Hiding Place

By Dave Goddard

Heres some pidgin, Mick, and Garrick spoke rapidly. Who been dat pella? Where him been prom? You been subby him? Him been talk punny way, ay? Him been kardiya bloke.

What? Mick shook his head quickly.

I said, who is that man? Where is he from? Do you know him? Doesnt he talk in a strange way? Hes a stranger in this place.

Its 2017. Mick Wilsons wife has taken off from Adelaide with a long-haul truck-driver and Micks two little kids. In an attempt to find his family, Mick, a brick-layer and former top-level Australian Rules footballer, blindly heads for Alice Springs.

In Central Australia, where many people go to hide from their past, Mick finds a different and challenging world. He stumbles into work on a remote cattle station, with an Aboriginal community close by. He also finds three very different women who shape his destiny.

Racial tensions, tangled personal relationships, a mysterious mountain range and a struggling Aboriginal community and football team force Mick to become part of a strange new world and way of being. Across a cultural divide, new understandings emerge in the most unlikely ways.

Through it all, Mick searches and aches for his kids, but because of the people he comes to know, hes never alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Feb 20, 2013
• ISBN: 9781452508993

Dave Goddard

For more than thirty years, Dave Goddard has lived in remote areas of Western Australia and in the Northern Territory, working with and learning from Aboriginal peoples. A former educator, Dave is a director, consultant, and facilitator working in Perth to bridge the cultural space between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal peoples.

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Copyright © 2013 Dave Goddard

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Balboa Press rev. date: 06/05/2013

CONTENTS

Dedications And Acknowledgement

Preface

Part 1: April 2017

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Epilogue: Early November 2017

Credit: Songs

DEDICATIONS AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

To Karen, my gratitude for the love, support and shared pleasures over the years, for her tireless effort in respect of this book and my acknowledgement of how lucky I’ve been.

To the many Aboriginal language groups and individuals I’ve been privileged to meet, thanks for all the wit, wisdom and learning you’ve offered and your acceptance of me.

To Ian, my appreciation for the patient guidance and the ‘unlearning’ he motivated to shift my brain, mind and writing style from ‘research formal’ to creative fiction.

To Paul, Kim, Drew and Novac who have shown me that what happens in life is because of what you cause and create, not because someone bequeaths something to you.

To Ross MacLennan of Book Covers Australia for the fascinating cover design.

To Balboa Press, Jonah and Richelle, for all the assistance so willingly and professionally offered.

It’s been great to have known you, one and all.

Dave Goddard

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PREFACE

I set out to write a story that painted a positive view of remote Aboriginal communities and Aboriginal peoples. Much of my working life has been connected with such communities and I have learned a great deal from the work and, even more, from the people.

The genesis of Hiding Place arose in an evaluation I did on Australian Rules football in remote communities. Two people, one non-Aboriginal and one Aboriginal, both commented on the similarities between Australian Rules football and traditional Aboriginal lore.

I believe there is virtue in Aboriginal peoples preserving, nurturing and living by what is good and proper in their lore and cultures. My rationale is simple: it provides their children with the opportunity to know where they’ve come from and what makes them who they are.

White people have spent generations searching for a ‘cure’ to ‘the Aboriginal problem’ and, so far, haven’t found it. Genocide, apartheid, assimilation, and other concepts have been like prohibition: none has ever worked and none ever will. Perhaps allowing Aboriginal peoples to follow their ways of knowing and doing would be more beneficial. After all, they survived one of the harshest environments on earth, living by traditional lore for one hundred thousand years or more before we came. They must have been doing a lot that was right.

We should, as Mick, the main character does, listen and learn; not preach and direct.

At a more mundane level, I stress that this work is fiction. All characters are creations of my imagination. While the story is set in and around Alice Springs, and several place names will be familiar to people from the region, like the Tanami Track and Tilmouth Well, the names of the cattle stations and Aboriginal communities are fictional.

Apart from the word ‘kardiya’, I have created fictional Aboriginal words for a fictional language that I call Walamari. If I’ve inadvertently used a word that has meaning and in some way causes offence to any language group, I apologise. It was not my intention.

I have also created a form of Aboriginal English, which I call ‘pidgin’. It really isn’t pidgin but it serves the purpose of highlighting a different way of speaking. Again, apologies if anything offends.

I don’t claim that my explanations of, or allusions to, Aboriginal concepts in this story are accurate interpretations of how Aboriginal groups or individuals operate or live their lives. The interpretations, creations and ideas are mine, derived from experiences within cultures that I’ve been privileged to have contacted and come to know. If there are accuracies in them, then I pay tribute to the people, my teachers. If not, it’s my fault and I take responsibility.

