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To find out more about this book
or to contact the author, please visit:
www.vividpublishing.com.au/floodcountry

First published in Australia in 2012

ISBN: 978-1-925086-48-5 (ebook edition)

Published by Vivid Publishing (2019)

Fremantle, Western Australia

www.vividpublishing.com.au

eBook conversion and distribution by Fontaine Publishing Group, Australia

www.fontaine.com.au

Cataloguing-in-publication data is held at the National Library of Australia

Connect with the author online:

Facebook: Robert Maddison

Email: floodcountry@gmail.com

V. 2.0. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, corporations, institutions and organisations referred to in this novel are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or business entities, is purely coincidental. Where real organisations are referred to this is done simply to add some context to the storyline without intending to infer the actual conduct of those organisations or people who work for them.

This book is dedicated to the hard working, but sadly increasingly overlooked rural people who are the backbone of Australia. It is also in memory of my father—a man from the ‘bush’ whose stories of his life helped inspire this work. To my mother I also say thanks for giving me just a little of her ability to write.

As a work of fiction, the characters, places and businesses in this story have all been created by my imagination. Of course, as you go through life, people and places leave imprints on you and so I don’t deny that many of the characters and locations in this book were inspired by various people I’ve encountered and places I’ve lived or visited. I thank them for that inspiration.

The storyline is also drawn from my life experiences. I was born and bred in rural Australia—the ‘bush’. Professionally, I got to see how the government machine works (?) and then escaped to work with people dealing with life’s real day-to-day challenges. So while this story is based on that real life context, I’ve gilded the lily a bit, no, a lot actually, in the interests of entertaining you—I hope.

A special thanks goes to my friends and wife for reading early drafts and being willing and kind critics. Special mention must also go to Daniella Brodsky for her wonderful insights into how to begin writing and avoid the brick walls!

Finally, I wouldn’t want anyone reading this to use it in any way to take aim at those on the land who make a living relying on irrigation. Yes, there is very real tension between graziers and irrigators in places where water is scarce or not well managed, or both. In writing this story it was convenient to portray some irrigators as I have—in life that’s not how I have found the over-whelming majority to be.

Some aspects of life in rural Australia today—which I have touched on in this book when scene-setting—warrant more than a passing consideration by you the reader. One is that in many areas these communities are being decimated, largely as a consequence of governments blindly pursuing policies in the area of water ownership that are seeing more and more small farms gobbled up by bigger ones. Abandoned farms, less people, less shops, less services, less community and on it goes. This is real—not fiction.

Another sad reality is that of suicide among farmers. The severe drought experienced from 1997 to late 2010, in Australia’s eastern states in particular, threw into stark relief the frightening and tragic incidence of farmer suicides. In his submission to the Australian Senate’s Inquiry into Suicide in 2010, respected ABC radio journalist Michael Condon captured the essence of this problem better than I could ever hope to, as follows:

“The rate of rural suicide in Australia is amongst the highest in the developed world as farmers battle the crippling challenges and profound stresses of years of drought, failed crops, mounting debt and rural dwellers battle to slow the decaying towns and communities…

The Land newspaper in 2005 reported that there are around 1,000 suicides a year in rural Australia, just fewer than 20 deaths a week. National farm debt has doubled in five years to A$40 billion, as farmers borrow each season to plant crops only to see them shrivel and die.

Cattle and sheep farmers have sent valuable livestock to slaughter because they can no longer afford to buy feed or water…. Instead of seeking help many rural men retreat into the farm, become unsociable and sink further into the spiral of depression and/or mental illness.

Isolation is a real problem—living hundreds of kilometres from a town, the daily responsibility of feeding and watering starving livestock means they think they cannot leave their property.

Younger generations are reluctant to take on the burden of the farm or they are being excluded from decision making by the older generation, who reject any attempts at succession planning.”

As you contemplate this story perhaps these sage words will help you appreciate that life on the land is tough, and getting tougher. And, if you feel so inclined, a donation to that wonderful charity organisation Beyond Blue would help them continue their work in attempting to combat this problem.

