Ohnliness

(Only Children: Episode 1)

Dust-off

Arson ignites the brushfire one arvo outside Pine Gap. That's the U.S-Australian e-spy facility thirteen miles from Alice Springs. And that's the nearest outback town for hundreds of miles of Northern Territory desert scrub.

The Gap's security detail places the base on alert, and raises the alarm with Alice's civilian authorities. The American and Australian commanders opt for firebombers to snuff the threat, rather than fret over fire fighters darting around their defensive perimeter.

The first firebomber dumps on target. The smokescreen billows. Then the real attack erupts ...

Having sparked the now smoldering fire the attackers' drone is still loitering. It is computing a moving trajectory that points from the base to the next approaching firebomber. On this vector, beyond the bomber, projects a cone that hides the attackers' incoming Cessna from the base's radar.

The drone guides the Cessna to remain invisible in the Gap's radar blackout zone. The Gap's anti-aircraft battery is deceived until the mercenaries' plane peels away. Too late. The plane sprays its contaminated cargo across the base. These radioactive tailings were pilfered from the Ranger uranium mine in Kakadu the month before. No one took much notice then.

This highly coordinated attack was in retaliation for Pine Gap's interference in the domestic affairs of Alice. Dirty tricks from the Gap's CIA contingent had culminated in a sniper assassination, a stabbing death, and then a disciplinary rape. These incidents targeted Alice's rich and powerful landowners. Even the ordinary locals became incensed.

A cascading crime wave overwhelms Alice's constabulary. It struggles with incessant tit-for-tat biffo between blacks and whites. And although Darwin's detectives are called in, these drongos can't do more than stir the pot. People's rights are being trampled en masse.

The resulting civil unrest prompts Australian federal authorities to impose a renowned human rights activist on the unruly locals. Alice's police sergeant is told 'the one and only Dr Ivor Jo is touring nearby, and wont miss it for quids.' Carrying a big stick, courtesy of the Feds' lingering NT intervention order, not to mention a U.N. mandate, this ex e-spy is supposedly equipped to placate the yobbo throng before crisis turns to emergency. Parachuting him into a bulldust pit of snakes and ladders is just what the doctor didn't order.

Months later, after Ivor finally departed the crime scenes and mayhem, a vigilante consortium of commercial interests formed to settle accounts at Pine Gap. This unique accord of the most unlikely allies – the Territory's miners, cattlemen and aborigines – outsourced their reprisal mission to mercenaries. Except for the diversionary fire. It's embers will continue to cleanse the landscape, courtesy of indigenous willpower.

Now, back to the beginning...

I Be's Troubled

Trouble with trouble is it never ends. There's just too much going around. My family name is a small part of it. An inconspicuous Jo I may be, but I prefer my first name. And Ivor's biggest trouble is I'm still learning to be an only child. My Ohnliness keeps getting me into more trouble than Speed Gordon. Semi-retirement hasn't helped.

Which is why I'm lately on my own-some in desolate central Australia. That is, until I'm called to a shooting murder that apparently sparked a deadly stabbing that continues to rub fragile Alice Springs social fabric the wrong way. Of course the wider powers knee jerked, and the local boneheads retaliated. Ham-fisted cops added to the fracas. A lately reborn human rights advocate is all they need now.

And then there's my bastard 'sister' Regina – the bane of my Ohnliness, and the immediate reason I'm hiding in the middle of Oz. With my luck she'll locate me and head for the fray to make things worse. I can feel her coming in my bones.

I used to blame my parents, but they were only children too. And their parents also. It never ends. As Bob Marley sings, so much trouble in the world. But I won't procreate any more. I am the only leaf left on the Jo family tree. I alone carry the potency of my posterity – Ohnliness. I will be the one to lay it to rest in its final inconspicuous conclusion.

In the meantime I look for other trouble to keep me occupied. It always involves a memorable face. One that doesn't even have to look sideways at me. Stronger than a hunch, I recognise the game is on again. I can see the antipathy in the eyes, smiling or not. The face's antagonism darts toward me like a pinball. I still flinch. It deflects off the persons around me. I steel for what's coming. When it hits, my flappers are primed.

That's what happened in Alice this time. It started with a shooting that precipitated a stabbing, both fatal. Then things got ugly. Black and white draughts clashed in the pubs and streets. A latent rich-poor fly unzipped and the greed spilled out. The town began exposing its inner conflicts. The surrounding cattle stations simmered. The mining interests manned their forts. Big trouble fanned out across the Territory. And in the midst I found a couple of antagonists to cross horns with.

The impact of my Ohnliness is never just personal. There are always wider human rights too – my business these days. But I pick my fights. No point making a meal of sardines if I can fry the big end of town. Why waste my Ohnliness on anything less. Ego cloaked in humility. I relish picking the arena in a bigger picture.

I used to be an e-spy, pilfering crucial mega-bits for sale to the highest bidder. Country or corporation, same difference. Both big business. Trouble is cyber sleuthing whittles sensibilities. Morals decay. Now finally it is time to make amends. Burnt with cynicism I now post a sentinel for human rights in the midst of global machinations. Now that's asking for trouble.

Just to be clear, I'm third generation Aussie. Not original convict stock. Just one of the ongoing invasions. I only have vague memories of my childhood through to middle age. Of course evidence of my history exists – photos, certificates. But there are no living family links. I really am the only child of only children. Both my parents died early, after having me late.

When father died intestate, mother handed her will and affairs to estate trustees. During her probate the executors received a 'bastard' claim for a share of my inheritance. Regina has become my nemesis as I continually struggle with my lost family history to disprove her claim. She makes skeletons appear and friends disappear during my quest. She plants and confuses my memories. She is out to destroy me. I know why.

I eventually learned Regina was born at the same time and place as me. While my mother had birth complications Regina's died a sole parent. Both babies had the same wet nurse. The orphaned Regina somehow grew up thinking she was my unwanted sister. She was troubled from the outset.

Ever since Reggie sought to revenge her troubles on me. She pops up everywhere like a curse. And like me, Regina has the essence of Ohnliness. But unlike me she has been deprived of the resources to develop its power. She does not have her secret key. I have my talisman. Like a battery the talisman energizes Ohnliness, directing and focussing its power to see into an antagonists's intentions.

Regina only has a desperate instinct to realize my Ohnliness power, and along the way claim her unentitled share of my considerable inheritance, funnelled to me down the generations. She will happily destroy me in the process. So I seek retribution too. There'll be no absolution, that's for sure.

Dark Side

In a recurring darkness I want to rape and pillage Reggie, as if to prove she's not my sister. Not even an animal violates kin. Would she finally accept we are unrelated? Or would she just detest me even more? Either way, would it finally break her power over me? Or just deepen our mutual obsession.

If Reggie were my sister I wonder how she feels about incest. If it's repugnant enough, it might force her to confront reality, the coincidence of our two mothers during delivery. Her mother died at birth, mine didn't. And mine did not adopt the orphan. Mine just kept a maternal vigil from afar, always enquiring after Regina's health, education and prosperity.

Did my mother contribute materially to Regina's upbringing? There is no evidence she did. No mysterious bank withdrawals, absences, phone calls or surreptitious letter writing. It is clear my mother was invisible throughout Reggie's upbringing. Still she's convinced we have the same mother.

Since our teens I've also toyed with coming onto Reggie. If she returned any romantic feelings, would it prove she is not my sister? But Reggie would never let herself fall, never. And I bet no one else will ever get a look in. So I darkly muse about raping her. Would she accept the extra ignominy of incest? Or would she settle for a fuck forced on her by the 'brother' she's always despised?

I know Reggie's inner workings better than anyone. She is as irreligious as me. But she feels guilt. I can see her wince at living with incest, far worse than rape. And there's the rub. She would only live it down by erasing me, literally. I have no doubt she would murder me. No matter what it takes.

That prospect has always unsettled this would-be rapist. So I keep looking for another means of persuasion. When DNA testing started I thought it would be my saviour. But without living parents or siblings, testing would never be conclusive. So I live in a shroud with a vision of Regina burying it.

Dead Red Centre

The family's prestige 4wd vehicle stops dead – almost dead centre of Oz actually – in the Red Centre. More precisely, their hired 4x4 has luxuriously bogged itself in dunes one mile north of the Lasseter highway to Uluru. No one else knows yet. Just the occupants – one naive couple and their two vaguely distant, late teenagers playing Xbox.

Roused by the stationary silence, the son, Anup, engages the family long enough to ask if they are lost. More pointedly, daughter Aliyah queries if anyone else in the whole world knows where they are. Mr S. K. Ghosal replies,

'I have always known exactly where you are, my sweetie. Unfortunately no one else does. And from here I cannot tell them.'

This oblique response bemuses them all. Mrs Neena Ghosal looks at him askance.

'Do something then.'

When they were leaving Alice Springs the voting age kids asked the travel guide where's the nearest beach – their number one destination. He quipped the Centre is closest to every beach in Australia – around a thousand miles away. And there's sand for at least the first half of the way to the coast. That's why the Ghosals eventually drove offroad toward higher ground – to get over the sand. And they hoped to see how far to Ayers Rock, as the first Europeans called the ruddy huge monolith in an otherwise empty desert.

The limousine Mercedes-Benz G-Class had already glided three hours on the road from Alice – the only solid surface across the landscape. It was barely mid morning and the horizion was shaking, not just shimmering. Eighteen year old Anup was already cranky with heat. Ali was pretending to swoon one minute, and the next scolding her brother with her whole extra year of maturity. Mrs was itching with perspiration, even with full blast air conditioning. All the while Mr ungentlemanly sweaty Ghosal was getting caked in sticky dust from hand-shoveling around the buried wheels. All to no avail.

Exasperated, Mrs squeezes the satellite-phone to call home – damn the expense. Father-in-law Ghosal answers and immediately enquires about the weather. He notes it's been unusually hot in Bombay for June – over 100F. Te-he, how is winter in Australia? Mrs rolls her swollen eyes. She patiently explains. Today is already a scorcher, a real stinker, as the Aussies say. They are sweltering. It will soon be blistering outside, and absolutely stifling inside their luxurious Mercedes. Happy now, she asks herself.

On a roll, she continues the lecture. They are two thousand miles west of Sydney in a desert. The whole state, or territory actually, is desert. 'It is five times the size of our state, Dadiji. .. Yes, five times larger than the whole state around Mumbai. And Papa, Alice Springs radio rightly predicted 43 Celsius today; that is 110 Fahrenheit.' She hastens to clarify 'This forecast was obviously for the shade, but there is none; not even under our upmarket truck, as it is bloody well bogged.'

'Ring the Royal Auto,' comes the instant reply. 'Why ring me in Bombay?'

'Father dear, the whole of Australia has less than one quarter of Mumbai's state population. And the longer this call for your help takes, the sooner the whole of Australia will reach a mere twenty five million souls.'

'Ah, so you want me to make some calls for you, yes?'

Shaking her head, 'Yes, yes please, Dadiji!'

Ali lowers her window long enough to call out,

'Daddy, we are saved. Mummy phoned Dadiji, He is consulting his contacts to call in the cavalry to rescue us.' Mr G pops up like a ghostly tomb raider. Leaning on the shovel he yells,

'Just tell him to giddy-up!'

Ali takes pity and nudges Anup,

'Why don't you help your father? Mummy, tell him to stop bopping.'

Anup just glares at them and continues Xboxing with the jingle in his earphones. When push comes to shove he bleats,

'He brought us here; he can dig us out.'

Mr Ghosal senior was a high-ranking administrator in the Indian civil service, Bombay division. He is reputedly unflappable, commanding pen-pushers to organise the rescue of many thousands from calamity. As Neena's father-in-law he appreciates the urgency in her voice. That is partly why he laughs when Google lists Lara Bingle Crash Repairs in Alice Springs, Australia. He often binges on Tomb Raider's nubile Lara when mother dearest is away visiting relatives. But this Lara – the Bingle mechanic, he supposes – is more likely gruff like a weight-lifter woman. He smiles at the image – pneumatic Lara.

In any case Lara Bingle gradually warms to the unusual call from the pukka English sounding gent in Mumbai – formerly Bombay, he explains. She feels unusually helpful this fine winter's day.

'Broken down on the Uluru road, eh? No worries, mate. Darkie can rock up first light tomorrow... Hay? ... Say again ...Yer askin' can anyone get there sooner? Nah mate, he's the only bloke here with a licence to punt the heavy lift tow truck. And you're in luck; he's just back from walkabout... Where's that? Walkabout? Er, don't worry, mate. Darkie'll be there, no probs. ... She'll be right ... What missus? ... Nah, just meant no trubs. She'll be sweet, okay mate.'

To the Rescue

Once a jolly swagman ...  you'll come a waltzing... The ringtone still perplexes Mrs Ghosal but she pounces on their hired sat phone anyway. Thankfully it is wonderful news. She exhales, Mumbai to the rescue. They only need to survive one hot and cold night in the desert in each other's close company. Rather than rejoice the kids still grumble in utter despair – no mobile coverage, and their music player's batteries are dying. Mrs G is more concerned about being squashed into their leather trimmed 4x4 with little food and less to drink. Son decides his last Red Bull is just the ticket. Mr G simply shrugs and sets to digging out a wheel again.

Just after dawn Darkie is whistling down the Stuart highway, wondering if his kindred tracker skills will be needed to find the Indians off the Lasseter tarmac. There's more dunes than ant hills out here. Darkie mumbles,

'Did anyone tell 'em to make smoke signals? ...Just jokin'. Or climb the highest dune and reflect a mirror before me whizzes by?'

Seriously, if the Ghosals are a mile offroad, Darkie knows the chances of spotting them are Buckleys and Nunn.

Another hour passes and Darkie is muttering

'SFA ... SFA'.

Finally he pulls over for a smoko. That's when he hears the plaintive horn bopping. Not SOS as expected. Actually bopping. Reminds him of the Bollywood vids at the Indian takeaway. He heads the truck offroad. Crawling between the biggest dunes he comes across tyre tracks. His diesel drone startles a dingo atop a mound.

'Sound must be comin' from everywhere.'

Darkie guesses the dog was watching possible prey around the next bend. Sure enough, it's the latest Mercedes-Benz G-class wagon. Still gleaming in patches not layered in dust.

'Plenty moolah there,' he mumbles.

The Mrs wastes no time stumbling toward Darkie's truck, colorful sari dragging sand. Hands outstretched to Darkie, then momentarily in prayer, she oscillates. He guesses she's also thanking her lucky stars. There's Mr too, slumped against the wheel buried to the axle. He slowly raises an arm. And that must be son's sleepy head lolling out a window. Next, daughter appears from the far side of the ritzy wagon, crawling on all fours, scarf wound around her head like an Arab. She's wilting badly. Darkie jumps out, grabbing the water bladder.

'Jeez, they're a miserable mob.'

