A parallel cloud of exhaled smoke suspended between ceiling and floor and lit by an uncovered bulb couldn’t recognize itself as a metaphor of the information they were about to receive. Information delivered by an impeccably rendered current affairs anchor stunned them into a maelstrom of disbelief that only a tabloid can deliver. The nightly ritual of laughing at others misfortune, stupidity and flagrant disregard for pensioner rights had become personal. For there on the convex screen of truth stared back at them a memory. The mugshot was not him but it was him, disheveled and broken. As the details of life after them were sensationally presented the young man on the couch thought of a different time when the mugshot before him ruled the world.

The deception began long ago and eventually become a way of life for him, people liked him and they trusted him, he hated them. Some amateur therapist could tell you it was ADD, Absent Dad Disorder or that he bought into the anti-establishment milieu of the decade’s youth. Bobby had been cut off from his trust fund by an absent father receiving reports from a wish we was absent stepmother throughout his adolescence. The college years were cut short by a pot dealing enterprise that saw him come to the attention of local law enforcement for the first time as an adult. The Father got him a good lawyer who cut a deal and then informed him that access to the trust fund was denied until further notice. That lawyer wasn’t the first person he truly hated, just another in a long line of men and women that used their power to control him. It occurred to him that who he was at that point in time couldn’t get what he wanted done, so it was time to be whoever he wanted to be.

The Corner was bursting at the seams with humans, the weekend had come and the inhabitants of the coast had settled in to a regular pattern. Pints of European styled beer pulled by competent but distracted twenty something bar staff were passed carefully to a wingman who then elbowed and nodded his way through the three deep wall of thirsty punters. One of the staff stood out, a tall muscular, ponytailed and accented man of indeterminable age, could have been 25 or even 30. Pretty soon he took residence on the couch, waiting out the eviction of an unsuitable housemate. Three days later when invited to see his room it was clear to Brownie that Bobbie was “the man”. Bobbie had all the toys and combined with his cool 1970’s Merc with its lambs wool seat covers and wooden steering wheel he cut an impressive figure when contrasted with the surfed out grunge motif that most of the cohort had adopted. His southern Californian look known only to them through the pages of the dog-eared surf mags that littered the toilet floor. He fit right in by being exotic and magnetic but he also fed off the superficiality of a town that had long worshipped false idols and pillars of gold.

The first hint of impropriety came after a two- day recovery period after one of the many 21sts of that year. A Force 10 hangover had taken up residency within Brownie’s temple that was his body. It now resembled more of a ruin than a place of worship, with the toilet bowl now the altar. As he eventually regained some semblance of withitness he ventured to the local store for some sustenance. It was at that moment that the realization that would set in motion a bizzare chain of events occurred,

Where is my credit card, it is not where it should be, it should be there but it isn’t, wait, maybe its in the bit at the back, not there, shit, where the fu…. Probably in the pockets of the jeans you wore to Griggsy’s 21st, I’m wearing those jeans, yes, crap, shit, bonus that’s a note, f-yeah, sort this shit out after a good feed.

The chiko roll, cheese sausage and litre of coke sat uneasily in Brownie’s lower intestine by the time he resumed the hunt for his credit card, it was central to his being at that moment in time. He worked for seven months of the year and had enough to fund a hedonistic lifestyle for about three of the five months he didn’t work, these were the times he lived off credit. It was an uncomplicated life.

Man, have you seen my credit card?

Yeah I found it on the path out front

Where is it?

I’ll go get it for you if you like

I like

Brownie waited in the kitchen of the house he shared with his oldest friend and two recent acquaintances that would become lifelong friends a relieved man, pretty soon the American peter pan would return with his card and he could put fuel in the car, beer in the fridge and boxes of Chinese on the table.

Here ya go

What the fuck is that?

Your card man

Brownie stared at the jar in the hand of the ageing Adonis, a credit card much like his was suspended in a liquid that he was soon to be told was bleach. His favourite Nirvana album but in this case it was being used to dissolve his signature, which would soon be replaced by one created by the smiling six foot Seppo before him. The card had been reported lost, it was useless to him, a new one was on its way to his folk’s place. The crime was briefly explained to him as victimless and easy, no problem, he’d done it before. Brownie assessed the situation and accepted that the only issue he had was how he had come into possession of his credit card.