Finally, the Australian Rules football competition described in this story does not reflect the operations or structure of the Central Australian Football League (CAFL). The CAFL, supported by Northern Territory Australian Football League (AFL NT), Richmond Football Club and the AFL, is an effective and efficient body offering organisational and development support across a vast region. The AFL and another five of its clubs—Geelong, Hawthorn, Essendon, Port Power and Adelaide—provide similar support to Richmond for remote Aboriginal communities in the Northern Territory and South Australia. The program is a partnership between the AFL and the Department for Housing, Community Services and Indigenous Affairs (FaHCSIA).

Dave Goddard

PART 1:

APRIL 2017

I

He’d parked the old Kombi in the red-dirt, treeless parking-bay beside mounds of soil. He needed to stretch his legs and try to wake up. The sign at the exit from the bay said, ‘Marla Bore 20 kms’.

He leaned against the side of the old blue Kombi, took off his filthy peaked cap, and lit a cigarette. It was late on the second day of the journey. The side rear-vision mirror showed a dusty, haggard, red-eyed bloke with a face covered in stubble, clothes and cap soaked with sweat and stained red and someone who hadn’t washed for three days.

But he didn’t care. Who am I going to meet that would give a shit?

He gazed at the country. It was as if a half-arsed deity had dumped boulders and rock over a vast area, flattened them very quickly with a huge compactor, and left many mounds between which glittering-white salt-pans proliferated. No vegetation of any note was visible, as if the deity, after viewing the effect, had shrugged and buggered off.

To Mick, the sight seemed to go on forever. He was two thirds of the way to Alice Springs with no real reason to go there and no idea of where to go after that.

His old Kombi had chugged along at seventy kilometres an hour since he’d left Adelaide at 5.00 am yesterday. The first three hours had been through farm lands north of Adelaide which he knew well. The coast of the Gulf of St Vincent, and above Port Pirie, Spencer’s Gulf were to his left, and to his right were hills that gradually rose in height to become the Flinders Ranges. After Port Augusta and the Flinders had faded behind him, all he’d seen was the now stony, treeless countryside.

The temperature had risen steadily over the first day, causing him to stop several times to allow the engine to cool and to top up the radiator. Memories of his days fencing around Quorn and Wilmington and out on the Eyre Peninsula had taught Mick to carry plenty of water, particularly when driving his decrepit Kombi.

He guessed, by midday, that it was around thirty-five degrees. As the Kombi had no air-conditioning, he’d shed his trackie top not long after leaving Port Augusta, and had driven with the windows open.

After twelve hours of nursing the vehicle on the first day, he pulled into a roadside stop just before Glendambo and slept on a mattress in the back. All he had to eat was some bread and cheese he’d grabbed from the fridge as he’d departed.

As hot as it had been during the day, he found he needed all his clothes, and whatever other covering he could find, during the night, as the temperature plummeted. He rose at five, shivering in the frosty air, as the sky began to grow pink in the east. He stopped for breakfast at one of the two service stations that made up the town.

Beyond Glendambo lay Coober Pedy, which he reached about lunchtime, nursing the old wagon along at the same rate. He refuelled and bought a sandwich from a roadhouse. He didn’t notice the unique nature of the place, much of it underground, as people had constructed dwellings, shops and even a hotel out of old opal diggings. All that filled his senses were events in his recent past and the flat, shimmering desolation of the present.

Now, late afternoon on Thursday, he was close to Marla Bore. He stubbed the cigarette and drove the last twenty kilometres. Marla sat to the right of the highway; a motel, a roadhouse, two houses and a yard filled with machinery. Just before the entrance to the roadhouse, a sign pointing to the right along a dusty track said, ‘Oodnadatta Track, Oodnadatta, 216 kms’. But thankfully, the Marla Roadhouse and motel were surrounded by white gums, many straggly but a few flourishing. They were the first trees he could recall since Port Augusta.

He stopped at the roadhouse. It had a bar and restaurant, beckoning him to have a drink and a decent feed. He noticed, however, as he walked into the place, two people he’d passed, and the waitress at the counter, all gave him unpleasant looks. As he stood waiting for her to serve him, he understood why. He stank.