The shot cracks between the dunes, instantly muffled. Just the one, then silence again. Until Mrs screams. Darkie guesses the dingo's copped it. Probably a hunter atop another dune, unaware of the unhappy campers below. Daughter shrieks, scrambling to her feet. Crikey, it's only a dog, thinks Darkie. Her gold pantsuit suddenly crouches, like in a dance move. But then she limps frantically toward the Mrs. Next, the son half falls out his passenger door. He's darting about like a headless chook. Hysteria is setting in.

'Strewth, carryin' on like pork chops,' spits Darkie.

Then he notices Mr is still propped against the wheel. There's a red dot dripping between his eyes. Darkie halts dead in his tracks.

'What the fuck!'

Darkie slowly backs up against his truck and scrambles to the cover side. Peering over the cowl he scans the dunes for the shooter.

'Sniper,' he yells, 'duck!'

Suddenly Mrs is all over him. He fends her off to climb into the cabin for his rifle. Slugs are under the seat. She's pulling his leg. He's thinking

'Nothing funny about it'. He yells at her, 'Rack off, I'm not leavin' ... just gettin' ...' as he kicks her away.

Winded she stares at him with a pained look. He jumps over her, rifle raised. She lifts an arm to cover her eyes, scared witless.

'Climb in. Bloody quick. And stay down.'

Bedraggled daughter has crawled under the step to the cabin, spluttering. She's panting nineteen to the dozen, like she'll explode. Darkie sees the son standing motionless in the open, arms dangling, staring at his father.

'Get over here, fella. Come on. Move it.'

Just as son turns, Mr sinks sideways. Darkie rushes to bundle both kids into the cabin against Mum. He backs up the truck, rifle across their knees. Winding erratically between the dunes as fast as he dare, sand and mulga flying, he scans left and right. Nothing. No one.

Back on the bitumen, Darkie radios base. What to say? Fuck. Darkie blurts

'Base, the bloke's dead. ... Shot dead.'

The cabin hears Bingle's Lara reply,

'Who's fuckin' dead? Darkie, you zonked or somethin'? For Christ sake... Darkie?'

Mrs calmly reaches across and takes the mic from Darkie.

'My husband Mr Ghosal has just been shot dead. No idea who or why. My two teenagers and I are unharmed, thanks to your driver. He is driving us back to you.'

Darkie nods agreement. The radio crackles, like clearing its throat.

'Far out! Will tell the cops. ... Shit.'

Darkie adds, 'Yeah, Bingle1 out!'

Police Senior Sergeant Sharon Kelly half listens to Lara's babbling. Normally it's Sharon who rings Lara to attend a critical prang. She's not expecting Lara's calamity. But when the Sarge hears 'shot dead' she grabs the phone perched on her shoulder.

'Who's shot dead? ... Lara, start over. ... Slowly, gimme the facts.'

Sharon drags the desk constable over to take notes. She verbalizes Lara's spiel for him to record. The young cop starts making corrections – bit of a shock. Eventually the Sergeant winds up the call, telling Lara she'll ring Mr Ghosal senior in Mumbai. 'Soon as we get a statement from Darkie. Send him over pronto.'

Lara won’t keep the bad news from Mumbai that long. She feels obliged to ease old man Ghosal's pain if possible. But she'll keep it professional. She only tells Mr Ghosal senior there's been a serious incident, and the police will be in touch. She's used to reporting road fatalities, and registering the shock and disbelief of loved ones. But this old man's dignified response impresses her. She thinks he has needed to function under pressure before. She can tell he is reading between her lines.

He tells Lara he will start making arrangements, and notify her of any developments at his end. Lara gets the impression Mr Ghosal senior has connections, and knows how to mobilize authorities, even in Oz. On cue he asks about the Breitharts' whereabouts. Lara replies that as far as she knows they are both at their Casaenda property 'running the country'. He appreciates the update, saying he thought the two Breithart women only represented the mining interest in the Alice region, not the whole Territory. Aside from poor timing, Lara wonders if he's joking.

Crimestoppers

When Darkie rolls up to Lara Bingle's with the damaged Ghosals, half the town is loitering. Bad news carries. Actually, it's not the murder. That's not a novelty in these parts. Alice is the murder capital of Australia. It's the underlying tensions this mixed race murder foments. It's not the usual white on black, or the more common inter-tribal or familial black on black. Hardly anyone has seen an Indian in these parts, just plenty of Yanks.

Darkie is mobbed until two cops step in. They wave both sides apart. On the one hand there are Darkie's protectors in spirit – the elders, the outstation hands, the town campers, the itinerants and homeless, the drunks and vapes. All milling about, restless but subdued. And then there are the town's powerbrokers, or at least their representatives – the businessmen, the councilors, the miners and the station hands. All geeing each other up and trading insults.

In the gap Sergeant Kelly raises the loudhailer. She lets it be known,

'Darkie's rifle hasn't been fired.' She claps him on the shoulder, 'He's off the hook.'

His mob cheer. The others shuffle. Lara is probably relieved, though she doesn't show it. This publicity might put off some white business. She can see on the sidelines the bank manager, a mining exec or two, a Rotary and a Mason. The Women's Auxiliary is represented and the Tangentyere Council too. Things are hotting up.

Lara has seen the town restive before. So has Sergeant Kelly. But this is different. Head and shoulders above a tight bunch of other cowboy hats is Billboy Harrison, only son of the Deepend station owner and founding chairman of the Cattlemen's Association. She remembers the old man's gangly youngster as a bully to anything in skirts, and a wimp to anyone bolder.

The Sarge expects Billboy will be stoking aboriginal prejudices, and niggling the miners to join in. His drovers keep a tight circle about him, repeating his key words around the scrum. On past form he'll get scarce after he's stirred the pot to the boiling point. But surprise, surprise, he's retiring early. What's up?

Lara Bingle and Sharon Kelly have history too. Both had the same fiance until Lara broke then Constable Sharon's finger. Ripping off her engagement ring, in more ways than one. They've been respectful buddies ever since. Each knows their end of town. Lara has the street vibe cornered. Current weather conditions are her forte. Sharon knows the forecast. She monitors the influences well.

Today Sharon would appreciate Lara's reading of the simmering crowd. Bodies part for the Sarge as she weaves through to Lara. First she updates the state of play. The crime scene will need to be scoured before the other Ghosals are officially cleared. Homicide and forensics will convoy down from Darwin. Don't hold your breath. Then the detectives will need to interview Darkie. Lara shrugs. The circus is coming to town.

Sergeant Kelly leans to Lara,

'Best keep Darkie out of harm's way in the meantime.'

Both women know the locals will blame the Indians for the disruption, and Darkie by association. And no one appreciates out-of-town filth, even carrying the same Territory badge as Sharon. All the spicy ingredients are present. Parting company, Lara flicks Sharon's hat.

'Watch how the cookie crumbles.'

Sharon looks back to see Lara gesturing at the throng.

Billboy is back, weighing into the perimeter astride his Waler. Taller than his gang's stockhorses, the steed parts the black folk roughly. The other side of the crowd surges, following the stockmen. Sharon hears the thrum suddenly rise. She looks round to see fists punching the air. What a ruckus. Instantly she presses the loudhailer's siren button. Panic separates everyone. The two cops home in on their Sarge. She thrusts toward Billboy. By the book they cut him out of his herd. Surrounded by authority he reins in, and waves off his supporters. Sharon orders him to dismount and cuffs him roughly.

Finke

Ochre dust billows like smoke behind my fire-red Jeep– the Grand Cherokee Trailhawk variety to be precise. Fine as talcum it's been settling in my wake this last week. It's hypnotic – combustable motoring across a whiskery sandscape. Devouring my Ohnliness by the mile. This Red Centre joins me, feels all mine. But only my 4x4 cocoon keeps me from being swallowed into insignificance. Endless dominion. Satisfying emptiness.

The radio squawks

'Wyr1, Wyr1, this is Wyrcom, Wyrcom.'

And again. .. Shaking my head, no way! Nope. Another squawk.

'Pick up... Damn it, Ivor, pick up the mic.'

I grab the remote.

'Bugger off, Jess! I'm on vacation. Anyway, stick to radio protocol, eh?'

The loudspeaker pops and crackles back.

'Listen Ivor – er, Wyr1, the GPS says you're nowhere, just wasting time passing by .. Finke, wherever that is. Got a real job for you near Uluru. Ah, guess you old-timers still call it Ayers Rock.'

'Smart arse, Jess! Listen, Wyrcom, if I were working I'd be incognito. And I'm not, because I'm cruising Finke Gorge National Park, between Boggy Creek and the Police Station ruins. Got it? Heading to Palm Valley next. Out here there's amazing contrasts for a desert. And serenity. But since you're bothering me, Wyrcom, what's up?'

'Some Indian family is copping it heaps from the locals, black and white. Father shot dead. Plenty of biffo since. Chief pastoralist's son stabbed to death in a bar room brawl. Pride and prejudice alright. Getting even nastier by the day. Just your cup of discrimo and predo juice!'

'Crap Wyrcom, sounds way beyond discrimination and prejudice to me. Definitely one for the cops, not me. We do rights; they do laws – remember?'

Off the track I see a roo looming, like it wants to be road kill. Got its eye on some mulga on the other side probably. Blast my horn. Bugger! Swerve. Missed, no thud. One indignant large grey doused in red soot. Ears still bobbing above the cloud in my wake.

'Yeah Wyr1, cops for sure .. crackle, buzz .. when the Darwin boys arrived they nearly sparked a riot. Bull at a gate, egged on by the local gentry and their councilors, looks like. Feds want you to calm everyone down.'

'Sure they do, Jess. Opportunists looking for favorable publicity.'

'Pine Gap doesn't need bad PR either. Ivor, you still there? .. Te-he, wonder if the Yanks know you were behind nailing them on their international human rights obligations? Guess our Feds would love to whisper you wrote the book on fitting up their Middle-East ambassadors for human rights abuses.'

'That'll do, Wyrcom. Airwaves have ears, remember.'

'Anyway, Wyr1, your brief is to feed the locals their rights, or else. Smooth the waters. Just your forte, Boss.'

'Okay, okay.. Wyrcom. Text me the players' names, addresses. And email me alltheir details. I'll take a look. Need oil and juice anyway. Wyr1 out.'

And why am I cruising around Finke anyway? Because it sounds how I feel about Reggie, my rat-fink bogus blister. She sank the kudos I was due from my last gig back at Wyrbanc. And it's not the first time. She's hounded me like Moriarty. Not even my Ohnliness could forestall all her antics. But now I'm rejuvenated to retaliate, good and proper.

My last Wyrbanc gig exposed an online Russian organisation targeting pro ATSI groups – out here, collective noun still 'Abos'. At the time Aussie politics was bickering about making a national apology for the stolen Aboriginal generations. The Ruskies couldn't care less about the outcome. To them historical apartheid disguised as paternalistic welfare mattered not one iota. There was no ideological motive behind their concerted disruption. They simply wanted to sow social discord by maligning civic minded ATSI individuals and interests. They conspired to tip the balance of opinion against apology, to reinforce resentment of the elite minority leadership of the white supremacy of Australia.

What have Russian provocateurs to do with Regina? Plenty. My Wyrbanc colleagues and fellow activists exposed the email trail behind the Russian sourced social media postings designed to disrupt the apology campaign. By hitting subjective buttons – like black/white racism, welfare, and literacy, the Ruskies' intended to divide the wider society over ATSI interests. The emails showed the tactics employed to persuade possibly naïve local commentators to tweet veiled criticisms, subtext innuendo and outright barbs. Individually these twits barely registered as deliberate discrimination. Unreasonable nonsense mostly. But with similar postings on Facebook, Instagram and the like, the weight of overall sentiment was intended to both provoke and dilute ATSI sympathies. The emails clearly showed the Russian organised strategy – ramp up sympathies, both sides; incite conflict in the soft rump of democracy.

Regina's modus operandi was similar, but personal. From behind the scenes she stirred up opinions, either ostensibly for me, or overtly against me. Most of her acts were calculated aspersions. My friends and contacts would hear tidbits of scandal that she could fit my name into. By the time I knew, the kindling was well alight and the damage difficult to smother. By escalating anyone's interest in me, she hoped to make me too high-maintenance for everyone's comfort. Extreme views about me raised suspicions and turned people off. Reggie knew.

So my two minutes of mainstream media attention over the Ruskies rekindled Regina's sometimes-latent resentment of me. She decided to hop on the #MeToo campaign and circulate my name among publicized abusers. For good measure she added some implied accusations of paedophilia. Though false and entirely baseless, it takes time to repulse her initial attack. Credibility wounded, I retreated to the outback for respite.

Days in the desert give me time to devise my retaliation. I plan a blitzkreig on several fronts. Reggie's vulnerabilities are her precarious finances, sexual proclivities, and reliance on nefarious social contacts. I can hit all of these online, simultaneously. No more hot-headed physical confrontation. The last time, how was I to know what real life consequences would follow my offline knifing? Like when the gorilla-gram guy jumped on her doorstep expecting kinky sex, got rejected, and flexed his disappointment on her nose. At least I am now far off in a dust cloud. Even my Ohnliness cannot foresee fallout over this distance.

The Alice Brief

As I hit the outskirts of Alice I can see things are turning ugly. Utes of white trash cruise the streets around the Aboriginal town camps. These ghettos have eyes if not actual guards posted. Unfortunate nearby cars are daubed red, yellow and black. In the business centre of town the Gupta jeweler is barred up. The Vindu cafe's windows are smashed. The Miners Arms has muscled up with barricades. And the gates to the Cattlemen's Club are chained.

While I'm waiting for fuel I login to Wyrbanc and read the background info from Jess. That pastoralist's son stabbed to death in the spillover from a pub brawl belongs to none other than the largest cattle station owner around Alice. All of nine thousand square miles, grazing up to sixteen thousand cattle. That is nearly the size of Israel, producing income over USD 1M in a good year. Nearly everyone rides on Deepend's fortunes. No wonder the town is percolating for an all in barnie over Billboy. And as Jess radioed earlier, the plodding Darwin D's would be reluctant to step in – Alice isn't their town.

Not so the local cops. Jess writes 'Sergeant Kelly is edgy. Her higher ups in Darwin have promised her a negotiator.' Apparently they recognise local prejudices are fomenting across several lines: ATSI-India, black-white, rich-poor, miners-cattlemen, locals-outsiders. The latter includes the Yankies at Pine Gap. The prospect of any unrest over the Gap has our pollies in Canberra alarmed. Seems they have given the Sergeant an ultimatum of sorts. If their dispatched negotiator recommends reinforcements, the Feds will oblige. That will add to the Sarge woes. She'll be asking, who the hell is this Dr Ivor Jo negotiator anyway?

I can see why they've called me in. Jess and the Wyrbanc researchers she manages in Melbourne have looked into the Ghosals. Mr S. K. Ghosal is the founder and CEO of ISAA, Indo Studies Australia America, the largest agency in Mumbai for recruiting students to Australian and American universities. Mr and Mrs G have done exceedingly well in this business. But as Jess points out, corrupt practices among these recruiting businesses are not unknown. Critics liken some agencies to smuggling rings. But if Mr G was dirty, lately he has exposed exploitation of Indian students and their families by several competitors.