The other charity worthy of your interest and support is River Smart Australia Ltd, a grass-roots focussed organisation that works with whole communities in regional areas to help them take action that will sustain our precious rivers into the future.

The sign on the rusted fence beside the cattle grid read ‘Sunset Downs’. Jack smiled with a combination of relief and anticipation—he’d arrived. The road dust swirled around the car and then cleared. The mailbox lay scattered in pieces by the road. That’s odd, he thought. He guided his battered and bruised Prius off the corrugated gravel road and over the grid.

In the distance he could see a classic country farmhouse nestled among the eucalypts. Red corrugated iron roof, screened verandas, rusty windmill and a water tank sitting high on its stand. Jack wondered—was this to be the beginning of a new chapter in his life?

As he approached the farmhouse, three lean and curious dogs loped toward the car. An old tractor was sitting in the shed beside a couple of quad bikes and a ute. Everything was layered with dust. A few chickens were roaming nearby and a rooster crowed. A Hills Hoist stood beside the house; a few socks, shirts and other items fluttering in the hot, dry breeze. As he stopped the car a figure emerged from the house. He was a little taller than Jack, six-one maybe; wearing a sweat-stained blue shirt, well-worn jeans and riding boots. There wasn’t much hair left, and what remained was close-cropped and steely grey. Jack guessed he’d be in his late 60s. He looked work-hardened—Jack felt flabby and slightly out of condition in comparison. His walk was purposeful and as the garden gate squeaked open Jack was struck by the man’s piercing blue eyes.

A strong, callused hand was extended toward him. ‘Welcome to Sunset Downs,’ he said, a smile flashing across the sun-weathered face. ‘I assume you’re that journalist fella that rang up about my little story in the paper?’

‘Yes; Jack Miller, Mister Thompson, pleased to meet you.’ Jack was embarrassed by his soft, weak, city-slicker hand offered in reply and tried to match Thompson’s powerful grip without grimacing. He failed.

As they turned to go inside Mike teased, ‘What’s that prissy-looking car you’re driving? It wouldn’t last long out here. Nowhere to plug the bugger in.’ He gave a devilish chuckle and then continued, ‘I’ve heard about these bloody hybrid things. Don’t tell me you believe all that city bullshit about global warming?’

Mike got busy in the kitchen while Jack sat at the big round dining table on the enclosed veranda. A lazy Susan with an array of condiments was the centrepiece on the gnarled old wooden table top. The wall was covered with family photos. Jack stood and started to browse. Some showed a much younger Mike with wife, three kids and a few dogs swimming in the farm dam. There were several photos of them mustering cattle on horseback and wading through sweeping fields of lush grass. Looking at one photo where all he could see was water and a few flooded trees, Jack asked, ‘Where was this one taken, Mike?’

Mike’s head appeared over the room divider. ‘From about where you’re standing right now, Jack. I thought I’d have to build us a bloody ark during that flood.’

Mike returned holding two steaming mugs of tea. ‘Those were better days,’ he said. ‘I lost my wife Marg to cancer four years ago and two of the kids have gone off to the big smoke, nothing for ’em to do here,’ he lamented. ‘Still got one son, Charlie, here with me. Not sure how much longer we can hang on though. This bloody drought, the government or those mongrel irrigators might just knock us off.’

Jack produced the newspaper clipping from the Sydney Morning Herald that had brought him here, placing it on the table. The headline read, ‘Angry farmer accuses bureaucrat of corruption’.

‘Mike, as I said on the phone, I saw this last week and thought I’d like to do a follow-up piece, if you’re willing? I grew up in the bush, in the Riverina, and I’m a bit tired of writing for in-flight magazines about island resorts only the rich and famous can afford. It’s time for some real journalism again.’