A two year spending spree left Michael Martin drowning in debt and facing bankruptcy all due to the criminal activities of an international fraudster. The eloquent voice over was supported with vision of a balding man in his thirties looking melancholic as he flicked through a series of official looking letters like someone dealing out cards.

Bobbie Penn was wanted by the authorities in Canada,Thailand and Australia. He should have been behind bars but a beauracratic bungle allowed him to destroy this man’s life. This time the man was showing evidence of credit card statements that he claimed he never applied for.

Penn is now safely behind bars as his life on the run caught up with him here in Sydney. He is facing a string of charges relating to fraudulent use of credit cards, breaking and entering, aggravated burglary and assault. Once these matters are dealt with Police say he will be extradited to Canada to face an array of charges.

I can start getting my life back, the last few years have been a living nightmare, I wish I’d never laid eyes on him.

The forlorn and broken image of the man speaking to camera broke Brownie’s moment of nostalgia as the reality set in. This was what had happened after all hell broke loose and that a-hole had slipped through some pretty important fingers, Brownie admired him for that for a minute before turning back to the internalized rage that had been eased for a moment. Then guilt arrived soon after the theme music of the tabloid current affairs program had faded and the familiar tune of the long running soap began. Brownie got up, his companion looked at him with a strange mix of compassion and inquisitiveness as he moved towards the phone. Muted expletives and facts followed, key players contacted to share the amazement and sense of closure the report brought to them.

They arrived just after his shift started, three suited men with a serious gait and a unified look. Michael Martin (pronounced Mik-hail) looked at them and recognized the signs, he’d seen them before and like a Big Mac they are the same in any country. He ran but it wasn’t the run of a man trying to escape it was an instinctive movement, flight or fight, the nature of the beast. They caught up with him in the undercover carpark, they only knew him as Michael Martin, the licence in his wallet proved that, although he insisted they use the European slant he had given it, same spelling as the more familiar but his parents conceived him in Paris, so they added a little French flair- I like that, he would say hoping for a so do I in reply. It was the first rule of his life- make it yours. This applied to almost everything he saw.

The news of Michael’s arrest inverted Brownie’s universe, he saw this as a very serious infringement on his life and all those connected to this tanned Robin Hood. He had brought home countless cartons of beer and supplied many meals through the use of his credit card, surely the cops will search his room which meant that what was in the spare room needed to go. It was 10pm when they found out and by 11pm two cars were driving 30kms across town with what was in the spare room. Brownie was excused from this venture on account of his aversion to what they were cultivating in that room. His attention was on Michael’s room.

You know I might never use it but I like having one. He had said this to Brownie in response to a scuba kit that was displayed in one corner of his room. After his response Brownie noticed several other items that were never used: surfboards, snow skis, motorcycle helmet, surfski and a guitar. As he broke his way in that night he found many things that disturbed him but it was what he took that would cost him the most.

The dust settled and after a week of nothing Michael’s stuff was dispersed amongst the household, thinking that a long jail term was his fate the boys returned to normal routine, but his name was on the lips of all who knew him. The knock on the door was weird, normal etiquette was to simply walk in and announce who you were there to see. The knock was for those that didn’t know them or perhaps a new acquaintance not formally schooled on this practice. It was a bit of both….. Richo was white for most of his waking hours, his chalky complexion dimmed only in moments of terror or pain.

Hi guys how are ya? The accent was unmistakable and sent a bolt through Brownie’s upper body. He was there for his stuff, he dismissed Richo’s enquiry with a quick Oh that’s no problem, get in the gym, get big it’ll be fun. His demeanor reflected a pathological desire to let nothing get under his skin but if you looked closer it had drawn upon his usual machismo façade. He had brought two young guys that he had met in the holding cell. They were meant to provide a darker façade that he wished others to apply for him, not his look. His demands were simple I’m here for my stuff and then he noticed he was standing on one of his possessions, a Persian rug that he simply rolled up and walked out with during a visit to the local shopping emporium, much to Brownie’s utter disbelief. I just want my stuff then I’ll go, the boys quickly showed him the location of the bulk of his stuff. Some items were displayed and others kept or hidden within the dank recesses of their rooms. What about my scuba gear? Brownie thought about this as he walked towards him, inflated chest and bulging veins. Hocked it, was the muttered reply. You hocked my stuff? Wasn’t yours. He looked into the sun stained eyes of the one that he hated least and asked for the paperwork. Brownie got it and with that he bid them farewell and for what they thought would be forever.