I note the Ghosals' trip to Oz may have been to escape retribution back home. Alternatively the trip could have been precipitated by a breakdown in negotiations over the daughter's pending marriage. Jess has done her homework. Back in Mumbai, it seems Mr G's reputation was savaged by the groom's even more influential family. Pecking order matters most in the marriage business.

Over coffee I'm learning of allegations that Mr G, as CEO of ISAA, solicited sex for favorable placement of groomed students with Australian and American universities. Generally families pay agents bribes for better placements. But when the parents are poor and the student attractive, why not sex in lieu? Sounds plausible enough. Corruption could provide motive for revenge on Mr G from any wronged student, or their family.

But deeper probing by Jess suggests the allegations are a smokescreen for a cabal of corrupt agents, which Mr G was lately trying to expose. In fact, Mr G's recent turning of a new leaf may have been precipitated by the suicide of his daughter's best friend. It appears she succumbed to being out of depth as an ill prepared student for the demanding Uni life in Australia. Shame.

The more I think about it, plenty have motive to knock off Ghosal: one of his competitors, one of his disgruntled students, even one of his family such as a forcibly betrothed daughter. And we cannot rule out the cattlemen, say Billboy, if there's a connection. The Breitharts might even have a deeper mining interest than they admit too. In any case, all have adequate opportunity to murder Mr G in the outback. The desolation certainly reduces the risk of detection over populated areas, especially those back in India.

If the murderer is not another Ghosal, how did he or she anticipate the family's movements? Following the family around sparsely populated territory would stand out like dogs' balls. And all the way from Sydney? Ah, wait a second. No problem if their Mercedes-Benz carries a tracker. Memo: ask Jess how do I scan their G-wagon for a location transmitter.

Jess' report mentions Mr G's business partners have enlisted a big city legal firm in Sydney to prod the authorities' investigation along. Apparently their lawyers are stoking suspicions about the Alice locals who abused the Ghosals. I can see this self-righteousness as possibly intended to distract culpability away from their clients. But is any of this connected to the knifing of a cattleman's son?

I need to start with the remaining Ghosals, before any other interested parties hijack my endeavours. So where are they? I quickly ring Jess at Wyrbanc. She tells me the local police have them holed up in the Clink Motel next door to the cop shop. It's for the Ghosals' protection from the shooter of course. Or from the cattlemen, looking to blame Ghosal for Billboy. Or possibly even Darkie's countrymen, given the thanks he got for rescuing the Ghosals and bringing on this mess.

If I rock up to meet the Ghosals I'll have to get past the police guard. I'm not relishing announcing myself. So far I've stayed under their radar. On the other hand, the local constabulary has yet to roll out a welcome mat; or put the mockers on me, as far as I know. I'll test that out on Lara Bingle first. I need to find out what the locals really think of Darkie rescuing the Ghosals. Lara will know. But will she talk?

Then I'll have to bite the bullet to get the Ghosals' story. Perhaps I can slip into the Clink Motel and reach their door unchallenged, better still, unnoticed. Never know til you try, said Juliet to Romeo. In the meantime I need a place to crash, an out-of-the-way retreat. Google says the Swagmans Rest is nearby the Clink. An apartment on the second floor will do. Only one entrance from the outside balcony, plus a view of any shady comings and goings.

Alice in Wonderland

Lara Bingle's Lara is a stout old stick. She picks me the instant I drive up. And I don't need Ohnliness to note her disdainful glance. Probably expects I'm some money grubbing investigator. Or have cop tongues already been wagging about me? I'm not getting any Ohnliness vibes about her, but that spanner twitching in her right mitt looks unfriendly. Luckily, she nonchalantly flicks her left index toward a two storey across the road. I glance over and notice the old pub's verandah is slightly tilting. It's the Heavitree Gap hotel after all and I have an eye for detail. About facing again, I wave Lara a half-hearted bye without saying hello.

'Mob's not happy Darkie got grilled. Watch 'urself, doc.'

I shrug, but appreciate the consideration. Giving another wave I clump across the heat-soaked bitumen.

No trouble spotting Darkie in the main bar. Everyone and his dog are hovering around him. Talking over him mostly. I signal the barmaid for a couple of beers.

'Tell Darkie, there's one for him at my table, ok?'

She barely nods. Still I get a vibe she's a friendly sort. Must make time to check her out. Could be some useful chatter. I pick the empty corner table with grog stains on the wall. When Darkie gets up to look me over, I motion him across. His mates look suss, and shuffle about, giving me the evil eye.

'Just you mate ... bit private.' He dons his red/yellow/black beanie and grabs the beers. The others refocus on theirs.

I tip my glass and we both swallow. Clearing my lip,

'Darkie, right?' Extending my hand, 'Ivor. I've been asked to look into the Ghosal matter, seeing everyone's upset.'

Darkie snorts and gives a tentative handshake. I point out a stool and he pulls it over. The beanie comes off as he plonks one leg over, waiting for me to yack.

'First the Ghosal murder, then the Harrison knifing. Don't want any more grief, eh? I'm here to help sort it out.'

Darkie looks a bit sideways and tweaks his ear.

'Did you see the shooter?'

'Nah, boss, nobody. Just heard one bang. Piled 'em women in me truck. Scarpered real quick.'

'What the cops saying?'

'Bloody drongoes. Reckon no tracks in the dunes. Prob'ly stomped all over 'em is why! Now sayin' a sniper. Few hundred yards maybe. 'Round here, only bosses got the gear for that shot.'

'Yeah, but why shoot him?'

'We scratchin' heads too, bud.'

'And the cattleman?'

Darkie squirms about, then leans in.

'Billboy was Harrison's black sheep. Dorky kid, no good drover. Lived off the family name. The ol' man rode 'im hard but never reined 'im in. A real knob. Him and his cobbers always after us countrymen. Whitefella royalty.' Pht-ding, Darkie spits in the corner. 'Anyhow, he comes after me on account of the dead Injun, maybe all them Ghosals I rounded up. Says I'm bad for business. Roughs me up, just outside here. So my boys get stuck in. A real blue.'

'How'd Harrison get knifed?'

'Dunno, boss, fair dinkum. But just before, Knuckles charges out, yellin' blue murder, and starts bangin' heads.'

'Knuckles?'

'The bruisa publican. He's got the whole bar behind him. They all join in. Punches flyin' everywhere. Next, Billboy's down, and the dirt's soakin' up his claret. Steak knife in the chest. Bugger me, dead! Every bod and his dog bolts.'

'Okay. I better chat with the Ghosals then. Cheers, Darkie.'

Cop Shop

As far as Alice TV goes 'News at Six' is fairly predictable. Big city politics usually headlines, then regional stories – neighbourhood carjacks, assaults, and residential thefts are sprinkled between town developer features. But today's main story is the near riot after the stabbing death of local cattleman Harrison's boy. At the live press conference outside the Alice Springs Police Station, Sergeant Sharon Kelly stands nervously, waiting to be grilled. And when interviewed, she looks uncomfortably like the shoe is on the other foot. The Sergeant hesitatingly plays down the seriousness of the civil unrest, and will not be drawn on any connection to the Ghosal murder.

One reporter suggests 'a melee of over 100 blacks on whites'. The raucous bar patrons around me just scoff. Their women jeer the hapless Sarge on screen, while the mine workers' table wave their fists. Under the pressure of further reporters' questions, the ill prepared Sergeant admits 'Darwin detectives are looking into related matters'. What matters, if not Ghosal? Then the Sergeant blurts, 'A consultant from Melbourne is being engaged to advise on calming all parties and maintaining their rights'. While I jostle for another beer, the coverage flashes up a mugshot. As I turn around, beer in hand, everyone is staring at me. I hear 'Dr Ivor Jo is an internationally recognised human rights law activist with experience in defusing racial tensions and confrontational demonstrations'. Oh shit! My cover blown, I leave the beer on the nearest table and head for the door as the insults start.

As soon as the Sergeant returns to her desk she's furious with herself. 'Fuck, what a mug,' she spits at the wall. 'Constable,' she yells. 'Constable, get me all the guff on this f-ing Dr Ivor Jo.' And to herself she promises, 'Next time I'll be ready for the lousy piranha, the paparazzi, or whatever they call themselves.' Ten minutes later, a little calmer, she reads 'Dr Ivor Jo's IT career began as an academic, publishing on internet espionage. On early retirement it was revealed he had worked as a cyber spy for Australian Signals Intelligence with the equivalent rank of Major. Publicity called him a 'spydemic' – a covert internet signals analyst masquerading as an IT academic. He foundered and still leads Wyrbanc, an online agency for human rights law R&D.'

Sergeant Kelly looks away as I barge up to the front desk of her cop shop. 'Thanks for the heads up, Sergeant!' Tapping my chest, 'You could've got me lynched in the public bar. Just another casualty I suppose? How many you got now?'

Tight lipped, she rudely ushers me into her office.

'Shut the door. Listen up, doctorIvor. Nobody told me you were here. But since you are, you can find your own bloody protection. I got bigger fish to fry.'

'So the murders are my fault, eh?'

'One murder, and one fatal assault, unless you know something I don't.'

'Ok, no proof yet. But I might just do you some good if you give me a chance. People won’t talk to you lot as easily.'

'King Canut are you? Part the waters between black and white, cattlemen and traditional owners, miners and tour operators. I bet you can! And they'll thank you with confessions, yeah?'

'Give me access to your witnesses and suspects and I'll glean info your mob won’t get without a big stick.'

'I can't stop the suits from Darwin getting their chop. They're stirring up most of my troubles.'

'I carry a bigger out-of-town stick than them. They'll back off when they learn I can dob them into the Feds.'

'And me too?'

'Not if we cooperate.' I raise my hands peacefully.

The Sergeant paces, hands on hips, glancing back at me.

'Ok, we'll give it a try. But you give me grief and I'll have to back Darwin.'

I offer to shake on it. She glances out the window to the front desk, and yells

'Now get the hell out of my office.'

Lucky Dip

Regina could not believe her luck. Having tarnished Ivor's latest victory over the Russian hackers, he bolted, and she knew not where. Now his ugly mug flicks up on every screen, announcing he's in Alice Springs on a new humanitarian project. Of all the holes, she would make it her mission to bury him there.

Her previous attempts all fell at the last hurdle. The closer she got to scalping him the sooner he slipped away, wounded at best. As she closed in for the kill it was like he anticipated her next move. Superstition maybe, but this time she would not plan every detail in advance. She resolved to simply take her opportunities as they come. Even she would not know what twist happens next until she delivers the final blow.

Melbourne was Regina's turf as much as Ivor's. She will need an accomplice out in the desert. During the Russian hack, she befriended an online contact called Chip. He dropped that he worked in the outback on communications. He mentioned 'the Rock'. He oozed American slang, but so do lots of hip techies. Maybe, just maybe, he's located around Alice. She suddenly recalls Pine Gap, the nearby joint American-Australian spy base. What if ... how perfect.

Regina emails Chip to say she will be touring the outback.

'Any chance we can meet up?'

It was a long shot, but you never know. Guys still crawl .. miles .. for a doll.

Chip replied almost instantly.

'Done deal. I'm in Mel for two more days "on R&R". But I can fly to you. Where you be?'

Regina replies 'How about that? I'm in town too. I'll shout you dinner. Here's my cell number...'

Chip texts back 'Sure thing. Your pick.'

She chooses a swanky but upbeat bistro in the CBD clubs block. She hates grunge, and hipster for that matter. Neither fits her age and style. Still, she can pass for early forties. Funny how younger guys do not seem to care. What's their saying - M.I.L.F? Sex to impress a more mature woman must be a turn on, she decides.

Arriving early Regina hopes to spot Chip first. She's smartly dressed, touting her ubiquitous shoulder bag, but hopes to blend in. People ask what she carries around, and they never get a straight answer. Regina knows it is a sort of Linus blanket. Her bag can provide physical protection. And she can fidget when a distraction is needed.

Controlling meetings and interactions is Regina's favourite predilection. Getting caught on the hop unnerves her. For her Chip she picks the most likely dude entering. Tall, casual look, loose shirt, almost scruffy. He barely scans the clientele and takes a seat across the room. She studies him.

'Hey Reg? Nice to meet in person.'

Startled, she turns to the twang over her shoulder. Chip drops into the seat next to her, not the one opposite she planned.

'Oh Hi, Chip. Sorry, must have missed your arrival.'

'Nah, been waiting for ya.'

'How'd you know I'm Regina?'

'Your pic,' pointing as he slips his phone on the table. 'Wanna see what else I know about ya?'

Regina gestures for the waiter, 'What'll you have, Chip?' She notes this Chip is clean cut, short red hair, not the west coaster surfer type she imagined. He's smart too, a bit too smart for a good first impression. Also decidedly younger, and Regina never appreciates a gigolo. Makes her feel barren and desperate.

'Reg, congrats on bailing out the Ivors by the way. As hackers go they're like bears in a china shop, but your S.O.B who nailed them – Dr Ivor, eh? – well, you smeared him real good. Glad I could help actually. That doc of yours has butted into my business too.'

Sensing an opening, and ignoring any misgivings about Chip, she lunges.

'Are you from around Alice? My Ivor is messing about there now.' Leaning into Chip, Regina half whispers, 'Want to help me finish him off?'

Chip just eyes Regina up and down – trim for her age, probably childless.

'What's the deal?'

'Tap in 'Ghosal murder' and 'Uluru'. You'll find our Ivor is 'advising' – a sort of peacemaker. Once we're both back on site I'll fill you in.'

'Yeah, heard about Ghosal down here. And my ol' bud, Billboy on the nightly news too. He had a kinky thing going with some miners. Losing his intel on the locals will hurt my folks in Alice. Everyone will be kinda sensitive to anyone poking about. The ranchers, diggers and us have an understanding, ya know.'

'Talking intel, Chip, does big brother have any on Ivor? I need dirt.'

'For the right price, sure.'

'I can trade you Aussie info on his Wyrbanc undermining U.S interests. Ivor's got a bad habit of siding with the underdog, anywhere your bros ride roughshod over the natives rights.'

'You Aussies ought to know – trampling abos, wogs, gooks, nips, chinks, and lately sand refugees. But yeah, Ivor's a prick in our side, that's for sure.'

Butch

As I'm leaving the cop shop an ochre crusted Toyota ute pulls up. The half readable logo shows Breit... I guess one of Sharon's lackeys dobbed to the mining couple – some federal sponsored adviser has been parachuted into their territory. The two tin hats swagger up to me and mumble something about visiting Gene and Remy Breithart this evening. Their invitation seems reinforced by the curious coppers looking on.

Jess at Wyrbanc had certainly briefed me about the two Breithart women running minings' vested interests in and around Alice. And how their muscular fingers extend throughout the Territory. Transport companies and energy suppliers defer to them. Government authorities lick the precious dust off their boots. In short, they can be very persuasive. So when these two hard heads deliver 'Happy Hour at Casaenda starts at six; don't be late' – well, I listen.