Mike looked Jack steadily in the eyes, assessing him. ‘Jack, I should warn you, if you want the full story you may want to up your life insurance, mate. These bastards know how to play rough, and out here you can’t go running to the cops for help. It takes ’em well over an hour—on a good day—to get out here. I can tell you what I know, but that’s painting a bullseye on your chest too. Trust me, this isn’t some little neighbourhood squabble. These boys play for keeps.’

Jack felt a tingle up his spine, a mixture of fear and excitement—the journalist in him was on high alert from these few words uttered by Mike. ‘Let’s see what happens,’ said Jack, with more confidence than he felt, ‘and if it gets too hot for me, I’ll let you know.’

Mike smiled knowingly. ‘Ok, finish your tea and let’s jump in the ute and I’ll show you around.’

Just then Jack was startled by what sounded like a gunshot in the distance. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

‘If you’re hanging around for a while you’d better get used to it. That’s the gun noise the stone fruit growers use to scare away the birds and flying foxes. They go off regularly at this time of year—more frequently just after dusk.’

As they made their way outside, Jack’s curiosity got the better of him and he asked, ‘What happened to your mailbox?’

Mike smiled. ‘Always happens whenever I speak out about the crooks in the water industry; one of those water-thieving bastards puts his bull bar through it. When you rang up I was about to rebuild it. Then I thought—there’s no point. Once they hear you’ve been here they’ll flatten it again. I’ve got some explosives in the shed for getting rid of old tree stumps so I’m thinking I might strap it to the new box when I build it to give ’em a little surprise next time.’ Mike walked off, clearly amused by this idea.

About 600—as the crow flies—kilometres away, in a well-appointed office on the ninth floor of a gleaming high-rise in Sydney’s centre of power—Macquarie Street—three men in grey suits were meeting in the office of the New South Wales Minister for Water Resources.

The minister, Gary Townsend—his usually well-manicured, photo-ready face clearly unhappy—slammed his fist on the table. ‘Des, who is this silly bastard, Mike Thompson? Does he really have anything on our man in the region—what’s his name—Wellsmore?’

Sitting opposite the minister was Des Drummond, Head of the Department of Water Resources, his weary face more ashen than usual. ‘It’s possible, Gary. You know as well as I do what’s been going on up there—it was only a matter of time before someone got their hands on proof,’ he said.

At the far end of the long, highly-polished meeting table sat Todd Marchant—a noted head kicker from the right faction of the party. He had a position of ‘advisor’ in the minister’s office. Todd’s dark eyes hardened and he stroked his long thin nose. ‘Gary, we have an election coming up this year and Johnson is not necessarily a safe electorate for us. There’s that fucking independent who’s gaining in the polls. We can’t afford to let any shit from this splatter on John Burton, the local Member. We need to make this go away, quickly and quietly.’

Des interjected, clearly agitated, and his dislike of Todd evident. ‘That’s a political issue, Todd. Not my problem. I’m concerned about what this might mean for me and the reputation of my Department.’

‘Bullshit, Des. You got involved in this with your eyes wide open so get that stupid prick Wellsmore promoted out of the region asap before this goes any further.’

‘Gentleman, gentlemen, take it easy,’ the minister reasserted himself—glaring across the table at them both—his tanned features glowing slightly as the temperature of the conversation escalated.

Des replied, ‘Ok, Gary. All I’m saying is that it’s not always as easy as Todd likes to think. Leave it with me and I’ll see what I can find out. Is that all for now, Minister? I have another meeting and I’m already late.’

As Drummond departed, a side door to the office opened and they were joined by the minister’s media advisor, Matt Brown—designer glasses, lightly gelled hair, his Blackberry a constant companion and diamond studs in both ears. Smiling he said, ‘Gary, I’ve checked. You’re in the clear. We have no records of the Department advising this office they’ve ever had concerns about Wellsmore’s probity.’

‘Thank God for that. We’ve had too much shit of late over our water policies,’ said the minister. Glancing at his watch he stood. ‘I have to get back to Parliament for question time. Let’s hope the bloody Greens haven’t got wind of this and table a question without notice.’ Matt followed the minister from the room.