He’d had a long day, smashing star pickets three feet into hard ground will do that to you and all he could do was collapse on his milk crate base and mattress, the ensemble of the west coast work dodging male. As he stretched he would let out primal sounds that echoed throughout the tiled residence but what followed was the sound of a broken man, one by one they each discovered what was gone. He had taken what was precious to them and adorned his walls , just like he had done before, trophies, mounted heads like the ones at his Father’s hunting cavern, he would be proud of him.

The breeze was in, the reliable bringer of relief to the sunbaked residents of the most remote city in the world had driven most from the beach. The relentless coastal wind whipped sand against the legs of those tiptoeing through the burnt granules of the strip of sand between sea and carpark. It was a ritual that most parishioners observed on a daily or weekly basis, some with kids in tow all complaining or wrestling some sort of inflatable device whilst parents second guess their decision to procreate. Brownie looked back towards the beach through the whitecapped peaks knowing that it might be awhile before he sees this again. He must leave this place for another, the inerior offered good money for those willing to sacrifice the baptismal embrace of the Indian Ocean. He was not adverse to the seductive force the interior provided with its community spirit, changing landscape and financial reward. Better than the northern inland desolation that forced many to escape into a booze fuelled journey of self discovery. He had grown up knowing the importance of primary production through the history of his pioneering family. The poverty of The Depression, often the topic of his father’s  morning sermon, had left in him a healthy affection for those that worked the land. Ingenuity, resilience and sheer determination were familiar motifs to these morning lectures and he let them soak in via a filter of respect mixed with a desire to see for himself if these motifs still existed. The fresh wind had ruined the surf and whilst the well oiled captains of industry drove through the gates of their selected yacht club filled with joy Brownie realized it signaled both an end and a beginning. He paddled for one last wave, completed the obstacle course that was the beach and threw his board into the car his parents had given him. After a quick shower which proved rather inadequate due to the howling breeze dispersing water from the showerhead to a place some ten feet from his body he pointed the car south.

 Jimmy Lockyear looked around the small room, he got up and walked around it much like a dog assessing a council operated pound. Nothing was familiar and his senses were all messed up, a strange mix of stale beer and roast lamb filled his olfactory canal and sent garbled messages to his brain. His last night in town was meant to be a final salute to this life, one that had left him broken in many different ways. His Aunty had suggested he needed to get back to the land, but although he respected the advice from the woman who raised him he couldn’t go north. Too much had been done, most of which could not be undone. He was sick of watching a thin trail of ochre disappear down the drain after each 12 hour shift. He was broken by the cruel looks and harsh words of the people he worked with, too many short left jabs had landed them in the Silver Chain and him in court. To them he was just another blackfella that couldn’t handle his piss, but despite this Jimmy had risen to Plant Operator and was getting paid more than them. Eventually, after one to many warnings about”:blowing numbers” he was forced to ride his Harley along the roads he helped build, south.

 The car turned left onto the one lane strip of poorly maintained gravel and immediately fishtailed. At 19 years of age Brownie had never driven on gravel and pretty soon he realized that more focus was required, he turned down the mix tape his girlfriend had made for him and looked as far ahead as the spotlights would allow. He worked his way slowly along the road for 15 minutes before doubts began to creep into his mind. Bluey had given him basic directions during the phone interview but these were lost in a sea of chip packets, empty ice coffee bottles and hastily gathered clothing. Instead of stopping to locate the directions he drove on with a belief that things would work out and if need be he could sleep in the car until some light was shed on the situation. He was due to start work the next day, not for a moment did he blame his decision to stop off at the Sunday sesh at a coastal watering hole for his current predicament. He allowed his mind to drift back to the beer garden filled with tanned bodies, the scent of testorone mixed with cheap aftershave applied in copious amounts in the carpark, often shared with a mate who’d just emerged from the surf. He remembered the look on vaguely known associates when he told them where he was going and what he was doing. To many of his age the north, south and east of this state was a mystery, used for recreational purposes not meaningful enndeavours such as shearing, mulesing, seeding and harvest. They had no desires to live with other blokes in steel containers or to descend half a mile into the blackness beneath the eye choking glare of a red desert, no matter what they paid. Some did short stints to fund international travel, with the promise of exotic beauties driving them further into the interior in search of mineral riches. But most stayed, and why not, the place was a Eros laced dream factory. Young men were shaped by the entrepreneurial exploits of a band of rogues that sucked the place dry and then claimed utter disbelief when the proverbial hit the fan. Their legacy was a generation of dreamers that looked at the capital city as a mother, they were determined to suckle at her breast for as long as possible.