Gene and Remy look to me like twins, probably both ten pounders at birth. Apparently no one calls them Remy and Gene because their collective noun is GrrrR. I can see why. Remy strikes me like a tap to the funny bone – uncomfortably irritating. She's already flickering on my Ohnliness radar. Plus she oozes a welcome like granite. Her other half is almost convivial, though Gene shrinks away the instant Remy speaks.

As Remy points to a chair, 'We don't get many Indians in these parts.'

Formalities over, I've already got pins and needles in my left leg. Must be tense. 'Gene here, she jokes, no need for the Cavalry.' Gene smiles.

I nod as I find my seat. 'The Ghosal shooting hasn't helped then, ladies?'

Gene whirls around but Remy waves her down. Eyes meet. Remy gets cosy in the far armchair facing me. Gene takes a step back, then forward again.

'We don't need the publicity, right Gene?'

I squirm, 'So you two won't want me around either?'

'Too right, mate. Sooner you hop it the better, Doc. That's why we're gonna point you in the right direction. Eh, Gene?'

I can feel their persuasion mounting, but not where it's heading. And I'm getting mixed messages from my Ohnliness. Gene is a softy, a cuddly bear. But Remy is a Grizzly. Not sure if there's any more to it yet.

Glancing around I spot the aerial shots of huge blood red holes disgorging ochre ant trucks, while other Tonka toys wait to descend. Who will GrrrR throw under their bus? A snarl from Remy jolts me.

'For once it's not the bloody bungs. Blacks aren't 'ur problem, Doc. Too timid with anyone not their kind. And no interest in the Ghosals anyway.'

'Except,' reminds Gene, 'Darkie's truck is the tribe's next handout. So any towing business is their business.'

Remy claps the armrests and continues.

'Bill Harrison looks good for it, especially after Billboy's demise could'a been Injun retaliation. So just a game of cowdies and injuns maybe.'

'Seriously?' I'm incredulous. 'A Ghosal, or sympathiser, knifed Billboy in a pub brawl?'

Gene insists, 'Ivor, We're tellin' ya, the Ghosals got clout here.'

'Doesn't look like it to me, Gene – they're stuck in a motel dive.'

Remy heads Gene off, instead dobbing in the Yanks out at Pine Gap.

'The outta town cowboys are thicker than thieves too, believe us.' Pointing down and jabbing, 'They got a dirty tricks department right here. The bastards try to keep us all in line – diggers, drovers, pollies – the lot. Tried to compromise Gene when she spat on a casino proposal underwritten with USD. See, a gambling joint would contain their off-duty staff.'

'And soon blackmail the rest of us losers,' adds Gene.

I shrug, 'Why?' Gene puffs up but Remy just sneers and lets me go. 'I mean, ladies, how is an Indian family connected to suspect American interests here? How and why are they in bed together?'

Remy expands, 'You know about Billboy fallin' for Aliyah, right? Well, she found other boyfriends in Alice. One in particular throws C-notes at escorts. Wants to promote and organise their trade.'

'That's dead right,' offers Gene. 'Them CIA types probably knocked Ghosal to keep their Ali in line, workin' for them. Then they rubbed Billboy out 'cause he wouldn't stay quiet watchin' his girl get screwed. Betcha.'

'Any evidence?' I ask.

'We'll get you some. But only on the QT. We gotta live with the cattlemen too, eh Gene?'

'Sure. But there's this one septic tank in particular. He's ...'

'Now Gene, let's not speak ill .. The man here wants factual evidence.'

'Look forward to it, ladies. Maybe I'll waltz by and call on you both next time.'

Remy laughs. 'Not if I see you first. Gene's a bit flighty.'

Holed Up

Reception at the Clink Motel is AWOL. I sneak to Room 3 at the end of the dank corridor. Knock, knock. I stand back. I hear shuffling noises inside. The door unlocks and opens ajar on a chain. A double-barrel pokes out.

'What's up, sport?'

'Dr Ivor Jo to see the Ghosals.' Two heavy voices exchange grunts then silence. Next, the chain drops.

Two burly cops flank the entrance. Seated across the room against the wall are three pairs of large brown eyes. The Ghosals look like dazzled mice. The door bolts and the two retire to their mug-o-chinos in the kitchen.

Mrs G, Neena, politely introduces son Anup and daughter Aliyah. He's in tight jeans and a gaudy shirt. But Aliyah is tastefully stylish, draped in a flowing silk scarf. Yet, what a miserable lot, not only mourning. Talk about downcast, all three remaining Ghosals are in slow motion. A mouth opens but words are delayed. An unrelated gesture follows awkwardly.

Condolences aside I veer away from asking directly about the shooting, for now. Instead, what have they heard about the cattleman being fatally stabbed? I can see one cop is pricking his ears. Neena shakes her head. Anup shrugs. Aliyah slowly asks 'Which one?'

I explain there has only been one stabbing fatality.

'Yes, who was he, please? They won’t say.' Through the doorway the cops are frowning.

'Billboy Harrison.' Aliyah freezes. I don't need to ask if she knows him. She starts to sob. Neena looks over, incredulous. She has a retort in mind, but relents, and comforts her stunned daughter. I motion Anup to follow me out of earshot.

'How's your sister know Billboy?' Anup tightens up. 'Look, the cops will interrogate her now, unless I can explain. They've just seen her crumple.'

Arup stares at the floor.

'Ali wanted to act in Bollywood but father stopped it.'

'She's got the looks alright, Anup. But where's Billboy fit?'

'Father sent Ali here, Sydney, for a degree. She wagged, got into club escort work, looking to impress anyone in films. Billboy's gang of muppets took over her club one night.' Nodding furiously, he laments, 'She fell for the rich lanky cowboy. He promised to introduce her to his film producer contacts. Yes, yes. And he would fund her screen tests. No, no.' Arup shrugs forlornly. Or it is disdainfully?

'But how did Aliyah wind up with him here in Alice too?'

'Billboy said to follow him back to Alice, and he would introduce her to an American producer filming a western around here. Of course nothing happened. Then Father learned Ali had dropped out of Sydney Uni. He dragged her back to Mumbai for an arranged marriage. When that fouled up, she persuaded Daddy to take the family on this trip to Australia. Time out, she calls it.' Smacking his forehead, 'So this is all her selfish fault.'

Anup is getting agitated, pacing around. He's obviously harboring resentment for his father, and sister. Before he gets aggro I suggest he take a break while I defuse Aliyah's sudden status with Mr Plod as a person of interest. I need to front the two card playing cops before they report Ali's emotional reaction to Billboy's demise. The mere mention would draw Darwin's finest like flies. They will be all over Ali unless I can explain away her outburst.

During the duo's next card shuffle I confide that my news about another violent death must have been the last straw for Aliyah. Just too much. Mea culpa. Neither cop shows any interest. I stress the fatality could have been anyone. Her emotional outburst was nothing to do with Billboy in particular. One cop looks up briefly. Another violent death just set her off, you know, coming on top of the grief for her father. Aliyah is understandably overwrought, so she just flipped out. Finally, for good measure I assure the fellas she had no relationship with the cowboy, and that Anup confirms Aliyah is happily bethrothed back home to a rich merchant family. Issue defused I think.

The arranged marriage foul up is an angle I need to look into. There must be a disgruntled groom and his family back in Mumbai. This could be ample motive for killing Mr G. I saunter back to Anup.

'Hey, what stopped the marriage by the way?'

He looks at me warily, then seems to throw caution to the wind.

'Don't tell Momma I said anything. She only knows Dadda's version.'

Heavitree Gap

That night I phone Jess, my diligent young research assistant at Wyrbanc. I ask her to dig up the transaction-trails for Aliyah and Billboy in Sydney. My old e-spy days still come in handy. My trusty laptop soon shows their financial records overlap at the same venues at similar times. Billboy obviously kept Ali in style for a couple of weeks. And she probably used her club escort contacts to get him and his mates reciprocal perks at various nightclubs. But why did Billboy drag Ali back to Alice with a film enticement? Surely after the fun in Sydney it would be simpler to just ditch her there.

Perhaps Billboy intended some club business with Ali in Alice. Which reminds me, I need a word with Knuckles. What fired him up enough to chase up a brawl outside his pub? Surely he'd say good riddance, unless he had someone to support. Not Darkie, no way. May be Knuckles had something going with Billboy. Cheap meat I wonder. Not cattle – perhaps the girlie kind.

I pick a quiet time to visit Knuckles. Mid next morning the Heavitree Gap hotel is suitably hung over. Only a couple of patrons, and they look dopey. No Darkie or his countrymen. Just the same barmaid as before; she stands out.

'What'll ya have?' she manages without a glance my way, a schooner ready to pour.

'That'll do,' I nod. 'The boss about?'

'Not til the lunch swill.'

Finding it hard to keep my eyes above her shoulders I launch right in.

'Were you on when Billboy copped it?'

'First Darkie, now me, eh? You the filth too, just undercover?'

Ah, she remembers me; that's sweet. But then she swears, only half under her breathe.

'Had three grubby suits crawling over the joint yesterday. Just like bible bashers, just vit notebooks. Questions, questions. None of 'em wowsers, though. Miserable freeloaders while zey work. Mr, you gonna pay, right?'

'And more, for the right info.'

She laughs, 'Darl, I'm all yours .. for ze right price.'

Then I hear over my shoulder, 'Fiala, two over here when yur ready, Luv.'

'Fiala is it? And your accent, Slavic perhaps? I'm Ivor .. and no, I'm not Welsh.'

'I know. And you're wonderin' why someone with my looks, and charm to spare, works behind bar.' She bounces to the other foot. I finally read the logo on her singlet – Heavitree Gap. How appropriate, as the cleavage shifts, and she serves their beers. Her long stride helps too.

'Been here long, Fiala?'

'Half my life, Ivor. Ah, you mean Heavitree? Long enough to learn Knuckles' business.'

'Did it involve Billboy?'

'Vell, Knuckles wants to upgrade his pub to a glitzy nightclub. Fat chance. And vit me as hostess, would you believe? He knows I used to manage working girls. Anyway, all talk no action. Until Billboy starts comin' in every day, pitching a spiel. Soon Knuckles is showing him drafting plans. You know, I enter cashflow in the books, and I notice some new entries. Then a slick accountant starts joining their party.'

Suddenly my radar is itching. And it's not Fiala. She's a honey, bit past her prime. No, it's lardarse Knuckles sliding barside with a thud as he grabs a towel.

'Another beer, mate?'

Fiala is quick to start pouring. I glance over and catch his eye. It's that look alright. Another ugly is registering with my Ohnliness. This Knuckles is an uncouth slob. Ratty grey-blond hair, but only on the sides. Red hooter in the midst of a white stubble moosh. The narrow eyes really bother me. Droopy but still penetrating as he sizes me up. Huge hands like stoppers plugged into his bloated forearms. Threadbare shirt revealing a bleached tuft that collars a thrombosis neck waiting to pop.

'Early start to a drinkin' day, mate? Beer's always good and cold here.'

'Actually, wanted a word with you, the proprietor.'

'Really. Who's askin'?'

'Dr Ivor Jo. I got called in on the Ghosal murder ... about the unrest mainly.'

'The Feds ask you in then, not the locals?'

'Bit of both. All parties want to keep the peace. That why you weighed in with Billboy?'

Knuckles fires a low brow look at Fiala. She's trying to look busy, but within ear shot.

'Couldn't let Darkie's mob get the upper hand, Ivor. They'd own the place then.'

'Even outside? Darkie says Billboy picked him. What's that about?'

'Just blackfellas getting uppity. Drovers keep 'em in line.'

'Others say it was about Ghosal this time, Aliyah in particular.'

'Ali .. what's her name?'

'So you know Aliyah, Ghosal's daughter?'

'Daughter? Never met him or her. Look, Billboy's a Harrison. The ol' man and me go way back.'

I can see this old goat is getting fidgety. He shuffles along the bar, so I follow on my side. At the end we almost bump. He's a slumped brick shithouse in flattened thongs under dusty, no filthy, feet. With chewed toenails to boot. He's on my hook now; I need to reel him in.

'You know Ali was Billboy's girl in Sydney? He brought her here to do business with you.'

'Hang on. I said I don't know the bitch.'

I notice Fiala take a sideways look and shake her head.

'I'll see what she says then.'

Knuckles sidles to a table away from Fiala. He mumbles so I follow to hear him.

'Patrons tell me the Ghosals are under cop protection. You met Sharon, the Sarge, yet? Lovely girl, like a daughter to me. Knows her beat too. Tough and smart. Looks after us businessmen. She'll take care of the Ghosal girl, no worries. Ya know how young women can bleat, get hysterical after a bit o' fuss. Sharon'll make sure she minds her P's and Q's. And keep them Darwin homociders off her back. Wouldn't want the brass clamorin' for more tattle, upsetting her more.'

'Yeah, Knuckles, I get it.' With a wink, 'I'll make sure to chat with Aliyah on my ownsome. Cheers.'

Morris Soak

Ivor is ambling toward a mess of ramshackle humpies, hoping to find Darkie inside one. Semi-automatic fire peppers the corrugated iron ahead, to left and right. As he bites the dirt, what sounds like a trail bike speeds away behind him. Darkie storms out with a shotgun at his hip. Ivor rolls over, face up, and spits dirt. Raising himself he starts dusting off. No holes.

'Shit whiteman, ya keep bringin' trouble my way. Them bikie pair new 'round here. Whitie jackaroos fer sure.'

'Anyone hurt?'

'Nah. Just a warning .. or you'd be dead.'

A couple more residents show their faces, brandishing their wobbler. They barely bother with the extra ventilation. Or with me, still gathering my wits.

As I stand up the dogs hover round me, sniffing. Darkie too.

'Watcha want anyways?' he asks. No good me gettin' seen with ya.'

'Okay,' winking, 'I'll ring next time.' Darkie chuckles. 'It's just that Knuckles says you and Billboy have history – yeah?'

'Boy always egg on the other cockies. He too wuss to fist fight. Me and mine get stuck in alright. Nothin' personal, just tradition – black and white.'

'What about Billboy and Knuckles? Any business between them?'

Darkie kicks a bone and grins.

As town camps go, Morris Soak isn't five-star, but it's been reclaimed since its years as Alice's original sewer. Stubbies, cans and petrol stained water bottles litter this dust bowl. Darkie is on a domestic violence order so his shed isn't under the same roof as his frumpy. The old cheese in question has been moved anyway, courtesy of aboriginal customary law. Lately everyone is distancing themselves, which helps account for the lack of casualties today. Darkie is both risky and handout material.

That's when I notice the waif on his doorstep. Probably fifteen or so, snivelling. At first I think she must be hurt, but Darkie ignores her as he stands the shottie against the doorpost. 

'She the new cheese,' he says proudly. 

I gather she has been unceremoniously dumped at his door. Some sort of promise from the elders. Probably for financial incentive too, given Darkie's employment status.