He managed to wash standing in front of a sink in the men’s toilet, changed his shirt and found a spare pair of underpants. When he returned looking cleaner, cap off and longish blond hair visible, the waitress even gave him a smile. As well as food, he found a rug in the roadhouse, which he bought because of his experiences the night before. Then he chugged out of Marla to a roadside stop to sleep.

As he neared Alice Springs the next afternoon, Mick stared at the highway without seeing it. He knew he was close to Alice because the road signs told him so. But suddenly and spectacularly, the countryside changed. Flatness gave way to high ranges as he neared the town. It was as if he were driving into an impenetrable barrier of rock that stretched as far as he could see east and west. But just past the airport, the scenery changed again.

Seeming to loom over him were stark, red hills, with sheer cliffs near the summit, guarding the past like monuments carved from history. On one hill, the striations of rock were vertical, as if a huge hand had tilted the hill on its side and left it there. But between the hills was greenness, like parklands, with grass and trees growing on the edge of the startling white sand of a dry river bed.

And then, without warning, a cutting in the range of hills appeared, no more than a hundred metres wide, through which the dry river bed passed. The road and a railway line clung to one edge of the cutting, which a sign told him was ‘Heavitree Gap’. As he drove through ‘The Gap’, the brilliant redness of the hills and startling whiteness of the sand were contrastingly blinding in the late afternoon sun.

He’d headed this way to find his family and the history haunted him. At times, it made him feel ill, and at times, it caused him to blink and wipe his eyes.

II

A month before, he’d pulled into the car park of the block of flats in Elizabeth where he, Sharon, and their kids—Sammy, aged eight, and Nina, who was six—lived. It was well after 8.00 pm because he’d stopped on the way home from work as a brickie to have a couple of beers with his mates.

So you got another leave pass, Mick, Dougie had stated as Mick had bought a third round of drinks.

Nah, but I’m thirsty, mate. And anyway, Sharon knows what I’m doing. It’s not as if I’m off trying to shag some tart. I’m just having a beer with you blokes.

Yep, but we’re single or divorced, ay, Ram? Dougie had grinned at one of the blokes who’d raised his glass as if to toast the comment. You’re the only one with marital duties, Mick. But as I recall it, you’ve been stopping for the one or six each day after work for six weeks now, and each night you seem to stay just a little bit longer. Sharon must be a very understanding missus.

Did I hire you as my keeper or marriage guidance counsellor, Dougie?

Dougie had been partly right and partly wrong. Yes, stopping for beers with his workmates had been going on for six weeks now, and each time, the length of Mick’s stay had increased a little. While he knew it made Sharon shitty, he felt he deserved to unwind after an eleven hour day. And no, Sharon wasn’t an understanding missus. She’d seemed to be when he first married her, and then during his time fencing up north and out west on the Eyre Peninsula. But since he’d come back to Adelaide to work as a brickie again, she’d become sort of distant and withdrawn.

He’d even wondered whether it had to do with her having to give up nursing training when she fell pregnant with Sammy. But he didn’t ask. And she’d had a shot at him recently when he didn’t get in until nearly 8.30 pm.

Jesus, Mick, what are you doing? I’ve had all day at the IGA stacking while Naomi babysits for us, I get in and have to clean the unit, cook tea, bath the kids and get them to bed, and you sit around with your mates drinking piss. I thought when you came back after the time fencing, you’d be more committed to the kids, but I was wrong. You’re only just in time to say goodnight to them and you’re gone again at six o’clock, before they wake up.

Give me a break, Shaz, he’d replied quietly, placing his bag in the cupboard inside the front door. I’ve been working six days a week, eleven hours a day for the past six weeks and I spend all Sunday with the kids. With my overtime pay, you should be happy, instead of crapping on me for coming in late sometimes.

Sometimes? she’d spat. Jesus, it’s every fucking night, Mick. What about me? Don’t I deserve some company?

Then she was gone, slamming the bedroom door and leaving him alone and feeling very remorseful.

The flat had two bedrooms, a kitchen-come-living area, and a toilet-bathroom. Washing machines were on the ground floor, if they were working, and if not, Sharon had to go to the local laundromat.

He’d met her after a football match that he’d played in, between Centrals and Norwood. She’d taken his attention immediately. She was gorgeous; slender, with long dark hair and a smile that would win any heart.

Mick had played top grade Australian Rules football in Adelaide with Central Districts since he was seventeen, starting in 2004. He’d lived all his life in Elizabeth and, when first selected with Centrals League Team, already had the build of a man. He was always referred to as ‘that big, blonde, good-looking bugger". Sharon was from New South Wales and had come to Adelaide a couple of months before they met, when she was eighteen and he was twenty-one.