 The lights in the distance stunned him back into the now. Before him was an iconic symbol of this part of the land, but instead of rolling along the carcass strewn blacktop it was stationary with its pilot shining a spotty along its belly. Brownie pulled the car to a stop and approached the operator of this wheeled leviathian. It’s 60 metre long series of trailers was his focus until the young man greeted him, his reply was delivered through a tight lipped effort whilst he remained focused on the beast’s underside. The blue singlet identified him as a member of a select group and the worn Blundstones indicated the long hours of toil that he had accumaleted  whilst wearing them. It was divulged that a flock of sheep had burst through a fence and had grouped themselves on the road just past a blind bend in the roughly hewn gravel. The driver had no time or inclination to stop and the result was a macabre scene made up of the victims. It was also divulged that one of the poor creatures had found its way into the brake system, thus rendering the truck rather useless at this point in time. Brownie was asked what he was doing here and he confessed that he appeared to be lost. The truckie was stricken with disbelief when told that Brownie was heading to Taranaki to take up employment with the redoubtable Bluey Higgins, the Lord of a sprawling 60,000 acre mixed farming dynasty. The driver revealed that he too worked for Bluey and that he’d be none pleased with his tardiness. It had taken him two hours to clear the wooly appendages that had stuck to his mobile palace. Brownie accepted directions from the driver through a detailed map drawn into the gravel with a stick and illuminated by the fierce light of the spotty. His offers of help went unaccepted and with that he pulled around the truck, noticing the pile of well massaged corpses as he accelerated into the dark. The smell would linger for days.

 Taranaki was almost its own postcode with its grand manor style main house and 18 bed single mens quarters, seed factory, towering silos and two acre machinery shed. Jed Higgins had carved it out of the scrub with bulldozers, ox teams and fire, Bluey had grown it through shrewd acquirement of neighbours land when they couldn’t make the loan repayments. Clearing Sales were a weekly event in this part of the world, Bluey loved them. Brownie noticed the orange indicator light flickering in the moonlit dust and seeing as how he had stopped to read the sign he might as well let this bloke go up the track to the single mens quarters. As the light drew closer he saw that it was attached to a Harley and attached to that was a sidecar. In that sidecar were two things and they both added up to trouble, he just didn’t know it yet. The big bike splattered and yelled as it went past the near new sensible 4WD and all those upon this unique ride looked at him with suspicion, even the dog seemed to look at him with a mix of disdain and inquisition. Brownie followed after the dust had settled and he noticed a couple of the biggest moths he had ever seen dancing in the glow of his headlights and secretly wondered what he had been drawn to.

 The daily ritual comprised of a breakfast served in the spacious dining hall which also had adjoined to it a small flat which accommodated The Cook. She would emerge from that inner sanctum before dawn each day and begin the task of serving the 6 souls that comprised the single men of Taranaki. Upon arrival for breakfast at 7am sharp Brownie could see that she took this role seriously. Before him lay plates piled high with bacon, silver trays of home made sausages, bowls full of fresh scrambled eggs, layers of toast next to bowls full of assorted jams, pancakes, fruits, cereal, hash browns and litres of fresh milk. This cornucopia settled some anxiety within him as he carefully observed the pecking order and etiquette of this unfamiliar environment. He quickly recognized a hierarchy and seating order, pretty soon he was demolishing what he thought was the breakfast of dreams. The cook directed him to his esky and water container that she had relieved from him the prior evening, it was full to the brim with sandwiches, biscuits, scones and fruit salad. The amount of food she gave them reflected the calories they would burn carrying out their duties during the 10 hour shift they were about to start. Jeff would move some of the 100,000 sheep, Aspro would spend all day driving dusty tracks in a early model truck that would strain under the task set for it and Jimmy would be preparing firebreaks for an upcoming controlled burn. Brownie and Charlie would be shoveling sheep shit from underneath the shearing shed as more of an initiation rite than for any other discernable purpose. No matter what you were up to you earned the right to eat like a medieval monarch.