Driving back into town I'm asking myself how does anyone get illicit military issue out here? Blackmarket gun running hasn't reached the Centre yet. Anyway, seems no demand for semi-automatics from landowners and even miners. Too expensive for others. So it's no random coincidence – the Ghosals and a sniper, me and a semi-automatic.

At the one set of traffic lights I think I glimpse Regina J-walking. Weird. How can she be here in Alice? Impossible. Just because she's taller than average, shapely, and dresses colourfully. Long black hair under a socialite's Fedora isn't that distinctive. Well, in Alice, yes. I haven't seen a hattery in these parts. Anyway, hope she gets skittled. No such luck. Disappeared now.

Sighting Regina must be the shock of being shot at catching up with me. Playing tricks on me. But then I feel that vibe, that unmistakable presence. 'Fuck. .. She's actually found me. Here in Alice. Why the surprise? How could I expect otherwise? I bet Reggie watches TV too. .. Shit.' As the red flickers green I spin wheels. Still, the aura lingers, too strong to lie.

Over a beer or three I counsel myself. Why do I think I saw Regina? I've never met her. Not since we were babies anyway. But I've scoured every photo of her. And I've studied her videos. All online. Since orphanage, schools and workplaces. I have absorbed her mannerisms and movements intimately. Her strong voice and clipped speech patterns ring my ears. Yes I have a bigger collection on her than of me. I can pick her out at any age – past, present, even future, I bet. I just wish I knew her scent.

No Trace

The two cleaners at the Clink Motel knock on the Ghosal's door just after lunch. The two cops vet them and retreat to the kitchen to continue their card game. One cleaner starts in the bathroom while the other collects dishes and vacuums the sitting room. The Ghosals take little notice, absorbed in their collective boredom. Except Anup was expecting the black girl with the sparkling smile.

When the humming vacuum halts at the kitchen doorway, this new cleaner offers the cops a cuppa. Neena hears the clatter of dish washing, and half considers asking for tea too. Inside, both cops slump almost simultaneously while the cleaner stands ready to kybosh the last one sitting upright. She immediately hastens to the main door to let their two linen press accomplices inside. One pulls a long arm from the otherwise empty trolley. She confidently gains the Ghosal's attention and silence while the male singles out Aliyah for an injection.

The linen press couple bundle the unconscious Aliyah into the trolley and roll her out the door. By now the remaining two cleaners have the cops' pistols trained on Neena and Anup who appear indifferent. All the recent calamity has immobilised them into resignation to their fate. Two stunned mullets where before there were three.

I go ballistic when Sergeant Sharon rings to explain how Aliyah was kidnapped. I don't trust her, thanks to my earlier conversation with Knuckles. It just might be convenient for the locals, constabulary included, for Ali to disappear, at least for a while. Say until the Darwin suits make an arrest, or the recent dust storm gradually settles. But meeting Sharon did not set my Ohnliness antenna twitching. On the other hand, Knuckles sent vibes across my Richter scale.

I even expected Knuckles would try to nobble my run on him. I just thought I'd derail him first. But Knuckles may have turned the tables. He's run me off the road before I could grab Ali's take on his club business with Billboy. Bugger. Got to give it to the old bastard though – he's quick on his fungal toes. To organise professional muscle at short notice suggests he's not so small time after all.

Now what – admit mea culpa too? I could handball Sharon my suspicions about Knuckles, after the fact? Even if she's kosher, and believes me, what can her cops do – make enquiries that Knuckles can easily refute? And then he's on his guard. Or perhaps I could convince the Sarge to arrange surveillance, and hope Knuckles gives something away. And pigs might fly. I can sniff him out better without their clodhoppers.

Fine, I'll unnerve the Sarge instead, and maybe see whose side she's really on. Let's stir the pot. I bark down the phone line 

'Sergeant, your pair of numb-nut minders have done their dash. I'm bringing in my best investigator from Melbourne.' I could do with Jess' help anyway, here on the ground. Sharon stammers at my insult. But wait, I've got more. 

'Knuckles and Billboy were using Aliyah to set up an escort club for the miners and other hicks. Knuckles reckons you'll do no more than turn a blind eye.' I hang up on the expletives. Sharon's riled now.

Jess could be my daughter, but I appreciate her looks too much. And her brains. I taught her all about internet spycraft. She's made Wyrbanc portable now. We can access our tools across cyberspace – my dated parlance. So I can use her boots on the ground here in Alice too. She'll fit right in; I've never seen her in anything but workman boots, Blundstones actually. Grew up with cattle in the West. Still walks with her arms out, quick on the draw. But she's slender with swimmer shoulders and diver hips. If only ...

Jess hits Alice

The airport looks sickly orange in the sunrise, shrouded after the dust cloud the night before. Jess strolls across the tarmac like familiar territory. A cursory hug, like any cool kid gives a parent.

'So you want me to find two women for you. One not enough?'

'Jess, one's kidnapped, and the other is trying to destroy me.'

'I'll start with the kidnap then; much better prospects.'

'She's no love interest of mine, believe me. She's your vintage for Pete's sake.'

'Oh Ivor, you've just dashed my hopes too.'

'Look, Kiddo, I'll ply you with Bundies, then we get serious. Okay?'

With a mock salute, 'Righto, Boss. Just one more thing ... is Regina the one shooting at you?'

'How'd you hear about that? There's been no news coverage here. Cops don't want to stir up the locals.'

'Since you put me on this Alice gig I've been monitoring any mentions – the usual scuttlebutt, you know. Some dude called Chip, aka BlueChip, is prominent in chatter on the airwaves out of Alice. Probably a sparkie, or other techie, at Pine Gap. Yanks sure get off on drive-bys. But this one's no dip stick. Might still be a red-neck, full of himself, but I get a sense he knows more than dip shit. Loves stirring the locals.'

Settled in at the Heavitree's main bar, Jess is becoming pliable.

'So the Ghosal daughter is kidnapped now, eh?'

'How'd you guess?'

'The only other women you've met here are hags.'

'Crap. Check out the barmaid. Still trim, taut and terrific. Fiala may be aloof, but one smile from me and bob's your uncle.'

'Ivor, she could be my mother. Buxom all right, just your type. You know she's an ex-madam, back in the Soviet era? Whacked some punters. Bought her way out.'

'Since you know everything, Kiddo, back to Aliyah. Is she dead or alive? How do we find her?'

'She's here! Well, not far outta town.'

'You're joking! Alive and well?'

Grabbing her laptop, 'You asked me to scan the Ghosal's Merc for a tracker. There wasn't one.'

'It wouldn't locate Ali now anyway, Jess.'

'Der! But what if a tracker was on Aliyah all along? I rang that loverly Sargeant of yours before I left home. She's a cutie alright. Anyway, I convinced her I had your authority to ask about Mr G's phone. Clumsy Sharon finally told me it had an app called Peye, which I knew tunes to a personalised tracker.'

'Fuck me! I could kiss you, Jess. Beautiful. .. So you hacked the app to find her?'

'Kinda. I got Sharon to USB cable Mr G's phone to her PC so the battery would recharge. I guess she believed me. Anyway, now I could remote access Mr G's Peye. So I cloned its settings in the Peye on my laptop. When I jump Google Maps, well, take a look. See, she's only a few K's away, at Deepend, whatever that is.'

'Deepend is the Harrison station, Jess. If that's Ali out there, she's actually moving around some outstation on the property.'

'It's Aliyah because only she could be wearing the tracker since the Ghosals left Sydney. The app's history confirms that much.'

'And Kiddo, I bet Ali doesn't know Daddy bugged some favourite jewellery she always wears.'

'Yep, makes sense.'

'Great job, Jess. .. Oh, by the way, that bug probably got Ghosal killed too.'

I close my eyes a moment. On opening, Fiala is looking right at me, then Jess. My shout again so I head for the bar.

'Same again, Fi.'

'She swills Bundies neat. Raised tough, no?'

'Jess? Not my daughter. Partner sort of.' I get a knowing look back. 'Er, work actually. Colleague, you know.'

'Sure I know, Ivor.'

It's back to Jess before I dig a bigger hole.

'Cheers, Kiddo. Last round .. we've work to do. That conniving Knuckles and old Harrison must have secreted Ali at Deepend.'

From the look on Jess' face, she's been thinking.

'Sure, Boss, but how'd you find Regina in Alice? I only found Chip is here, and that they communicate.'

'Just a hunch. My guess, she would've put Chip up for the drive-by too.'

'Ivor, that's a stretch. And how do you figure your Knuckles is in bed with the Harrisons? Sometimes your intuition is a bridge too far.'

'Knuckles, the publican here, was doing business with Billboy that involves Ali's escort connections.'

'What business? Have you anything concrete?'

'It's coming. The Breitharts reckon ..'

Jess now has that sceptical scowl.

'They're reliable – not! You're sounding tiddly far-fetched.'

'Jess, trust me, Knuckles is bad. It's in my bones.'

'More like your waters, and you're taking the piss.'

'Just humour me, okay? If I'm right about the kidnap, why'd they do it? Retaliation over Billboy? Or can Ali incriminate them?'

'Boss, the kidnap might just be a distraction for the Ghosal murder. Police resources are now spread even thinner, what with a kidnapping on top of the Ghosal murder, and the cattleman stabbing. Not to mention the civil unrest we are meant to stop.'

'Thanks for the reminder, Kiddo. Let's get Ali back first. Then we'll get some answers. Like, is her kidnap meant to silence all the Ghosals? And/or their vocal backers at home? Who's the whistleblower, and who's crooked? Any corrupt recruitment agency has reason to keep them quiet.'

'There's a thought, Ivor – that may be enough reason to snipe Ghosal in the first place.'

'Bottoms up! You're booked into the apartment next to mine at the lugubrious .. er, luxurious Swagmans Rest.'

'What? I was looking forward to sharing.'

Civic Reception

Remy Breithart phones me. Gene needs a male escort to tonight's civic reception at the Town Hall. She mentions some visiting dignitary. Not my cuppa tea, but I can rub shoulders with some movers and shakers. Perhaps I can un-ruffle a few feathers over the Ghosal-Billboy affair. And I might just eke out what Gene knows about Aliyah's kidnap.

'Thanks, young Ivor. Have you got a bag-a-fruit to wear? I can get Gene's driver to bring you something suitable. Can't have ya wearin' jeans.'

The limo arrives at seven with Gene dolled to the nines. After exchanging pleasantries along the boulevard I ask how their CIA evidence is coming along.

'There's this yank called Chip out at the Gap. He's been greasin' Knuckles wheels to fund a casino, with Billboy pimping the Ghosal girl to import a cattery from Sydney.'

'So you say. Anything concrete?'

'Remy's still bit toey about you. Gotta move slowly. She's always talkin' at me, over me, and sometimes behind my back. Funny, at Casaenda she reckons after ten years I still can't find the right light switch. Well, she can never find our best crockery and cutlery.'

Then the chauffer opens the door.

It's greetings all round and plastic smiles at the gala entrance. Gene is ever so chatty about her benefactor roles in local arts and culture. Nothing indigenous or environmental of course. Mostly civic affairs – meaning any Breithart business to do with mining transport infrastructure. Gene has everyone swilling out of her manicured hand. Except the mayor who is decidedly offhand. Could be the ten-gallon on his head.

As if I didn't know, the Town Hall showcases the uneasy alliance between cattlemen landowners and magnate miners. Gravitating to separate sides of the Hall, each camp is distinct, with bureaucrat intermediaries crisscrossing. At least Gene gets a personal waiter. Of course I latch on for a beer. When she heads for the ladies I mingle. Soon I'm in need of relief too.

I remember the dunny door like a hammer. Then I come to, hearing sniffing and scratching noises. Then a warmth flows across my thigh. I look sideways and see two hind legs jig into the darkness, tail wagging. My splayed hands slide across grass. Sitting up, my sore head clouds. The Hall across the street gradually comes into focus. Lights out, it looks empty now. I stagger about the park opposite. Then an arm lifts me under each armpit. Two constables start blabbing at me.

Two blue eyes are wobbling, no they are staring into mine. Sergeant Sharon is waving her finger at me.

'You're in the shit now, doctor. What happened with Gene?'

'Huh? The reception .. was my beer spiked?'

'Sure! Self-administered to cover your tracks, no doubt.'

'Hey? Come on. I'm stuffed. What's up?' Looking down, I'm in blue overalls, and they're not quite the shapely 'ovaries' Jess wears. 'Why am I here? Where's Remy's suit I had on?'

'Doctor, you've been accused of rape. Gene's all battered and bruised. If your DNA matches, you're cactus. And if it's her blood on your shirt, well ...'

'What! I didn't touch her. Fair-dinkum. .. Shit I'm foggy. Look, my lights went out at the dunny. There's nothing more 'til you're goons picked me up. .. Yeah. That's right. .. Gene had already waltzed off to the powder room. Probably been slipped a mickey too. Anyway, last I saw of her.'

'Well, she claims you dragged her into a backroom and fucked her bad. She passed out. Found herself disheveled. No panties. Bra missing.'

'When? What time?'

'Reception folk reckon you two headed for the conveniences more or less together around nine. No one sighted you again. Gene was found around ten.'

'So I'm supposed to have raped her in that hour, and disappeared from the Hall unseen. How'd I end up in the park opposite?'

'Easy. You hid in the Hall until everyone left.'

Bailed

Sergeant Kelly roped Jess into the station. Jess confirms I'll be charged with rape if the forensics support it. Remy's lawyers are chafing to lynch me. But Jess says Sharon let my get-out-of-gaol card slip.

'The Feds will smack the Sarge if the local cops gets this wrong.'

'Okay, Kiddo, look up exactly where I was last night.'

'Already on it. Your GPS tracker has you leaving the Town Hall at 9:15 pm. Too fast to be on foot. You parked in a disused factory across town 'til eleven ish. What's with the fire someone called in from there?'

'Fire? No idea. I don't even remember a factory.'

'By midnight you're back in the park opposite the Hall. GPS indicates you probably walked, rather meandered. Exact times and places will come from your microchip implants. Your NFC and RFID data takes time to collect from sensors in your surroundings. Then I can crunch the info onto a time-stamped map.'

All afternoon in the cell I'm trying to piece together my whereabouts last night. Lying back on the bunk I recall a dog pissing on me in the park. What about before? Nothing about a factory. I do feel I was in something small like this cell. I call the guard for a leak.

'I'm still hazy about last night. Was there a fire in some factory?'

'Some klutz went up in a shed across town. Smokin' with flammables.'

'Alone in a factory shed at night?'

'Actually the gardener's shed. Still, bit suss. We'll see what the autopsy says.'

Next morning I'm escorted to Sharon's office. She's looking glum. Jess is there too, and she's grinning.

'The DNA isn't yours.' Sharon sounds dejected. 'And the blood isn't Gene's. But sounding more upbeat, she adds, 'Ivor, you could still be up for sexual assault.'