I just got bored, she’d told him coyly the first night they’d met. I told my folks I was going travelling with Amy. We did, and ended up here, in Adelaide, after about six months.

Why did Adelaide appeal? he’d asked, knowing the place so well.

It was better than Broken Hill, she’d giggled. I reckon every man who looked at me in that place was thinking about giving me one.

He’d known exactly what she meant, because it was what he’d been thinking, too.

What do you do for a crust?

I started nursing training at Flinders University about three months ago, and I work in an IGA a couple of days a week to make ends meet.

They went together for nearly a year before she announced she was pregnant with Sammy, just after she’d returned from New South Wales to attend the funeral of her parents, killed in a car crash in the Blue Mountains. And, as his Mum had died just after he’d met Sharon, sorrow seemed to unite them.

He had no other family. His Dad had been electrocuted before he was born, there were no other brothers or sisters, and his Dad’s and Mum’s parents were dead. Sharon’s father had no family she knew of, and her mother’s family, from Queensland, were members of a radical religious sect and had disowned her when she fell pregnant with Sammy.

So they’d married in 2008, the year Mick gave up playing football with Centrals, at the ripe old age of twenty-two. One reason was a downturn in the building industry which saw him laid off as a brickie, so he’d had to go to the country to find other work. Another was because football bored him; the training, the non-drinking regime and because he’d felt, without knowing why, there must be more to life than playing football and laying bricks.

His retirement from football would have shattered his Mum had she lived to see it. He was glad she didn’t, even though her death in 2007 rocked him beyond anything he’d ever known. Despite the hardship of their lives, she’d worked her arse off to provide for him, six days a week in the local grocery store, to make sure he had football boots, tennis rackets, cricket bats or whatever else he’d needed.

She’d been mother, father, guide, mentor and mate. When the football regime of ‘no grog’ was in force, she’d often go to the local bottle shop, buy a six pack of West End, and they’d quaff beers until bedtime.

And when she’d had a few, she’d tell him, You’re so like your Dad, Mick; tall, unruly blond hair, you’re built like a brick shithouse, and you’re a real good-looking bugger. But just make sure the one you decide is your woman for life is like me and will love you forever.

He’d never struggled for female company. Like all high profile footballers, particularly tall, tanned, blonde ones, he’d found females ever willing and ready to bed down with him.

Who was she? his mother would sniff after he’d returned from escorting another willing accomplice home after an evening in his bedroom.

That was Julie, he’d tell her. I introduced you to her when we came in.

Well, that shows the impact she had on me, she’d retort.

His mother never really knew Sharon. Her heart attack had happened just after Mick met her. His mum lingered for a month in hospital, and he’d supported her as best he could. And then she was gone.

Maybe that’s why he’d turned to Sharon and she’d turned to him. Neither of them had anyone else.

When the downturn in the building trade came, he’d gone fencing, often up north to places like Wilmington and Quorn or out near Cleve and Lock on the Eyre Peninsula. It meant he was away for a couple of weeks at a time, returning as much as he could to see Sharon and Sammy. And, while he was fencing, Nina arrived.

It was like he’d lived two lives. One was work and the other was family, and in truth, he loved both. There was the freedom of the fencing work, because when the day’s work was over, he’d drive with the team to Wilmington, Quorn or Cleve, have a few beers and a decent feed and be able to unwind. But he also loved seeing the kids and was devoted to them when he was home. He’d so willingly take them to parks and places that didn’t cost money, and revel in his time with them.

But late in the fencing period, he’d begun to sense a change in Sharon’s attitude to him. And when he’d come back to live in Adelaide and started as a brickie again, it had changed even more. He’d spend as much time with the kids as he could, following the same ritual as he had when fencing. But Sharon had become increasingly distant. He’d come in from work, she’d toss the responsibility of the kids to him and go and sit on the floor of the unit and watch the latest talent show or never-ending soap opera. And while he didn’t resent the responsibility, he’d begun to resent Sharon’s attitude to him including, over the past few months, resistance to having sex with him.

That night, after drinks with Dougie and Ram, he’d trudged the stairs to the third floor and unlocked the front door of the flat. It had been in darkness so he’d switched on the light and placed his bag of tools inside the cupboard. It wasn’t unusual for Sharon to go out at night, but when she did, Naomi, the fifteen year old from two doors down, usually baby-sat. Tonight, however, there was no one.