Left alone in the office, Todd reached for his Blackberry and hit the call button. ‘Vinnie, Todd here. We might have a little problem with this bloody farmer that’s pointed the finger at Wellsmore. We can’t let this escalate or some serious heads will roll. I need you to do some checking for me; and Vinnie, find out how we can worry or hurt Mr Thompson if we have to.’

Mike’s ute had seen better days. Some of the springs were protruding from the seat and thick dust caked everything. There was a strong odour of diesel mixed with hay. Two of the dogs jumped on the back of the ute and Mike helped the third one up. ‘That’s old Max. He’s getting on in years but I haven’t had the heart to put him down,’ said Mike.

They headed off away from the main road, Jack jumping out to open and close gates as they worked their way through parched paddock after parched paddock.

Mike opened up, ‘Jack, we’ve been in drought here for bloody near ten years. It’s been too much for a few poor buggers around here, they’ve topped themselves, which is tragic for their poor families.’

‘We don’t hear much about that aspect of the drought in Sydney,’ replied Jack.

‘Nah, curiously it doesn’t get much airplay. Not sure why, maybe the government doesn’t want anyone to know how badly their policies are hurting. I’m really not sure, Jack, but I can think of three blokes who’ve done it just in this region alone. It’s pretty desperate.’

‘That’s disgraceful, Mike, I’m going to look into that for the story. We should be doing more to help people through these times of crisis,’ said Jack, thinking—why is it we never speak about suicide in this society?

‘I couldn’t agree more. For about the last 20 years there’s been growing conflict in this valley between the irrigators who pump water and us graziers who once relied on natural flows and floods. Before they arrived we used to make a good living grazing our stock on the floodplains. Back then, before those stupid government bastards issued more water licences than the river could ever deliver, this country used to get a drink most years, and then a big flood would come about every five years to really freshen things up. Haven’t seen a big flood since that one in the photo back home. That was 1971.’ Mike took a deep breath and looked around, clearly remembering those better days, before continuing.

‘We used to have the most amazing swamps through here—teeming with waterbirds they were, and then, as the waters receded, it was perfect for feeding the cattle. It was a real win-win situation. Now the system gets sucked dry most years so it’s only a major flood that can get water out on the floodplain and give us fodder for our cattle.’

‘So what you’re saying is the total volume of water held under licence is more than the river has available?’

Mike gave one of his chuckles, ‘Too right, it’s nearly twice as much. They just hope that not everyone will want their water in the same year. They sold water licences to make money and encourage agriculture, but didn’t think about what might happen in a drought when everyone wanted their water at the same time. Talk about stupid. Of course there’s always been talk that if you really wanted a water licence there were ways to get one, if you get my drift?’

Jack made another mental note to ask more about this later then decided to play the devil’s advocate. ‘But Mike, technically you’re all irrigators aren’t you? I mean, you also have a water licence, don’t you? What’s the difference?’

Mike stopped the ute under some shady trees and turned to face Jack, a wise smile spreading across his face as the noise of the rumbling diesel engine subsided.

‘I suppose you’re right in one way,’ he conceded. ‘The difference is that we let water spread across this country, like it used to, naturally. This is flood country Jack—always was and always should be. The bloody irrigators take it from point A to point B and then apply it intensively to crops. They focus the use of water on small areas while the rest dies. Unless they’re one of the more savvy irrigators, water is moved via open channels, stored in big open storage dams and then delivered to crops along shallow furrows or maybe overhead sprinklers. Huge amounts of water are lost through evaporation and seepage into the soil. What pisses us off is that they’re allowed to get away with using these inefficient methods. What’s the government doing? There simply isn’t enough water to go around so you either have to be more efficient with what you have or take back some of the licences—the system is massively over-allocated.’

They got out of the ute. The flies were fierce here and as they walked both Mike and Jack had to wave their arms constantly to keep them off their faces. There was also a strong odour of cow dung mixed with dust and eucalypt trees. Nice cocktail, Jack mused. Get used to it mate!