Jess interjects, 'No way, Sergeant. I've processed data from Ivor's microchip implants. He was transported from the Hall within five minutes of Gene entering the ladies. His vitals indicate he was unconscious. Here's a thumb drive with the results.'

I'm relieved, but there are unanswered questions. I hope Sharon hasn't thought of them yet. And the way Jess looks at me, she's wondering too.

'Ivor, I'm releasing you pending further investigation. Stay clear of the Breitharts.'

In the Jeep I ask Jess to drive past the factory in case it jogs my memory.

'Nah, nothing.' Shaking my head, Jess can see I'm getting agitated.

'Don't keep raking over it. It'll come to you ..'

'It better. If Sharon finds the blood type on my shirt matches the autopsy victim, I'm back in the shit.'

'Boss, we only know you were taken to the factory. The Sarge will corroborate that data I collected. Even a blood match puts the onus on the victim as much as you.'

'Yeah, but a dead guy won't talk. Let me sleep on it, Jess. Then we need to get Aliyah back. With all this happening, she may be in more danger than we thought.'

'Incidentally, Ivor, who'd rape Gene? Don't get me wrong, she's weathered okay. I just mean you were deliberately set up, framed. .. Who? .. Why?'

'Regina, for sure. The drive-by didn't put me off, so she implicates me in a rape.'

'Others want you gone too. You're popular, Boss! Anyway, Regina would need accomplices. Chip sounds like a nerd, not a fixer.'

'Just the same, Jess, dig into him. After all, Chip is one of our American spy buddies. We know you can't trust spooks! But I take your point. Would anyone go as far as real rape?'

'Ivor, are you suggesting simulated rape isn't as bad? Any kind of rape is a violation. Yes?'

Oops, now it's Jess' turn to get agitated.

'Agreed. But if it's a digital rape – a dildo, a finger – is it really as bad? It might be just as physically rough. The pain and the tissue damage could be as bad. But isn't the psychological trauma from a real rape worse?

'Ivor, I don't fucking know! But I have more friggin' chance of finding out than you. .. Fuckin' men!'

Stand and Deliver

I'm thrashing. Cold and sweaty. They are after me. I run for the shed. There's only one narrow door so I might fend them off. It's dark with little moon outside. I grab the rake and lunge at the first guy in. It winds him. He spits the smoldering butt out of his lips. As this villain crumples forward the rising prongs graze his neck and stab his gullet. He gurgles, and collapses on the rake. Yes, Jess, I'm thinking 'scoundrel' too, but it is actually a rake.

Next, my flailing hand grabs a scythe. As the second thug straddles the first through the doorway I swipe. And miss. He lurches backward, stumbling over his fallen sidekick. The rake handle flicks up and slaps number two in the chest. I slice at his outstretched arm. It buckles. He reels back, into a third thug, who catches him with his right arm.

I see a blade flash around the left side of the collapsing middle man. The third bloke pushes them forward. The two lurch toward me. I sidestep, grab the spirit bottle off the shelf and cosh the knife man. The glass shatters. I’m out the door when flames erupt. I run from the shrieks of agony.

I call Jess. She races to my bedroom as I reach the door. It's a confused tackle. Arms and legs askew, and gibberish from me. Jess recovers first. She stands and stares at me, speechless.

'I burned the shed on him, Jess. There were three bastards after me. The other two must have got out.'

'Beauty. The blood on your shirt might not be his. Better still, the cops may not have enough of him to tell.'

'Oh Jess, I'm still shitting myself.' She gives me a hug. 'I need to puke.'

'That bad, am I?'

Confessional

I'm moping about. Jess is pacing around. She wants to have a go at me but probably thinks I'm still a bit fragile. I can sense her putting on kid gloves.

'Ivor, you can be full of shit. Really, you can! You're either clairvoyant or paranoid. I get Regina is your lifelong enemy. I've seen her at work. But here in Alice there's nothing to substantiate your accusations. How could she be behind a drive-by and a rape? There's just her shadow, Chip. And I pointed the finger at him. Bit suss, I admit.'

'Can we focus on Aliyah, Jess? Please. Getting her back should calm a lot of nerves.'

'Crap. You're deflecting. Aliyah is safe enough. You are the priority. You're still in a hole with Gene.'

'We bust out Ali. That will flush out Remy. She had plans for me at that reception .. until Reggie and Chip got in her way.'

'Ivor, listen to yourself! Sounds like everyone wants you out of the way.'

'No, not everyone. F-Knuckles is the only other bastard gunning for me. He's Ali's kidnapper, with old Harrison complicit.'

'Christ! .. First Regina, now Remy. .. and back to Knuckles again. What reasons do you have for singling them out? Give me something, anything, or I swear I'm outta here.'

'Okay, Kiddo. You win. Sit down and I'll start with me.' Jess plops like a kid being counseled.

'I am the only child of only children. Both my parents died early, after having me late. When father died intestate – another story – mother at least handed her Will and all her affairs to estate trustees. Later, during her probate the executors received a 'bastard' claim for a share of my inheritance.'

'Let me guess – Regina?'

'She became my nemesis as I struggled with my almost unknown family history to disprove her claim. It can pay to have siblings and cousins – collectively they know family history. Anyway, Regina also capitalised on my poor memory. And she managed to distort and manipulate the memories of old family friends to further confuse me. She even planted false memories with family associates. She conned the family lawyer, the bank manager, even the doctors. Regina set out on a mission to destroy me.'

'Shit a brick. But why, Ivor? And where's your evidence?'

'Eventually I learned Regina was born at the same time and place as me. While my mother had birth complications Regina's died. So her sole parent died at birth. Both babies had the same wet nurse. I've got the records.'

'That's a start.'

'Anyway, the orphaned Regina somehow grew up thinking she was my unwanted sister. She's been seeking revenge ever since.'

Jess wrinkles her nose and gets up for some water. 'But Ivor, the facts should have straightened her out long ago.'

'Who could deliver her the facts? A guardian, a teacher, a doctor? No one around her had all the facts. At the time I didn't even have all the facts. And I had no contact with Reggie until after my mum died.'

'Okay, that might explain Regina wanting half your inheritance. But not why you say she's out to destroy you. That's your delusion, Ivor.'

'Hear me out, please, Jess. Both Regina and I are only children. Both my parents were only children. I learned Regina's mother was an only child too. Like me, Regina has a strong dose of what I call Ohnliness. But she has been deprived of the resources to develop its power. Instinctively, she is desperate to gain my Ohnliness power.'

'Pull the other one! You sound like Obi-wan prattling on about the Force. Except your Ohnliness is for reclusive Han Solo alone.'

Smartarse Jess is prancing about. She lands in front of me, toe to toe. Inches apart she deliberately starts talking right at me.

'I'm an only kid too, Ivor. Didn't your Ohnliness detect it? Mmmh. Anyway, I do not have your Ohnliness. None of it in me. Must be your imagination. Do you have hallucinations, by the way?'

'Yes you do have Ohnliness, Jess. It won’t be as strong as mine, unless one or both of your parents were only children. But Ohnliness is nascent in all only children. You just need the right key to unlock it – your talisman, or tal, I call it. I keep mine secret.'

'Aw, bugger me. Enough, Ivor. Time out, okay.' Headstrong Jess shoos me away. As I retreat I now realise why we have such an affinity – Ohnliness.

Lure

Jess keeps muttering to herself, 'Ohnliness is bullshit'. She could be repeating a chorus, but there's no other lyrics. It will be her new mantra. Except that it reminds her of Ivor's line when he's philosophising: I be's troubled. Some old blues track she thinks. Then there's Marley's: So much trouble in the world, which Ivor alternately quotes. There's too much trouble with Ivor.

As she works herself up she gets more curious about Regina. Jess would love to hear Regina's take on Ivor. Is Ohnliness a furphy? But how can Jess approach Regina without crossing Ivor? She'd have to kill Regina afterwards. Actually, Jess quite relishes throttling Regina for all the angst she has caused over the years.

Instead Jess skims Regina's media postings. Regina portrays herself as an independent go-getter, despite adversity. Praise be! Her other face wants sympathy for being unfairly ostracised from her family. She identifies with orphans everywhere, but not as one herself. She fights for strays' rights – to be accepted, and to deserve the privileges of parentage.

Jess decides to communicate with Regina via an anonymous route. She can't help herself, especially after a few Bundies. Her subterfuge will not be face-to-face. It will only involve messaging behind Ivor's back. There shouldn't be any comeback. Carefully managed, Regina will be lulled by a like-minded traveller, a younger version of her two-faced self. Two women in arms. Compatriots.

After only a day or two of empathising with Regina's orphan cause, Jess is receiving more incoming messages than she is sending. She throws the proverbial to the wind and decides to phone Regina that evening. The most telling part of the conversation is when Regina admits she secretly keeps a watchful eye on her estranged brother, Ivor. Regina emphasises how deeply connected to him she feels, emotionally and spiritually.

As Regina's hype gets to Jess she pushes back. Jess says she has heard that only children often fixate on a pretend sibling figure. Regina reacts angrily. She is obviously struck by the implication. There is a moment's silence followed by her dismissive insults. Then Regina rudely hangs up. Jess concludes she's hit Regina's funny bone. That's enough satisfaction for today.

Jess is now more convinced of Ivor's form guide on Regina. But his Ohnliness scenario is still a bridge too far.

Fallout

Ivor's rant about Ohnliness prompts Jess to reconsider her only child status. Nothing special comes to mind. Zilch, zippo. Then she realises she's had a niggling feeling about Chip since she came across him on the Alice airwaves. It's not the kind of antipathy Ivor spews on Knuckles, and eternally pukes on Regina. Jess just has an itch. And a nightly recurring image of a rash that gets under the skin.

Chip probably doesn't warrant it, but Jess decides to really dig into him anyway. Feels better to scratch. Hacking Pine Gap is risky, big time. But the peripheral chatter of PG's personnel on social media is fair game, if you know where to look. Collect enough chit-chat, and some pattern might emerge.

'What's your story, Chip?' she mutters. First off, she easily uncovers he's been communicating with the one and only Regina, not just starting before she arrived in Alice, but right back to the time of the Russian hack.

'The boss will orgasm over this.' Excited, Jess continues the hunt.

'Boss, some big news for you,' she blurts at the speakerphone on the desk. 'Just spent two hours chasing Chip around Pine Gap. He's a ..'

'Whoa, Jess! The waves have ears. And you're blabbing about the biggest in the country. I'll come over.'

'Just hurry. Plenty to show you.'

When Jess gets the scent, she's as cute as a ferret.

Her door is ajar. Before I cross the threshold, she's on her hind legs.

'He's a nasty fucker alright. First, you were right – he's up to the hilt with Regina. Off and on since the Ruskies; full on since Alice.'

'I knew it. Like she devours her young. What else?'

'Chip has cracked your implants. He's been tracking you.'

'Sounds like Pine Gap. Since the Ruskies, we could've guessed they'd try.'

'No, Ivor. It's Chip alone. And only since you arrived in Alice. He's gone rogue.'

'Well, that explains the timely drive-by. And the coordinated hoist at the reception. Shit a brick, Jess.'

'Not sure I'd go that far, Boss.'

'I've re-encrypted your trackers, phones, the works. He'll guess we're on to him.'

'No choice, Kiddo. Great work.' She's looking like a cat with the cream.

'It gets better. Chip has organised sat-cam coverage of the Deepend outpost where Aliyah is being held. It's not too secure, so probably off the books. Look, I've piggybacked his feed. And I've watched Aliyah walking around outside, with only one guard. No vehicle nearby.'

'Fantastic, Jess. We can pick our time for a rescue.'

'Or should we hand it over to the Plod? There's video proof now.'

'Sure! Sharon would love to know we've got a backdoor into the most secure station in the land.'

'Thought I'd find you two conspirators here. Ivor, why are my ears burning?' Standing in the doorway is that long slender arm, police cap in hand.

'Oh, Hi there, Sarge. Just saying, we've got something to show you, haven't we Jess?'

Deadpan, Jess falls in behind me. 'Definitely .. you won't believe it.'

I usher Sharon in front of the monitor. 'Jess, re-run that drone footage, okay?'

'Ah, the drone .. yes, yes .. the Wyrbanc drone over Deepend. Absolutely.'

'You two can't fly a drone over the Harrison station. Bloody illegal.'

'Went a bit off course, only flew over an outstation. Right, Jess?'

'Won’t happen again. Fixed our navigation now.'

The Sergeant points 'Who's that wanderin' outside? Can't tell from above. And the guy lookin' on? Could be anyone.'

Jess offers, 'See next to him, the rifle propped against the rail?'

'So what. Ivor, who's the other one – a woman?'

'Recognise her head gear, Sharon?'

'Shit no .. Is that Aliyah Ghosal?' Sharon steps back, then zooms into the screen for a closer look.

Jess is making faces at me, across Sharon's back, like playing charades. I can only grimace, open my hands, and leave the rest to fate.

'Us cops can't just waltz in there and grab Aliyah, yer know. Not without evidence .. that Wyrbanc cannot supply, officially.'

'Nope, we can't. And so you can't. But hear this .. Darkie could just drive in.'

Jess and Sharon echo in chorus, 'Darkie?'

'Yep. Ali knows him as a friendly. If Darkie just drives up innocently, the baddie won't expect trouble – not from a single aboriginal. Darkie can occupy the guy while someone hiding in his truck sneaks out and grabs the rifle.'

Jess claps. 'Sweet, Ivor.'

But Sharon moans, 'Darkie won't play along for me, no way.'

'I reckon I can talk Darkie round. He'd love one over Knuckles, and Billboy's old man for that matter.'

Splinters

The American enclave in Alice is no place for Regina. It's a virtual compound for U.S. Pine Gap personnel, layered with CCTV, residential microwave surveillance and oversight satellite video coverage. So Chip frequents Reggie's rental for conjugal visits. Good excuse to give his Harley a fang. And Regina gets all excited as pillion on pre-nuptial flings.

The smash was not entirely unforeseen. Not by Ivor at least. Something was brewing. He just didn't guess it would be a mining supply truck on the wrong side of the road, American style.

'To be fair, Jess, after the Breitharts summoned me I guessed Chip might attract retaliation. They singled out a nameless CIA type splashing greenbacks for influence over some miners' gambling and roving eye weaknesses. Later on, after I squirmed off the hook for Gene's rape, I guessed the next in line would be their unsavoury guy at the Gap. Had to be Chip.'

'Sounds like a pretty long shot to me. In any case you didn't know the head-on was coming, did you?'

'Of course not, but a little birdie forewarned me about Reggie.'

'What do you mean? That she was in danger?'

'Not exactly. I text her anonymously that her Yank was in the cross-hairs of a third party. Best stay clear.'

'But Ivor, how could you be sure enough to risk exposing yourself? Not to mention warning her off is she's involved deeper in all this mess.'