He’d walked towards the stove, thinking that maybe she’d taken the children to Ainslie’s place rather than spend money on Naomi. But at least, maybe, she’d have left him a meal. There was nothing on the stove. He’d looked around and tiptoed to the bedrooms and switched on the lights, expecting the children to be hiding so they could surprise him.

There was nothing there. Beds had been stripped and the wardrobe and chest of drawers, where the kids’ clothes were always kept, were wide open. He’d spun and gone to the main bedroom. Again, the cupboard doors were open and only his clothes remained.

He’d gone still, staring into space for a while, before suddenly turning, leaving by the front door and running down the passage to where Naomi lived. After banging on the door and getting no immediate response, he’d hammered again.

The door had opened. Naomi, a dumpy, red-headed teenager, looked surprised. Hello Mr Wilson.

Naomi, do you know where Shaz—Mrs Wilson—is? Did she tell you anything today?

Who is it, Nay? It was a woman’s voice, with a strident Australian accent.

It’s Mr Wilson, Naomi had called over her shoulder. A couple of moments later, a dumpy, red-haired older woman, Naomi’s mother, appeared.

Mick? she’d asked inquisitively as she walked to the door.

Sheila, do you know where Shaz is? Mick was agitated.

The woman touched Naomi on the shoulder and flicked her head. Naomi smiled shyly at Mick before heading back into the flat.

Come into the corridor, Mick, Sheila had said less stridently as she’d closed the door to the flat and led him to the area she’d suggested.

She’d looked down for a while before saying in a motherly tone, I saw her this morning, at eight o’clock. I’d washed some stuff by hand and I went onto my balcony to hang it out.

Sheila, where is she? Mick had become more agitated. She’s not in the flat, the kids aren’t there either, and all their clothes are gone. I just got in from work. What’s going on?

Sheila sighed softly and looked over Mick’s shoulder down the passage.

Do you know Andy, from unit two-two-five downstairs? she’d asked wistfully.

Do you mean the truckie?

Yes.

Oh, sort of, enough to say g’day to, but I don’t know him.

I reckon Sharon knows him a lot better than you do. Sheila spoke sadly.

What… what are you talking… about Sheila? What in the name of Christ is going on?

Sheila had rubbed the palms of her hands together. Like I said, I was on the balcony about eight this morning, and I saw Sharon and the two kids, all carrying cases, get into Andy’s car. He helped them load stuff in the boot. Sammy was… well… he was upset, crying, and didn’t want to get in the car, but Sharon made him.

What… why did she… what game is she playing?

Mick, I’m not a nosy neighbour. I don’t check what people in these flats get up to. But often in the last few months as I’ve been going to the shops or down to do my washing, I’ve seen Andy coming and going from your flat during the day, when the kids are at school.

She’d stopped and looked sadly at Mick.

You… mean… you’re telling me… that she… she was having it off with Andy?

I don’t know what she was doing with him in your flat, Mick, but I reckon, after what I saw today, she’s taken the kids and buggered off with him. And Mick, I’m so sorry for you if that’s the case.

Mick had stood staring at her for a long time, before he’d turned and walked back to the flat. He’d closed the door and leaned against it, gazing across the quiet dining area. All he could think of was to go to the police.

III

He’d driven his Kombi into the Elizabeth police station parking area just before 10.00 pm.

What’s this man’s—Andy’s—surname? the police constable had asked.

I don’t know, Mick had retorted, moving so the light reflecting from the sheen of the police front desk wasn’t in his eyes. I’d have to find that out.

Well, that’d be a help, the constable had grimaced. What trucking company does he work for?

I don’t know, Mick had stumbled. I just know he’s a long-haul driver; he has a couple of weeks on the road, then a couple of weeks shagging my missus, and now he’s got her and my kids to take off with him. You need to let your mob know about it, don’t you?

Do you know the make, model and licence-plate number of his car or truck?

Mick had shaken his head. The constable had looked down and taken a deep breath.

Mr Wilson, he’d managed patiently, I know you’re upset and, from what you’ve told me, with good reason. But I can’t put out a bulletin asking police in South Australia to be on the look-out for an unknown car or truck driven by a man named Andy with a woman and two kids in it.

Well, you’ve got to do something? You must have ways in 2017 of tracking people. Don’t just stand there and tell me you feel sorry for me!

The constable had taken another deep breath. What time did your wife and Andy leave?

My neighbour said about eight this morning.