 The autumn months were spent preparing for seeding but on Taranaki it was clover harvest combined with a massive shearing run designed to fill the coffers for the funds draining monotony of seeding. Charlie had arrived the day before Brownie and immediately set about charming all and sundry with his affable nature and broad smile. Jimmy had settled in well after some initial issues associated with the inhabitants of the sidecar and the longer serving inmates of the SMQ. The dog was labeled a sheep killer and the girl was labeled a secret that Jimmy kept in his room, they all wished they had one of those. The dog and the girl stayed the night and were collected the next afternoon by what appeared to be a well meaning Aunty. After this was sorted Jimmy set about his task, which was to operate a D9 Bulldozer for a period of six months with the chance of ongoing employment. The day of the big burn was approaching and he was on a deadline so he wisely chose to work 14 days straight, this achieved two things but primarily it pleased Bluey. The boys started calling him Dozer, a name he accepted as an essential part of communal living, Brownie got Greenspade on account of his inexperience combined with the item he used the most. Charlie escaped naming rights due to a seemingly chameleon like ability to absorb his surroundings and blend in. The end of the month saw the group gel and everyone seemed to enjoy each other’s company. This was soon to be apparently shattered with the depature of The Cook and the arrival of The Shearers.

 Brownie had no idea what this meant, he was soon assured that another cook would arrive. He was also informed via colourful anecdotal evidence of the rather prickly demeanour of the local shearing team which had often resulted in brawls ranging from a melee to a full on donnybrook, all words that were seemingly owned by the rural storyteller. Tales of disgruntled employees forced to share a room with the resident snorer were sprinkled with apolyptic tomes involving Dencorub and genitals or cooks that were eloquently described as Tucker Stuffers. Brownie listened to Glen as he gave much needed attention to his two working partners, a pair of black and gold kelpies that possessed a will beyond some of those drinking red cans around the open fire. The shearing run lasted three weeks and passed without incident, the replacement cook was a shadow of the former but she did her job without complaint and pretty soon everything went back to normal, but she stayed on when the shearers left. The Cook had decided to stay in the city with her sister and help care for their ailing mother so Jen was headhunted by Bluey with a few cartons going to The Shearers by way of compensation.

 The stranger greeted them at The Shed, it was knock off time and at least forty cans sporting the Federation green had nestled into a half forty four filled with ice. Dozer was sitting on a pile of hessian sacks nursing a Bundy and Coke that was so strong you didn’t like to light a smoke within ten yards of him. The New Guy was tall and his hands resembled the bucket of a good sized front end loader. He spoke quickly and ended each curt sentence with a tobacco infused guttural utterance that sufficed as laughter. Brownie drank his beer but didn’t really pay much attention to him. The boys set off for the day with plans to head to the capital city and get on it, the pays were ready to collect and plans were solidified over the two way throughout the morning. Charlie and Brownie drove round in ever decreasing circles harvesting the small black seeds that Bluey sold at top price. The small plume of smoke began to increase and pretty soon the two way cackled in to life with the distressed voice of The New Guy. He had taken the oxy cutter down to the scrap heap which was like bringing the mountain to Mohammed due to the abundance of dry foliage that grew amongst the bits of left over metal. He had tried to extinguish the flames but the wind had got hold of it and it built into a substantial threat with astonishing speed. By the time the boys had left their individual tasks and power slid their vehicles around the multitude of bends on the farm roads a number of willing volunteers were assembled at The Shed.