'GrrR .. Okay, I get inklings about what Reggie is up to, you know. Lately I've been getting vibes she's anxious about someone close, and it's not me. Even if Chip was pushing the envelope on her behalf, he's probably gone too far. And she's reading danger signs. Naturally she'd be more concerned about her own arse than his. My ten cent warning might have kept her off the pillion seat, who knows?'

'My hero, Ivor. Ohnliness saves Regina's day, right? Just imagine if you two were in cahoots – you could make a killing by warning off all the baddies for miles around.'

'Scoff all you like, Jess. I might wish her dead, but I'm not into facilitating her demise in someone else's hit. I'll score my own runs, thanks.'

'Whoa there, Neddy. Too much info. No need to know. But just tell me if this could be my Ohnliness talking – I get an itchy sensation every time Chip gets a mention. If his bane pops up overnight I imagine I'm getting a rash. Weird.'

'Possibly your Ohnliness whispering, Jess. Bit uncultivated, but you're still taking baby steps toward harnessing your Ohnliness.'

'Patronising S.O.B.! ... Er, Chip, I mean. As a womaniser he got on my goat. As a male chauvinist I've wanted to 'feminize' him, truely. Good riddance.'

'Moving on .. any news about your talisman? From your mum, I mean?'

'Forget mum, Ivor. But when I left home she wanted me to take a locket of my stillborn uncle’s hair. Would you believe it? Eck! I almost made her swallow it. Then I calmed down, and said I couldn't be sure it would stay secure.'

'That's your talisman, your personal tal, for sure. Get it, pronto.'

'I'll never wear it! It's Victorian, or some other gothic ornate.'

'Not the point. Once you have it, and master it, you can transfer it to another object if you must.'

'Really? Cool. I want another dog – a Dalmation I can call Stripe.'

'Honestly, Jess!'

'Out of curiosity, what's your talisman? Why the secret?'

'Cause someone might steal it. And if they know what it means to me, they can use it against me. So you learn to keep your tal close, and secrecy helps.'

'No one will pinch my Stripe, she'll bite.'

Show and Tell

Waiting for the fallout from Chip's smash, and for Darkie to get around to rescuing Aliyah, I harp on to Jess about Ohnliness.

'Kiddo, you remember I said that every only child has a 'gift' – their Ohnliness.The further back the generations of Ohnliness go, the more powerful the gift becomes.'

Jess gets it.

Okay, it's stronger if a parent is an only child, and stronger again if a grandparent is too?'

'Definitely. Actually Ohnliness is exponential. In my case, both parents were only children, and likewise both sets of their parents.'

'Far out, Ivor. But what is the gift exactly? What does it really do?'

'The Ohnliness gift is a unique worldview. It forms from the your lack of sibling related family interactions. Without siblings, nephews and nieces and so on, your Ohnliness view focuses on humanity at large. Otherwise Ohnliness can become too inwardly self-centred, even egocentric. Just ask Regina!'

'The dark side ..' muses Jess, just as she is interrupted by an alert on screen.

'Boss, we're supposed to be watching the sat-cam over Deepend. Rabbit on if you must, but Darkie is due to rescue Aliyah soon. The Sarge will want updates.'

'Yeah, sure. .. Anyway, the Ohnliness gift manifests as a heightened perception, or insight into others – outsiders, since there are less family and close circle insiders. It's like having extreme peripheral vision. The only child focuses it on friends and eventually colleagues, rather than apportioning it among nearer siblings and relatives.'

'So, what's your Ohnliness say will happen at Deepend when Darkie arrives for Aliyah?'

'Jess, Jess – Ohnliness is not like being psychic or clairvoyant.'

'So you believe in hocus-pocus too?'

'I didn't say that. Ohnliness primarily works on certain people. Like a soap concentrate works on stains, whereas ordinary soaps just clean normal dirt.'

'Ah, only us "Onlys" can vanish certain stains from society?'

'Sort of, Jess. The stains are antagonists who have bad intentions toward you, or me – us Onlys.'

'Gee Ivor, we're an elite club, just you and me, plus Regina so far.'

'Well, every Onlys' gift has to be developed to enable a deeper reading and more informed opinion of antagonists – those blotchy people that catch the eye. Foreseeing their intentions becomes amplified, a kind of sixth sense.'

'Pity none of this helps us at Deepend. If this raid turns to shit, Darkie will be up crap creek without a paddle, you know.'

'Jess, believe me .. my Ohnliness is helping. Knuckles is an antagonist of mine. I could feel it as soon as I met the bugger. I'm certain he's behind Ali's abduction.'

'How's that help, right now?'

'Well, about now he'll be too occupied at Heavitree to be giving any orders at Deepend.'

Jess looks to the ceiling, levitating her hands off the keyboard, 'Crystal ball, hey Ivor?'

'Not quite. But Knuckles will soon be scratching his noggin, asking himself, ''How long's a ball of string?'' See, I talked Fiala into inserting some bogus entries into Knuckles' accounts ledger.'

'She'll be dead meat when he works it out.'

'Too many knots to untangle first. And Fi will be giving my room service a workout before fumble-fingers unravels enough to finger her. In no time she'll be busy booking our vacation and getting a head start. Then I'll follow on the next plane outta here, soon as our mission is complete.'

'You dirty old fox, Ivor! And you hate flying too.'

'Back to your Ohnliness, Jess. Every only child shares a secret desire to unlock their full Ohnliness. Yes, even you, Kiddo. Trouble is, the more Ohnliness you have, the less family you have. So there are fewer relatives to help you find the key to harnessing your Ohnliness. For only children of only child parents, unlocking their Ohnliness is especially tantalising.'

'Hey, Ivor, Darkie's arriving. About time! See his dust cloud .. and the outstation .. bottom left?'

'And there's the dumbcluck guard .. casually walking out to intercept whoever is rolling up.'

'Shit, Boss, what's Darkie's plan?'

'Darkie will just shoot him, no question.'

'What? He can't just shoot someone! You didn't ..'

'Tasar him then. Sharon swapped him a tasar for his shottie.'

'Jesus! .. See those sparks? Did you see the flash, Ivor? Sparks really flew.'

'Woops, a taser probe must have hit some metal on the guy. .. Ah, ripper! Darkie's stomped on him anyway. Phew!'

'There's Aliyah, running to Darkie. All good.'

Jess looks relieved, like at the end of a movie. But then the credits roll and it's time to move on. I get in first.

'Right. .. Now, Kiddo, you remember the key to your Ohnliness is your talisman, your tal? It's handed down through only child generations. You mentioned your mum's stillborn uncle. Is your mum an Only? What about your dad?'

'Just mum. Well, her older brother was stillborn. Does that still count?'

'Yep. More than if you had uncles or aunts that lived. But even then you are still an Only, and you have a talisman. Did you say a locket of your stillborn uncle's hair? That's you tal. Now you've discovered it, you can make the most of your Ohnliness.'

'So I write home, 'Dear Mum, please send my talisman .. er, the locket?''

'Sure, why not? It's the most special thing your mum ever gave you, or tried to give you, isn't it?'

'Well, my dog was special, but it died. Can your talisman be an animal?'

'Possibly. We'll get to that. But first, it will help to know that the closer your handed-down tal is to you, the more your Ohnliness can work for you. This 'friend distance' can lengthen as you mature and master its power. These days my talisman can be further away and still work for me.'

'So, Ivor, what exactly is this mysterious power, Ohnliness? Come on, spit it out. .. Oh, my guru, I'm still sceptical by the way.'

'Ohnliness is the power to foresee a significant event that an antagonist has planned against you. You see a sort of .. flash. A sceptic might call it a vision or even hallucination. It's like a daydream but not as easily dismissed.'

'Who's the antagonist? Any random sod can be irritating – even you, Boss.'

'The antagonist is anyone you have identified as having mischievous or malevolent intent toward you, you the Only. You identify a potential antagonist by an unexplained antipathy, often at first sight.'

'Like Regina to you?'

'Yep, but she's a lifelong case. Knuckles definitely. And Remy's still a maybe.'

'So Ohnliness might just be superstition.'

'You might think so, until you experience it. With Knuckles I got clammy. I saw him distorted, like in a carnival mirror. And that's before he said or did anything. It's why you feel sure – there's no other reason.'

'Then why is Remy a maybe? Eh Ivor?'

'Cause Gene is a kind of mask – a sort of alter-ego for Remy.'

'Wonderful how you hit it off with folks, Ivor. Dr Sociable. Sheesh!'

Jess is fidgeting, irritated. She grabs the phone.

'Must tell the Sarge, mission accomplished.' Marching up and down, 'Ivor, nothing like you describe has ever happened to me. Sorry, I'm not of your faith. You're preaching to a non-believer.'

I laugh. 'Holding your talisman will deliver you, my daughter. .. Seriously.'

'You sound like a cross between Harry Potter and Ron Hubbard. Introducing the one and Only, Dr Ivor Jo, Ohnliness evangelist .. and former e-spy. What happened to human rights activist, by the way? You're so bloody suspicious of everyone.'

'Aren't you? You have to sift the good from the bad. That's why we need rights. Honestly, Kiddo, aren't you suspicious of everybody too?'

'I don't want to be. I want to like people.'

'You can. And with greater confidence, thanks to Ohnliness. You can more readily sift out the odd bad apple. The power of Ohnliness is a capacity you can develop. And like any other skill, you control its use. It does not control you. Ohnliness is an early warning system.'

The Sarge is relieved the Deepend retrieval went off without a hitch. She just wants her taser back. Jess is pensive now.

'If we could delete the background to this Deepend exercise – the bits that depended on your Ohnliness, would the outcome have been as good?'

'Jess, with my Ohnliness I'm the better at any activity, especially with my tal nearby. Then, importantly, the closer an antagonist gets, the stronger the flash. And if a flash doesn't occur, even better, you're safe.'

'Amen to that.'

'By the way, Kiddo, this 'foe distance' – between you and your antagonist – can also lengthen as your mastery increases. Just like the friend distance. .. Jess, are you getting all this?'

'Yeah, I get it, in theory. The geometry is unreal. I just can't believe Ohnliness can apply to me. I'm not even certain it applies to you. The same events might happen without Ohnliness interfering. Like at Deepend. Ohnliness supplied a backstory that no one else need know to explain the result. What if you're just whacko about Ohnliness, Ivor? .. Heard any voices lately?'

'Well, Jess, there's more to Ohnliness. Like what can be done with your talisman. I mentioned you can transfer its power to another object, animate or inanimate by the way.'

'Great. Spot the Dalmation, here we come.'

'Good luck, Kiddo. First you must have a steely focus on both objects at once. And I mean, concentrated. You have to master the ability to transfer from one tal to another. It's not easy, but you get a buzz when it works, literally. It's an exhausting but often useful process.'

'Then why bother?'

'Because talisman portability aids your anonymity as an Only, by veiling your tal, making it harder to guess what it is, and what purpose it serves. Portability also aids your security when you choose a tal that is easier to keep secret.'

'Are you suggesting someone might want to steal my tal, my locket?'

'If people suspect you have a unique power, Ohnliness, then they'll want it, or you.'

'Shucks, not even Onlys get something for nothing.'

'Nope, there are risks. You need to reduce exposure to theft of your tal, and being coerced into misusing Ohnliness.'

'Okay, Ivor, I understand the risks and responsibilities of Ohnliness. I'll try to conceal my Ohnliness power, meagre as it might be. And I'll hide my teeny weeny locket, my tal.'

'Good news is that only another Only can ever gain your tal's power. Even an Only without full realisation of their Ohnliness will have little success in mastering your tal's power.'

'Yeah, I can rest easier.'

'Not so fast. Bad news is that an antagonist who is also an Only is potentially the most dangerous thief.'

'Like Regina?'

'Hole in one, Kiddo?'

'You know, Ivor, a cynic might accuse you of big-noting yourself to me over your Ohnliness theory that no-one else even knows about.'

'Yeah, I'm the Messiah – not. And you're pumping your own tyres if you think I get much kudos out of blabbing about Ohnliness to you alone.'

'Jeez, thanks. You really know how to compliment a girl, don't you?'

'Well, you should know that my whole career no one has tried sticking self-aggrandisement on me. But I'll get off my pulpit for now. A fuller mathematical theory of Ohnliness can wait for now.

'No worries, Ivor. I'll remind you to crow, you rooster.'

'Thanks. You'll deserve a dose on the relationship between friend and foe distances. And their effect on the Only's foresight.'

'You're on. Can't wait. .. Can we concentrate on today's consequences now?'

'Sure. What do you want to know?'

'Well, Boss, for starters, where do we safely hide Aliyah? And Darkie, for that matter?'

'Got both covered, Jess. Sharon will personally reunite Ali with the Ghosals, and then securely hide her elsewhere – a safehouse. I've got a debrief booked with that young lady. And Darkie's going on extended walkabout while Morris Soak is redeveloped.'

'Who's paying for that, Boss – an anonymous benefactor?'

'Knuckles is donating generously, out of Chip's slush fund for Billboy's escort agency.'

'Courtesy of Fiala's creative accounting?'

'Yep, he'll find out soon enough.' Silence, so I fire back at Jess, 'Why aren't you asking "How come you've already got this sorted, Ivor?" Because I got a flash about Knuckles. First I saw snippets of his plan to hide Ali after her abduction. Later, I listened in to him nutting out his accounting subterfuge. Just flashes, but enough to give me a heads-up.'

'So, if I ever get a flash, what should I do?'

'Take it seriously. Don't just dismiss it because the logic to explain it is missing for now. The time between a flash and its predicted event is unknowable. It can vary from minutes, through hours, to days. But consider this. The Only's foresight is inversely proportional to the friend and foe distances – the shorter these distances the more time you have before the flashed event will occur. And conversely. This 'foresight interval' is crucial to what you can do about a flash.'

'Aha, "Live for the moment, Jess." That's what mum says.'

Debrief

Ali's safe house is a humpy at Morris Soak, not Darkie's. He's gone bush with his underage missus so Knuckles won't find him at home. Instead the cops are waiting undercover for his visit. Knuckles thugs roll over easily, so he has some explaining to do. Fiala has grudgingly added some accounting fuel to the fire. I'll really have to butter her up now. Anyway Knuckles is in for a stretch.

Ali enjoys learning about Indigenous cuisine and shares some Indian tips. The names of ingredients from both cultures mix in the pot – a dirt oven, not a tandoori. Still, Ali can't quite get her tongue around witchetty grubs, an acquired taste no doubt. No matter, Ivor's grilling sessions are worse.

'Ali, who was funding Knuckles' expansion – the casino and the escort service?'

'Billboy got plenty from his old man, but not to invest. Billboy was trying to impress him with this venture, but Harrison would not trust him.'

'Did you meet any other investor, or hear anything about funding?'

'Knuckles alluded to big business interests. Billboy was not keen on the miners' involvement. Knuckles said his partner from out of town would have a controlling interest.'

Jess gives Ivor a knowing look. She chips in.

'Aliyah, did you ever meet an American at Heavitree?'