Mr Wilson, there are many main roads out of Adelaide that a driver could take; to Perth, Alice Springs, Melbourne and Sydney, as well as other less important roads. We don’t know his surname, his trucking company or the number plate of his vehicle so all we’ve got is his first name. He could be halfway to Perth or Alice, be just about in Sydney, or if he headed for Melbourne, he’d be well and truly there.

Fuck. Mick had placed his hands on the front desk, and had looked down.

Mr Wilson, see what you can find about this Andy guy, even if it’s just his surname and the trucking company he works for. That may give us a chance to track him. And even then, I’m not sure we can do much except to ask your wife to get in touch with you about the kids. After that, it’s up to the courts, not us. As far as I understand it, no crime’s been committed yet. So, really, there’s nothing we can do.

Maybe he made them go with him.

The constable eyes narrowed slightly.

Do you mean he forced your wife and kids to go with him?

I… well… yeh… maybe… so you… keep that in… mind, Mick had concluded.

Then he’d turned and walked from the Police Station into the cool night air. His mother came to mind. He’d wanted her to hug him and make him feel better.

On reaching the Kombi, he’d shuddered and his eyes had flooded. He’d tried to control his emotions and had taken deep breaths. It hadn’t worked. Leaning against the driver’s door, he’d rested his arms on the roof of the old van for a long time, staring wetly into the night.

IV

It was Friday night and the main bar in the Tavern in Alice Springs was filled. Over half of the crowd were Aboriginal people. The noise was extreme; music blaring from a DVD player, chimes, tunes and rattles from poker machines, and very loud voices, indicating a high degree of inebriation. Mick bought a schooner and went to the far end of the bar area, away from the crowd and noise, to where two pool tables were operating. He slid onto a stool and watched the pool games.

He’d arrived in Alice about 4.30 pm and had driven around to find somewhere to park the Kombi and sleep for the night. A thicket of trees on the road to a place called Ntaria, just outside the town limits, was fine, and after collecting wood for a fire later, he drove back into Alice.

His height and looks made him noticeable. He was like a huge ‘surfie’. The height had stood him in good stead as a ruckman-come-centre-half-forward for Central Districts. As a kid, he’d had dreams of being picked up in the AFL Draft, but when the time came, he didn’t go for it. He just kept playing for Centrals.

His mother had been stunned by the decision and did everything in her power to change his mind.

I don’t believe it, Michael, she’d said vehemently, when he told her he wasn’t going in the draft.

But I… don’t want to… go and live in… Brisbane… or Perth.

Well maybe you’ll get picked up by Adelaide or Port Power. He’d shaken his head.

I doubt it. They’ve had less interest in me than the Lions and the Dockers.

Don’t be ridiculous, she’d snapped in frustration.

No, I’ll keep playing with Centrals and see what happens.

The debate had raged until the closing date for draft nominations had passed. And, for the first, and what was to be the only, time in his life he hadn’t obeyed his mother.

Despite subsequent approaches from several AFL clubs, he’d decided he didn’t have the will or mental strength to play at the next level. A couple of mates who’d been picked up in the draft told of even more rigour, rules and much higher expectations than he’d ever had at Centrals. Besides genuinely not wanting to shift to another city, Mick also knew he’d never have the level of dedication of his two mates. At most, he was a gentle giant who, unless roused by an unfair action from an opponent, was content to give his best, but not the one hundred and two per cent AFL coaches seemed to demand.

So, ‘giving it away’ wasn’t the wrench that some people believed. He’d had enough of training and the rules and requirements that went with playing with Centrals in the South Australian League, including "no drinking’ during the football season, and having to sneak away behind the dunnies to have a smoke.

He’d always been destined to play football at the top level. As a kid, he’d dominated in any sport he tried because, as well as his height and weight, his hand-eye coordination, speed and flexibility were outstanding. He could just as easily have taken up playing basketball at the highest level—the Adelaide Thirty-Sixers were very interested in him.

You’re so like your Dad, his mother would often say after a football game in which he’d starred. The only photo was the wedding one, on the old sideboard, but that was enough to bear out the accuracy of her physical description.

He sipped his beer as a big Aboriginal man lined up a shot against a short, drunk white man. It was the Aboriginal man’s pool table; taking on all comers at twenty dollars a game. Around the table, a large group of Aboriginal people provided vociferous support for the big man.

One told him, Whack this kardiya, Charlie. You keep this table, ay, and win big mob.

Despite the support, this game was tight. Each player still had three balls on the table and the black ball was in an easy position for potting.

It was the white man’s shot, when he suddenly announced, Hang on, I got to piss.

