Bryce said.
Jonas then added it to the rest of the pile of bribes on the desk.
‘That’s all of it?’
He looked Bryce squarely in the face. Bryce smiled and raised his arms in innocence.
‘Have you ever known me to hold out on the organisation?’
Jonas started to collect the valuables together, putting them in a large envelope as he spoke, ‘Only because you know we check.’
Bryce chuckled and said, ‘The extra information I pick up from the Gooks should be worth a little incentive, surely?’
Jonas locked the envelope in his safe.
‘So go and see the big man when you get back ashore. Maybe he’ll give you a bonus.’
The sullen refugees watched as Bryce, Jonas and Brandwell made their way along the deck to the ladder leading down to the Patrol launch. The boat’s engine kicked into life as soon as the trio arrived causing them to almost shout their conversation. Diem translated for the others.
‘If you do decide to dock in Australian waters,’ Bryce shouted to Jonas, ‘I warn you, the Immigration boys will be waiting for you, Captain. And frankly, from my preliminary interviews, I can tell you now there’s not one of your passengers that’s got Buckley’s chance of getting their entry papers.’
Jonas, matching Bryce’s volume, shouted back angrily. ‘And what the hell am I supposed to do with them?’
‘You’re aware of the regulations, Captain. They’ll be held in detention until they’re processed in probably a couple of years’ time or you will be guarded while you refuel and take them back where they came from.’
Dismissing any further conversation, Bryce saluted and disappeared down the ladder followed by his crew attendants.
As the patrol launch sped off back towards shore, the refugees began to advance menacingly on Jonas and Bryce but the sudden clicks of automatic weapons held by the crew stopped them in their tracks. A tense silence settled over the deck as Jonas spat out an order to Brandwell.
‘Mr Brandwell, escort all of the passengers to the mess dining room, please. I have an announcement to make.’
He then strode off leaving Brandwell and the crew very much in command of the situation.
With the angry refugees assembled in what was laughingly called the ‘dining room’, which in fact was a dingy, dirty area set aside below decks, with chipped laminated tables and grubby, vinyl chairs, Jonas stood on one of the tables, flanked by a couple of armed guards. Several other armed crew stood guard at the entrance.
‘So as illegal immigrants, it’s pretty clear what the authorities’ attitude is going to be if you fall into their hands: detention camps, interrogations, and eventually, deportation.’
This brought an infuriated outburst from the refugees and the guards stepped in, raising their weapons threateningly.
‘But,’ Jonas shouted above the uproar, ‘the organisation guaranteed you safe arrival and we have a contingency plan in place that will fulfil our guarantee, if you agree.’
This completely silenced the crowd who looked at each other, speculatively, as they strained to hear this new revelation.
‘In a few hours’ time, after dark, a fishing trawler will pull alongside. You will transfer into it and be taken into a remote bay on the mainland. You will be met and transferred by trucks, first to safe farm houses, and then to various destinations controlled by our organisation. There you will be offered work, suitable to your qualifications. Those who take advantage of our offer will be issued with entry permits and visas. You will be looked after and protected from the authorities in return for your loyalty and co-operation to the organisation.’
A silence settled over the refugees as they considered the proposal.
Brandwell appeared at the entrance and, catching Jonas’ eye, signalled him to meet him in the corridor. As Jonas was helped down from the table, Diem stood and raising his voice and an arm, called out, ‘This all sounds very dangerous, Captain, and forgive me for saying, but it would appear that, if we agree with your proposal, we will forever be under the control of your … organisation – as slaves. That was not included in the original contract. Would the offer of “work suitable to our qualifications”, mean illegal activities and in some cases, prostitution?’
Jonas smiled around the room and said, ‘In your case, I don’t think the latter would be a viable option, Mr. Diem.’
This brought a laugh from some of the refugees and lowered the tension in the room.
Someone else spoke up, addressing the gathering. ‘We were all aware of the possible dangers when we agreed to this trip. We are all illegal refugees and as such, have to take our chances. Nobody can guarantee the future and forever is a long time. Much can happen, and Australia is a big country with a big coastline. They cannot patrol it all the time.’
As Jonas left the room he called out, ‘I’ll give you a couple of minutes to think it over. Only those who agree to work for the organisation will be given protection and issued with papers.’
The other refugees fell into excitedly discussing the situation as Jonas made his way out of the room and into the corridor where he joined Brandwell.
‘What’s up?’ Jonas said.
‘We’ve got a problem,’ Brandwell replied.
Sweating, delirious and having difficulty breathing, Mrs Diem lay in pain and almost unconscious on one of the grubby bunks. A thin, worn blanket had been thrown over her. Jonas, Brandwell and a young spotty-faced medical orderly, Terry, stood looking down at her.