'I wish! Billboy was always telling me I'd meet U.S film people working around Alice. Not once. Just some guy on a Harley in the carpark. But he was there to meet Knuckles. He did seem to know about me though. Bit cheeky too.' Laughing, she adds, 'Billboy wanted to keep me to himself.'

Ivor pounces,

'Did the Yank have a name?'

'Not that I recall. As Billboy dragged me away from handsome, I think Billboy said something like "Catch you later, Rip".'

'Chip .. was it, Chip?'

'Yes, that's it. Chip. But you Aussies would call him Bluey. A ranga, as you say, with a lovely smile.

'You beauty, Ali.'

Bruised

Once Knuckles is remanded without bail, Sharon gets word to Darkie to return. She says Ivor wants to ask him about Chip. Ivor introduces Jess at Heavitree, same table as before. Darkie seems friendly enough with her around. She'd pass for a jillaroo.

'Darkie, did you ever see a Yank with Knuckles or Billboy around here?'

'Nah, them tanks not popular with the brothers, ya know.'

'Any one in particular come around?'

'Nope. Not welcome.'

Jess gets up to collect our empties. 'What about the night Billboy got done?'

'Yeah girlie, ya right. One glued to some woman, so nobody pick him.'

'Cripes! How'd they sneak in, Darkie?'

'Was already on a back table, chattin' away. Only got noticed when the white woman asks the barmaid for the ladies' dunny key. There ain't no key. Ain't no womens! .. Good laugh.'

'What happened to the Yank during the blue?'

'Lost sight. Might'a been in the mob outside, behind Knuckles. My mate reckons a ranga jobbed him, but never stick around for more. When we all scatter, trucks roarin' all directions. Good bingle business next day. Lucky the shiny soft-tail got goin' early.'

'A Harley? You sure?'

'Only one. We been eyeing it early on.'

Jess taps Darkie on the shoulder and grabs the empties.

'What's this woman look like?'

'Jeez .. real white .. tall .. black hair, long. Carried a hat – not Akubra, too stylish, like city folks. Loud, no shy.'

Ivor high-fives Jess. Darkie looks perplexed.

'Another round, thanks, Jess.'

Trail Narrows

When the locket arrives for Jess in the mail, she keeps rubbing it like Aladdin's lamp, but no Genie materialises. And no insight into her Ohnliness either. Jess becomes despondent and starts questioning Ivor's Ohnliness theory again. She revisits Ivor's Ohnliness slant on all the events since the Ghosal murder. The one that rings least true is Ivor's take on saving Regina from Chip's smash.

Jess urges herself to put this doubt aside for now, and steps out of Ivor's apartment for a break. They've been searching their networks for any evidence to substantiate a surreptitious partnership between Chip and Knuckles. Both Aliyah and Darkie have independently suggested there was a relationship on the QT.

It's clear both Chip and Knuckles knew Billboy, but so far nothing tangible ties all three together – just surmise. Jess realises Heavitree is the linking location. Is there a smoking gun? Or has it already left the building?

Jess rushes back to her laptop, leaving the main door open for some fresh air from the balcony outside.

'Boss, was there CCTV outside Heavitree when Billboy copped it?'

'Sharon mentioned the Darwin D's grabbed it but saw nothing – too dark, then the blinding lights of trucks scattering. What of it?'

'Hang on, I'll grab the footage from Sharon's PC first.' A few clicks later, 'Some CCTV cams have a UV filter for better night vision. The same UV light the forensics use to spot a blood trail. If I dull the headlights we might see blood highlighted on Billboy's killer. It's a long shot .. I'll run the video as is first.'

'Good one, Kiddo. .. Okay, the Harley headlight comes on, there! And now the floodlights scramble. At least you can see Reggie behind Chip in his moleskins and cowboy boots.'

'I'll run it again, headlights dulled. .. Look, Boss, there's blood. See, accentuated on his left thigh. Lots.'

'Yep, but it could be anybody's blood. Can you rewind from the Harley? As headlights come on, they pan the carpark.'

'Bingo, blood spots on the ground. See, Boss? All the way to the Harley.'

'Keep going back, Jess. We just need one light to scan the fight scene. Now, forward again. You hear the Harley fire up? Its headlight switches on. The beam scans as Chip turns the handlebars and retracts the side stand. .. Shit, there's Billboy laying on the ground, alone.'

'Yeah, Boss. But look where the blood trail leads .. right to the Harley. Chip must have been dripping. Surely Regina noticed. That's bloody incriminating.'

'Brilliant, Kiddo. We've got Chip .. posthumously.'

Gap Widens

The balcony doorway darkens. I look up. Sargent Sharon again? Right on cue.

'Regina! Speak of the devil.'

Jess whirls around. 'Jesus wept!'

'Neither one, but your sister in the flesh, Ivor. Got time for a chat?'

I'm spinning. To actually confront me after all our lives apart, she must really be gunning for me this time. Try to act nonchalant, I tell myself.

'Pull up a chair.'

How did I miss her impending presence? Where's my Ohnliness when I need it? Regina is actually standing in front of me, and I had no inkling. For someone I've never met, she's acting as familiar with me as I am being distantly unfamiliar with her. And shit, I'll bet she's done her research on me too.

Regina steps tentatively inside, swinging a shoulder bag from side to front.

Jess starts pacing behind me, and her voice recorder I hope.

Regina cuts the ice.

'I already know your menacing offsider – Jessie, is it?'

'Oh, really  .. do you now?' I frown sideways at Jess, but this jab can wait.

'Regina, Reg, or Reggie – I feel I know you well enough to cut to the chase: why are you bloody well here?'

'Sure you know me well, brother. And likewise. I'm here because you are.'

'Yeah, to haunt me. But what's on your warped mind this time?'

'Ha-hah, I'm sure. .. Ivor, I'm just dropping by on a whim. No forewarning this time. Been there, done that. No more pulling the welcome mat from under me.'

Ah, says me, that's how she got under my radar. No premeditated plan for once. So unlike her. Spontaneity puts a fly in my Ohnliness ointment. Heightened alert is called for.

'The thing is, brother, I know about you and Chip.'

Shit! Stay calm. How does she know? I'm in overdrive. What does she know?

'Yes, Ivor, I know you turned him into a two-timer. And,' she seethed, 'you got him killed too.'

'What crap! Where'd you get that cockamamie notion from?'

Reg slaps her bag, hard, and takes a long step toward me.

'No, Reg, it wasn't me. I only, kind of, saw it coming.'

'Like a haymaker punch? Bullshit! It was a fucking truck. Whack! It was a planned hit to look like an accident. You knew enough to leave me an anonymous warning, didn't you, Ivor? So you had time to warn Chip too. Why didn't you?'

Reg smacks her bag again.

'At the very least, you let him die.'

In the corner of my eye I can see Jess abruptly halt. She is smarting, savage, but holding her tongue for now.

'Listen, Reg, Chip was CIA all along. You really didn't know? Must be slipping.'

'He was good to me. Really good.'

'And you used him. I admit, so did I. But I didn't groom him. I never even met the guy. You cultivated his resentment of me, ever since the Ruskie hack.'

'Boo-hoo! Poor Ivor. Are you crying over Morris Soak? Chip's guys didn't hurt anyone. I just nudged him to put the wind up you, brother dear. So you would waddle back home with your tail between your legs. Where I can take better care of you.'

'What would I do without you, Reg? Is "all care, no responsibility" why you tried to implicate me in Gene's rape at the Hall? And why Chip's thugs then tried to kill me. I ended up having to incinerate one, Reg. You sweet talk Chip into that whole debacle too?'

'Apologies, brother dearest, it got out of hand. Not everything goes to clockwork, as you know. You were only meant to be charged with rape, and remanded. Didn't you appreciate the irony, you fetishist? It wasn't real anyway.'

I can see Jess wince. She will chew Regina to bits if I can't deflect this tack.

'Okay Regina, forget hammering me for a moment. What was the objective?'

'Chip and I knew you'd get off, eventually. .. But at least you would stay out of our hair a while.'

'Now you're talking, Reg. You wanted me off the Billboy trail, didn't you? So, tell us, why did Chip stab Billboy? Why?'

Regina glances at Jess. There's an Ohnliness moment between them. Malice expands like a gas. It clouds the room.

'What was in it for you, Reg?'

'Billboy was nothing to do with me. I only realized what happened afterwards. Chip must have flown off the handle over some business with him at the Heavitree. I admit Chip really screwed up there.'

'Really?' mutters Jess. 'He was ape-shit psycho!'

I scowl at Jess, 'Hold that thought.'

Regina shakes her head, probably realizing just how fucked up her plans had become by then.

'So, Reg, back to the here and now. Do you know about their dirty business – Chip, Billboy .. and Knuckles?'

'Sort of. Some pathetic escort-come-hooker service Billboy was trying to sell Knuckles. What of it? For me their shady business just distracted Chip from my plans for you – an obstacle to work around.'

'Actually, you stumbled into plans much bigger than your own. Your Chip was the CIA-slash-Pine Gap's front man in funding the expansion of Heavitree into a casino for a covert escort business.'

'Bunkum, Ivor! Chip was no moneybags, and no pimp. What's more, he liked guys more than gals.'

'Oooh! I wonder why, Reggie, dear? Anyway, let me enlighten you further about your "good" Chip. Sure you won't take a seat?'

Regina pats her bag and stays resolutely put.

'Well, Pine Gap has been a thorn in the side of both the Territory's miners and the station owners. And vice versa, right Jess? Not to mention a simmering political minefield between Australia and America.'

Regina smirks, restless.

'Okay, so Chip's bosses at the Gap want the miners and the station owners socializing under the one roof – to keep a closer eye on them. And to collect dirt on them in case local politics ever gets really pissed off with the spy business just outside Alice. Mix escorts with gambling and they can hook plenty of fish – big fish, wearing hard hats and soft.'

Reg looks a little fazed at last. Hers wasn't the only game in town for Chip.

Jess takes the lull in hostilities as her opportunity to chip in.

'Ivor, why didn't you tell me you had a thing with Chip?'

'It was nothing like that. And for that matter, why did you go behind my back to loverly Reggie here?'

'To get her side of your bazaar Ohnliness. You're queer!'

'Kiddo, like Reg here, you should have guessed Chip was CIA. He was their station fixer in fact, operating off the reservation more than on it. I didn't give him orders, just some intel .. indirectly, via our old channels. We're still Wyrbanc, you know.'

Jess can't resist. 'What bloody intel, Ivor? You never let on to me. What about professional courtesy, eh? Thanks for nothing.'

Feeling rightly let down, Jess sulks off. I get back to Regina before she really storms on the warpath. From past experience, a fate worse than Jess.

I hear clattering on the keyboard. Jess is galled alright. Thump on the desk. She motors her wheelie chair aside, bumping herself against the wall.

'Listen you two .. if Chip's behind Billboy, Gene, and Morris Soak, why not Ghosal too?'

Regina marches toward Jess, bag slapping her thighs. Arms raised, she roars,

'Bitch! So Chip's an assassin too? Fucking liar.'

I scramble between them, hands offered in surrender.

'Hang on, Reg. This could explain Chip becoming a target himself.'

Regina looks askance, like pull the other one.

'No, really. Let me explain. .. Back at Wyrbanc we received a brief that Ghosal – here in Alice – was about to blow the whistle on a huge scam – one the American and Australian bosses at Pine Gap dreaded getting out. In Canberra and Washington, all the way up, they couldn't afford Ghosal spilling the beans on corruption of the international higher education industry.'

Regina just smiles, lopsided. She's entirely dismissive.

'Whoa! Massive mafia enterprise afoot, I bet. Come on, Ivor!'

'Jess, you did the research on Ghosal. Tell her about his student recruitment business, ISAA.'

'True, Ghosal has been one of the main Indian players corrupting the multi trillion dollar student recruitment industry in both Australian and American universities.'

Regina still isn't swallowing. So I add,

'Both governments had to silence Ghosal before he named a phone directory full of bribed officials worldwide. Further, if the public learned the extent of the unqualified student intake – and worse, the numbers who "graduated" over more than a decade – public confidence in various professions could be undermined .. medicine, law, finance. This could precipitate an unprecedented first-world humanitarian crisis, crucially affecting public health, criminal law enforcement, and investment.'

Regina still looks unconvinced, though perhaps a little perplexed. Jess erupts,

'Don't you get it, bitch? Public discord en masse; complete loss of faith in society's professional institutions being run by incompetents. Management of fundamental administrations and bureaucracies undermined. Western turmoil like an Arab Spring. That big enough for you, Regina? Your boy in the thick of it too. Choke on it, bitch.'

I shepherd Regina out of Jess' face.

'Reg, since you got into bed with Chip during the Ruskie exploit, I've only exchanged low-grade intel with him in return for updates on your activities.'

'Nice one, Ivor, .. you creep! But who actually smashed up my Chip?'

'The Breitharts.'

Exasperated, Regina bellows, 'Why the fuck?'

Jess won't back off. She baits another hook.

'After I got Ivor off Gene's rape, Chip was next cab on the rank. As mining's top representatives, the Breitharts have long term issues with Pine Gap over exploration and drilling rights, transport restrictions, etcetera. And Chip was PG's front man, remember? They thought he had Gene raped to stand over their miners.'

'No way. Too long a bow. Who really threw him under the truck? Ivor?

Jess is looking at me scornfully.

'She's got a point, Boss. Pine Gap didn't get the whole Wyrbanc brief you mentioned – not the bit about Ghosal spilling the beans here in Alice. Canberra wouldn't want any CIA at the Gap going off half-cocked.'

'So, brother, I get it. You worded up Chip about Ghosal's whereabouts, didn't you? And of course Chip dutifully passed on your intel on to his bosses. Presto, they ordered him to waste Ghosal. That's the backstory, isn't it, Ivor?'

'Ah, Boss, is this why Wyrbanc really got called in? We're whistleblower saboteurs for a greater humanitarian cause. Wonderful!'

'Yep,' I add, 'deniable destroyers.'

Regina and her cumbersome shoulder bag swivel toward me.

'Not quite, Ivor. Not while Chip's around to finger you.'

Jess shrieks at me, 'Did you drop him in it to cover our part, your complicity?'

Too late he cried. They're both on the warpath.

Seething, Regina raises her claws, and strides toward me.

Jess screams before Regina can tear strips off me.

'You whacko bitch, Regina. Fuckin' kill you.'

I bear hug Jess back to her chair and push back to her desktop. She smacks the tabletop beside her laptop, and half-heartedly flails at me.

'Shut the fuck up, both of you.'

Regina is rummaging through her shoulder bag. Jess suddenly looks up at me knowingly. We connect, Ohnliness in action. She rolls herself out from behind the desk, with her back to Regina. I casually click the panic icon on Jess' screen. The wail startles Regina. We know what's in Regina's bag. As she tries to extract Chip's CIA issue sidearm, Jess hurtles her seated self backwards toward Regina. The chair strikes the outstretched firearm. Regina is jolted. The gun falls. Jess grabs it. Enraged, she punches it upward into Regina's groin.

'Jess, no! She's my talisman.'

END