Mike led Jack to a shallow depression running through the barren paddock in which there was a trickle of water.

‘See that,’ he said, ‘that’s called our ‘stock and domestic supply’. It’s supposed to give us water for our cattle and home use. I’m still getting a little but the poor buggers down from here haven’t seen a drop for close on eight years.’

‘Yep, they’ve been carting water in for all that time. Most get a bath once a week, if they’re lucky,’ confirmed Mike.

Mike turned to look directly at Jack, casually brushing the flies away as he did. ‘Partly, but it’s mostly because of people closer to the source taking more water than they should—greedy bastards.’

Mike laughed, loudly this time. ‘I wish. No, the tap turners in the Water Department work out how much they need to put down the channel to support everyone, allowing for what soaks in and how much evaporates, so that in theory it gets to the end of the line. Rarely happens, but no-one listens when you say, “come out to my place and I’ll show you how little I’m getting.” There are no meters out here Jack, although there is some talk it might happen. The system is supposed to work on trust. It’s a joke. Come on,’ he said, ‘Jump in. Let me give you the rest of the tour.’

Jack’s mind was racing with all sorts of questions. ‘What about other government departments? Do you get any help or support from them?’ he queried.

Mike let out a quiet snort of disgust this time. ‘You familiar with the expression, ‘as useless as tits on a bull’, Jack? Well that’s what they are. Some bright spark in government set up these things called catchment management authorities, CMAs, a few years back. We all thought, beauty; finally some local people with local knowledge and who have the job of looking after all the vested interests not just a few. Bugger me if the idiots then decided the CMA’s could look after everything bar the water. Brilliant. It’s like giving someone a deck of cards to play patience with the kings and queens missing.’

‘What about the environment department or the national parks service? If you once had all those waterbirds breeding here, surely they’d be keen to see that continue?’ asked Jack.

‘You’d think so, and while we hear lots of nice words, and they have little talkfests all the time to reassure us they’re trying their best, at the end of the day they’re mostly naïve kids, just out of university and full of wonderful ideas. They soon learn that you don’t mess with the water department. And, government after government give the environment minister job to inexperienced first timers so those pesky green issues don’t get in the way. Don’t get me wrong here Jack, I’m no closet greenie, although I do miss the floods and what they do to this country. Unless you’ve lived out here for a while and experienced a few floods you just don’t get it, I suppose. Most of the people out here just want balance and fairness but those silly bastards in Canberra and Sydney, well they’re not worth the oxygen.’

Silence fell over the vehicle for a few minutes as they both reflected on the situation. Then Mike continued, ‘The other thing that’s happening is that we’ve had the big international agribusiness enterprises move in. They buy up deceased estates simply for their water licence. Then they abandon the farms and transfer the water entitlement to their property. Around here close to 40 per cent of properties are unoccupied and another 20 per cent have absentee managers. Either ‘Pitt Street farmers’ or ones where the manager lives on another property and drops in every few days. It’s gutted our community way out here, Jack. We’re a dying breed, us cattle farmers.’

‘I had no idea it was this bad. I might be here for a while to get the full story,’ said Jack.

‘We’ll see, we’ll see,’ Mike replied, nodding. ‘How good are you on a quad bike, Jack?’

‘I’ll give you a lesson and we’ll go see my son Charlie and his family,’ said Mike.

About a hundred kilometres down the road from Sunset Downs, at the Royal Hotel in Dawson, a round of beers was brought to a table in a quiet back corner of the bar. One of the televisions mounted on the wall was showing the greyhound races and the other a replay of some football final from more than a decade ago. The pub was relatively quiet, not like Friday nights when the heavy-drinking pig shooters and farm workers came to town in their utes festooned with spotlights, roo bars and racist or sexist bumper stickers.

Vinnie Sutcliffe looked intently at the two men sitting opposite. His big, shaved head matched the body below, well muscled and toned. His reflective sunglasses sat perched on his glistening brow.