 Brownie was ordered to operate the forklift to load fire fighting equipment onto each of the farm utes. Glen manned the water pumps and efficiently filled each of the 1000 litre containers that made the suspension groan under the weight. The main concern was the 100,000 litre fuel tank situated on the border of the shed, it was full to the brim ready for seeding. The fire could jump the road, Aspro verified the fact with some personal experience. The local vollies were worried about the strength and direction of the wind, the local Galah population had left their perches, a bad sign according to a local elder. Jimmy Lockyer sat in his ute and listened to the chatter on the two way. Bluey had announced his presence, he was at 10,000 feet in his twin prop Cessna, he wasn’t happy. Jimmy thought long and hard about his next move, his feet began to sweat. They always did this, he first noticed this reaction to fear when he walked into the Pub and saw him. But this was from his younger days, when he lived with his Nana on the mission just off Gibb River. His uncles would use it to flush out roos, bungarra’s and rabbits if they were lucky. It signaled abundance, some good meat that his Nanna would turn in to stews, the roo tail was the best. It also brought deep seated dread.

 He thought of excuses but they all seemed pretty weak, he turned the key and the old 308 burst into life with a violent sound that scattered the rare birds from the Melaleuca trees. They were the signal to Jimmy, as they cruised in an hour earlier he sensed their distress and noticed the colour of the sky. He had turned his two-way back on after the inane banter of the young fellas forced him to switch it off and turn up the Charley Pride. He was a good twenty minutes away maybe fifteen if he really drove hard, the gravel fanned out as he floored the HZ ute out of the clearing and onto the track. The two-way in the ute was spewing out frantic instructions as Jimmy threw the ute into corners, carefully riding the accelerator to power out of the turns. He was making good time as his blue singlet stuck to the worn vinyl and as his mouth dried up he felt the itch creep across his back, his socks were soaked.

 Glen had positioned himself in between the track and the fuel depot, determined to soak the area with as much water as his ute could carry. He’d grabbed a pair of orange overalls off the vollies and his usual chalky complexion was flushed with the effects of his efforts. The wind whipped up, twisted groupings of flames throwing embers from the exploding eucalyptus trees onto patches of dry weeds usually covered in flocks of pink and greys, they were long gone. Glen had not had time to find a safe place for his dogs, they sat anxiously watching their master. He knew fire and he knew not to trust it but this was a calculated risk based on a life lived on the land. The fire had produced thick walls of smoke as it consumed the fuel provided by a wet winter and easily jumped the firebreaks. Glen was closed in on three sides and decided to take the only option available to him. He would reposition himself and use the remaining water to fight the fire from a different angle. As he placed his hand on the door handle he could see the tyres starting to melt. The aluminium handle seared his hand and forced him to instinctively try his other with much the same result. He felt the heat through the overalls and smelt the hair burning on the back of his neck, the smoke had hidden him from the others but Brownie could just see him through the shrouded air.

 The plume of dust ribboning off the ute was visible to Brownie but he couldn’t make out who it was, as the yellow Holden raced past him he wondered why he didn’t stop. Glen was fumbling with the latch of the dog box as the two inhabitants scratched feverishly at the weld mesh prison designed to keep them safe. Glen managed to release the cocky built latch and his two workmates leapt from the ute onto the gravel with their ears back and tails between their legs. Glen looked at the bearded, ashen tinged face as he scooped up the dogs and carefully heaved them into the cab of his ute. There were no words exchanged between the two as Glen painfully launched himself onto the tray, grasping to the rusted metal that rose above the cab. This signaled to Jimmy to beat a hasty retreat through the small patch of unburnt leaf litter, as he accelerated through the smoke his feet stopped sweating and the itch receded to a faint feeling of skin crawling through trails of sweat.

 The next two hours were spent under Bluey’s direction, he hovered over the site in his gleaming blue and white Cessna barking orders to all and sundry. The utes refilled and filed out past Glen’s vehicle, a blackened skeleton of rubber and metal. There would be time later to hear his recall of the day’s events, after Bluey was satisfied that everything was under control. Brownie would drink six cans before he said anything, he listened to the explanation from the New Guy but knew Bluey would send him on his way once he clapped eyes on him. Jimmy drank a few cans and Brownie noticed him head for the shower block. Brownie needed a shower but thought Jimmy could use some privacy. He had wondered why Jimmy took so long to get back, he knew he turned his two-way off for most of the day but that would have meant he’d still be out clearing unwanted foliage from Bluey’s next maxi sized paddock. He decided to grab his towel and as he opened the door to the shower block he gazed upon the gnarled skin of Jimmy’s back. The tattoo covered most of it but underneath the elaborate decoration were the unmistakable signs of healed burnt flesh.