He placed his cue against the table and hurried towards the toilet. Charlie wandered close to the table on the other side from Mick, and with a barely discernible action, flicked the thick end of his cue against a ball on the table so it ‘snookered’ the white man’s next shot. It may have been an accident, but the deftness with which it was done made it unlikely.

The white man returned, looked at the table, and asked, Who shifted the balls?

Nobody and it been your shot, kardiya.

I wasn’t snookered when I went for a piss, the white man complained.

Maybe you do him when you put cue down. You pissed enough, Charlie grinned at his supporters.

Yeh, I seen you do that, one supporter announced, his words accompanied by nods from colleagues.

That’s bullshit, the man replied stridently. You blackfellas are sticking up for him.

You play, or we take you out back and beat shit out of you? Charlie snapped angrily.

You’re right, mate, Mick called loudly to the white man, to get above the noise. It’s bullshit. You didn’t move the ball.

Voices went quiet and eyes fell on Mick. Charlie flicked his head in Mick’s direction and a much bigger black man moved menacingly from the support group around the table towards Mick, taking a spare pool cue and brandishing it.

You fuck off, kardiya. This not been business for you, Charlie yelled at Mick, but remained on his side of the pool table.

By now, the poker machines had gone silent as people turned to see what was happening. Only the DVD player and noise from the other end of the bar were audible.

Mick put his beer on the bar and stood. His size caused the bigger black man to stop.

When someone’s being ripped off, Sunshine, it is my business, Mick told Charlie. You moved the ball. I don’t know if was an accident, or you did it deliberately, but you moved it.

Silence became comprehensive. The DVD player went quiet and almost everyone in the Tavern was watching to see what unfolded.

Charlie stared at Mick for a long time, before he suddenly said softly, Do him, Arnold!

Arnold slid his hands to one end of the pool cue and, without warning, swung it at Mick’s head. The haste of the action caused him to overbalance and stumble slightly, allowing Mick to duck and encompass him, pinning his arms to his body. The man’s recovery was rapid. He knew the rules of bar room brawling. A knee to Mick’s groin enabled an escape from the bear hug, and Arnold stepped back enough to swing the cue again.

Mick, still recovering from a knee to the groin, was immobile and the cue thudded against his head. He raised his hand and felt stickiness near his temple. The knee in the groin had pained him, but the cue to his head just made him very angry. He straightened, shook his head, blond hair waving and traces of blood scattering, gave a low growl, and went straight at his assailant.

Arnold panicked and swung the cue again. But as it closed on Mick, he grabbed it and ripped it from the man’s grasp. He whirled it above his head twice, causing the support group to scatter with shouts of ‘puck’ and ‘pucking hell’. Then the cue found a mark: against the black man’s shoulder.

Kardiya been hit me, Arnold squealed as he crumpled dramatically to the ground. Kardiya been whack me. Stop that fella one! Him been crazy one!

Mick simply stood staring down at him, blood dripping on to the floor.

Come get this kardiya, him been crazy one! Charlie yelled.

Two large bouncers, both Maoris, ran through the crowded bar, and went for Mick, one ripping the cue from his hands and the other pinning him from behind.

Call the cops! one yelled to a barman. Tell them to get here quick. We’ve got a brawl.

As Arnold dramatically clawed up from the floor, whimpering and holding his shoulder, his support group moved towards the bouncers and Mick. Another even bigger Maori appeared from nowhere, standing between the support group and his bouncer mates.

Don’t, was all he said. The approaching support group stopped and looked anywhere but at Mick.

The kardiya who’d been playing pool against Charlie, suddenly called out, It’s not the big bugger’s fault. It was Charlie and Arnold. They started it.

Shut it, Clem, a bouncer barked. You’ve been trouble all night. Fuck off before the police arrive.

The sound of a siren coming closer was motivation enough for Clem, who ran through the crowd at the other end of the bar and disappeared. Moments later three policemen arrived and descended on Mick.

Hey, Mick began to protest, I wasn’t…

You’re under arrest, a senior constable told him. You can explain at the station.

With the senior constable leading the way, the other officers gripped Mick’s arms and began to march him towards the exit. Mick towered over both officers but made no effort to resist. As they went, the Aboriginal people around the pool table burst into cheers and applause, led by Charlie and Arnold.

As they reached the exit to the bar, however, an authoritative voice intervened.

Rob… er… sorry, Senior Constable Smart. Can I have a word?

The senior constable stopped and turned, causing Mick and those holding his arms to jolt to a stop, too. A tall, good-looking, older man, maybe fifty, in a light blue shirt, jeans and broad-brimmed hat over hair tinged with grey, came from the watching crowd.