‘I’m here to remind you both that we can’t let this thing get out of hand. There are people in Sydney who are nervous. They want assurances that Mike Thompson has nothing on you, Pete, is that the case or not?’

Peter Wellsmore, the regional head of the Department of Water Resources, shifted nervously on his seat, adjusting his glasses, ‘I don’t know what he could have, Vinnie. I’ve been very careful to quash anything that might escalate and not leave paper trails in the system.’

Steve Robertson, known to his mates as ‘Robbo’ and regional manager for GrowOz agribusiness chipped in, ‘I hear there’s some bloody journalist in town sniffing around for a story. He got some petrol at the Shell servo and asked directions to Mike’s place. Bazza got him chatting and found out he’s a writer or journo or something like that.’

‘Shit, that’s just what I need right now; some smart-arse journo stirring things up,’ Wellsmore replied.

Sutcliffe looked at Robertson, also concerned at the news of a journalist going to see Mike. ‘Robbo, you know that if Thompson does have something damaging it will mean the end for you and damage GrowOz’s reputation and probably their share price. The big boys will not be happy.’

Vinnie sat back, reflecting momentarily. ‘Well, you guys had better hope this journo doesn’t get excited about this story; because if he does we may have to cover our tracks, if you know what I mean.’

He let this sink in for a moment then stood to leave, leaning in closer before he did and saying with subdued force. ‘Keep your ears to the ground on this. Any sniff of the story growing I need to know straight away. We may have some mopping up to do. Understand?’

After Vinnie’s departure, Wellsmore and Robertson stayed for another round of beers.

‘What are the boys saying about this? Is it still business as usual or have they pulled back on the water diversions?’ asked Pete.

‘You know what they’re like. They think they can keep flying under the radar. I’ve told ’em to cool it for a while but some are saying bugger that, we need the water and if we don’t take it the cattle blokes or greenies will get it.’

An agitated Wellsmore said, ‘Jesus Christ, can’t you talk to them again and ask ’em to back off, at least until this journo fella pisses off?’

‘I’ll try, Pete, but I don’t like my chances. They’ve already flattened Thompson’s mailbox again after what he said to you in that meeting and wanted to do more to scare him off. I think I’ve convinced ’em to hold off on that, for now at least.’ Both men shook their heads and contemplated their half-full schooner glasses.

Mike’s quad bike riding lesson was abbreviated to say the least. ‘Here, jump on this. That’s the throttle, that’s the brakes and this and that lever down there changes the gears. Got it? Just keep an eye out for bloody cows, pigs and roos. They make a real mess of one of these and you.’ Jack sensed that Mike was enjoying his discomfort.

Jack kangaroo-hopped the first few hundred metres until he got the feel of the quad bike—he’d learned to ride a trail bike when he was growing up and this was similar. They headed toward the setting sun along a narrow track, through a few dry creek crossings, and rumbled over several cattle grids before arriving at another classic old country homestead. Like Mike’s; it had the dogs, the windmill and the elevated water tank—although it was clear younger people lived here from the trampoline, bikes and sandpit toys strewn around, and an old car tyre swinging from a tree.

A younger, carbon-copy of Mike emerged from the house, and Mike introduced his son Charlie. He gripped Jack’s hand in the same powerful way.

‘Charlie, Jack reckons he might like to write a bit of a story about our little water problem, so he’s here to see things for himself. Thought we might take him out on patrol tonight,’ said Mike.

Jack’s ears pricked up at the use of the word ‘patrol’—sounded a bit military. Before he could seek clarification, Charlie replied, ‘Suppose so, we might see some action tonight after your little performance at that meeting last week Dad. I hear the natives are restless. I lost my mailbox again last night, the bastards.’

Before Jack could ask more about the ‘patrol’ he heard the screen door open and looked around to meet Charlie’s wife, he assumed.

‘G’day,’ she said, ‘I’m Sandie, Charlie’s missus.’ She had shoulder-length auburn hair with matching complexion, and was wearing jeans and an RM Williams shirt with a logo on the pocket: Western Stock and Station.