‘Looks like typhoid,’ Brandwell muttered.
Jonas’ face darkened as he turned to the young, nervous medic. ‘What do you think?’
Terry was inexperienced and obviously under a lot of strain as he replied uncertainly, ‘Could be, I suppose.’
‘But you don’t know?’
‘Look, I was a medical orderly, not a friggin’ doctor! The only training I had was a couple of stinkin’ months in the Army before the end.’
Jonas’ glare brought the young man back under control.
‘Was that before or after you deserted?’
Terry sighed and calmed down. ‘She’s got the symptoms – fever, blotches on her chest and stomach, severe pains – I saw a case in ’Nam. It looks the same.’
Jonas turned to Brandwell. ‘We’ve been weeks at sea. Why didn’t it show up before this?’
Brandwell shrugged.
‘Maybe she didn’t have it when she boarded. Maybe there’s a carrier on board.’
This was one suggestion Jonas could have done without. If there was a breakout of typhoid, it would mean panic and maybe many unplanned burials at sea.
He turned to Terry.
‘Okay, son, you’re relieved. We’ll take care of this.’
Terry turned from one to the other knowing full well what was being inferred.
‘You heard the Captain,’ snarled Brandwell, ‘beat it.’
Relieved at his dismissal, Terry hurried from the cabin but before he could reach the door, Brandwell added, ‘And keep your mouth shut about this.’
Terry nodded and gratefully escaped.
Jonas turned to Brandwell who said, ‘The old man let it out to Bryce that she was also an advanced tubercular.’ After a thoughtful pause he added with a look of calm resignation, ‘So that’s it then. She can’t go ashore.’
Jonas nodded his head in reluctant agreement. ‘Pity. I hoped this one would be a tidy trip. See to it,’ he said brusquely as he exited the cabin, closing the door after him.
Brandwell looked down at the frail old lady as he removed his leather belt. Looping it to form a noose, he slowly advanced towards her.
The buzz of conversation continued as Jonas entered the dining room and moved to the front to address the refugees.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘we haven’t got much time. Is there anyone who is not interested in working for the organisation?’
He paused to look around but no one raised their hand. Diem leant across to Hoang who was sitting next to him and whispered, ‘You will accept their offer?’
Hoang smiled cynically. ‘There is an option?’
Almost to himself Diem replied, ‘No … No option.’
There were no dissenters.
‘Good,’ said Jonas. ‘Now, if you’ll all return to your quarters and get your belongings together – And oh, by the way, just a formality – is there anyone whose inoculations aren’t up to date? – smallpox, cholera, typhoid?’
Surprisingly, only one person raised his hand: Hoang.
‘But we do not need them coming into Australia,’ he said.
‘It’s just a safety precaution, Mr Hoang,’ Jonas smiled. ‘Which are overdue?’
‘All of them,’ Hoang replied.
‘Not a problem, Mr Hoang, I’ll send Mr Brandwell down to you in a little while. He’ll take you to the infirmary.’ He looked around the gathering. ‘Anyone else?’
If there was, no one was admitting to it.
‘Right, return to your quarters’ – which of course meant the hold – ‘and get your things together.’
Excited, the refugees stood and began to exit noisily passing Brandwell who pushed his way through them. Jonas raised an eyebrow, silently questioning him if the ‘job’ was done. Brandwell nodded in confirmation. Old Mr Diem was the last to leave and Jonas stopped him on his way out.
‘Oh, Mr Diem.’
Diem stopped and turned back, a little nervous at being singled out.
‘Yes, Captain?’
Looking suitably disturbed, Jonas said, ‘I’m afraid I have some rather bad news for you.’
Diem looked alarmed. ‘You are not going to allow my wife and me ashore?’
‘No, it’s not that. But it is about your wife.’
A touch of fear appeared in the old man’s face as Jonas continued.
‘She was a lot worse than we thought. It appears she had typhoid. But I think you realised that, didn’t you?’
His suspicions now confirmed, Diem’s face creased in pain. But then he realised that the captain was talking in the past tense.
‘Had? You said, had?
Jonas again raised the mask of concern and replied gently, ‘Your wife died a few minutes ago … I’m sorry.’
For a moment it looked as if Diem was going to collapse but he managed to regain his control. There was a long pause before the old man could speak.
‘I – I did not know for sure … The trip has been very hard on her … I thought … if I could just get her ashore … I could get proper treatment for her …’
His voice trailed off into shocked silence. Jonas placed what appeared to be a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.
‘I know, it’s hard. But under the circumstances, you realise she’ll have to be buried at sea?’
But Diem didn’t want to think about that just yet.
‘I would like to see her,’ he said as he tried to pass Jonas.
‘I don’t think that would be a good idea,’ Jonas said, restraining the old man with a firm hand on his arm.