Mr Edwards? the senior constable nodded.

I’m sure no one here has the full story, Senior Constable. As far as I can tell, watching and listening, this big bloke was just defending himself. Charlie was being his shitty self; this bloke stepped in because Clem was being dudded and Arnold came at him with a cue and hit him on the head.

Come to the station in the morning, Mr Edwards. We’ll take a statement then. Even if we charge this bloke, you can go bail for him. But right now, I just need to get him out of here for his sake and the sake of everyone else. You know what Charlie and Arnold can do when they get wound up.

The older man nodded, looked at Mick, and there was a hint of a crooked grin.

Go with them now, son, like they say. I’ll be in at about eight o’clock in the morning.

V

The admitting officer was told to hold Mick overnight on a charge of disturbing the peace.

I was going to charge him with assault, until Garrick Edwards told his story, the senior constable told the admitting officer, a young woman who nodded matter-of-factly. This bloke was in a brawl at the Tavern involving Charlie and I reckoned for the safety of everyone, we’d get him out of there straight away. But Garrick says he saw what happened and will make a statement tomorrow morning. So for now, just hold this bloke for disturbing the peace and we’ll sort it after we hear from Garrick.

The admitting officer made notes and the senior constable departed with the comment, Well, back on the road. See you soon, Michelle, probably with a van load of blackfellas.

You’ve been in the wars, she said kindly, looking at Mick as he stood before her, several tissues given to him in the police van pressed to the cut on his head.

I’ve had worse. I just need to wash it.

Let me get your details and then you can wash it and put Betadine on it.

Michelle went through the routine of name, address, and emptying his pockets. He gave her a packet of cigarettes, a lighter, his wallet and a key.

What a way to spend Saturday night, she smiled as she made a list. So what brings you to Alice?

She was short and a bit ‘roundish’, but the smile on her slightly freckled face made him feel better, partly because it was a smile, but also because of her sparkling green eyes. The sparkle in them made him think of Tinker Bell sprinkling fairy dust. Her hair, a naturally light tinge of red, was very visible in the short pony tail woven through the back of her cap.

I got tired of Adelaide and wanted something different, he replied, as images washed through him.

How and when did you get here?

I drove, and got here… maybe… three hours ago.

Where’s your car?

It’s an old blue Kombi in the Tavern car park.

Hmmm, Michelle mused. If it stays there, it may be wrecked in the morning, or at least, its windows will be broken and anything inside probably stolen. Where are the keys?

He nodded at the single key on the desk. It’s worth bugger all. If you guys ran it over the pits, it’d probably get a red sticker. I wouldn’t worry about it. All that’s inside it are a few clothes in an old Centrals bag, a couple of tins of tucker, and a few photos.

You used to play for Centrals, didn’t you? Her expression showed awe.

How did you know? he blinked.

I’m an Elizabeth girl. I used to go to every Centrals home match when I was at high school. I can remember you clearly, but I never realised how big you were until just now.

It didn’t stop Arnold trying to whack me. Mick finally relaxed a little and grinned.

I was upset when you retired, she continued. It was my second year at university, and I liked watching you play. She blushed slightly, before saying with a smirk, Come on, let’s get you settled for the night. Have you eaten or showered since you got to Alice?

He shook his head.

Okay, I’ll find a towel, let you have a shower, get you back in your cell, see what grub I can rustle up and cover you with Betadine.

Is this normal service with a smile? he grinned again.

Here’s a receipt for your valuables.

Is that what you’d call them? His dry remark made her chuckle infectiously.

After showering, he sat in a cell on the squat bunk which was covered by a doona. There was an open toilet in the corner of the room. After a couple of minutes, the cell door swung open and Michelle came in with two cheese sandwiches and a small brown bottle. He stood as she entered.

You don’t have to stand up, she told him. In some ways, I’d like it if you didn’t. It’s unnerving to have you towering over me. He sat again. I’m sorry about the quality of the food, but it’s all we’ve got. But, before you eat, lie down. Nursey will fix your head.

He responded immediately. She hovered over his face, studying the cut and then, using several cotton-buds, smeared it with Betadine and covered it with Elastoplast from a roll she took from her pocket.

You mob seem to have everything. He’d realised just how pretty her face was.

We carry a lot of Elastoplast, Band-aids, and Panadol, she said wryly. "That’s all our clients ever need. Okay, I think you’ll live. Now eat your cheese