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Jack, feeling a little awkward about intruding on their family life.

‘You guys ready for some tucker?’ Sandie asked, heading back inside. ‘Give me ten minutes to get the kids started and then come on in.’

Jack saw his chance and asked, ‘Mike, when you say ‘patrol’, what exactly do you mean?’

Mike glanced at Charlie who jumped in to answer, ‘A few of us that have been getting our water ripped off for years have had enough, so we have a roster system running. Every night of the week someone is out checking that those irrigator mongrels aren’t diverting our water or putting the stop logs in to cut off our flows. If we find they have we put it right.’

‘You’ll see later. Basically they’re boards that are used to regulate flow down each supply channel. The number of boards you have in determines how much water gets through. It’s as close as we get to a meter out here.’

‘So, are you telling me that people will run around and interfere with someone else’s water supply after dark?’

‘You bet, and that’s just the start,’ answered Charlie. Jack thought—I’m starting to wish I had taken Mike’s advice and rung my insurance broker. This is sounding serious.

They went inside for dinner. There was a huge stone fireplace with a tanned brown and white cattle-skin rug on the floor in front. A timber mantel piece held some old photos and a few scattered drink coasters. Several big old leather lounges were spread around with a TV in one corner and computer work station in another. The smell was of roast lamb mixed with freshly washed children.

The kids—aged eight and eleven, Jack guessed—were at the table eating already. Jack was introduced to Kate and Ben and everyone heard about their day at school. The school was 40 kilometres away and had a total of twelve students—just enough to keep it going.

As the children told the adults about their day, Jack drifted off momentarily. Kate’s about the same age as my Jennifer, he thought, and remembered the happy times before Ange and he were divorced. He wondered what Jen was doing right now.

‘With the drought, we had to sell off most of the stock; so I had to take a job in Dawson to help keep us going. Takes me a bit over two hours a day travel but there’s really no alternative until it rains, or we get a bit more of the water we’re entitled to.’ Jack felt the tension mount in the room as Mike and Charlie reflected on Sandie’s words.

After dinner they headed for the quad bikes. As the sun slowly departed the sky, with an amazing sea of red and orange hues in its wake, Mike and Charlie were checking their shotguns and loading them into specially made holsters on the bikes. ‘Tell me they’re for roos and rabbits,’ said Jack.

They both chuckled in unison. ‘Yeah. Sure. We might bowl over a rabbit or two if we see ’em,’ said Charlie, ‘but they’re also for security. Never know what you might find on one of these patrols.’

They mounted up. Mike’s two younger dogs jumped up behind him and Charlie had a couple too. Old Max was left behind to be pampered by the children. Jack figured no dogs rode with him because he was still on his ‘L’ plates—they’re protecting their prized possessions, he thought.

After travelling for about 20 minutes they worked their way along a fence line and stopped near a large earthen bank. Charlie beckoned Jack over to where he was standing beside a structure built into the channel. It looked like a smaller version of the fences that horses jump in equestrian events.

‘Jack, it might make more sense to you now. This is my main regulator. This is where all my licensed water comes through; and depending on how much the Department decides we can get in a given year, it might be 100 per cent of our licence, or anything down to zero. I manage that flow using these boards to take what I’m allowed. The tap turners look at how much is in Carnaby dam up river, and then add up all the requests from those that have water licences and then bingo, let that amount out. As I’m sure dad has told you, it relies on honesty; and when times get tough, it’s open slather almost.’

‘I can’t believe this,’ said Jack, ‘What an antiquated system. It’s so open to rorting.’ Mike and Charlie nodded solemnly.

They rode on for a few more kilometres before Mike waved them to a sudden stop. He killed his lights and jumped off the quad, his nimbleness belying his years. ‘Turn the quads off,’ he said urgently, a worried look on his face. The dogs sensed it too and started to whimper. He quietened them with a glare.

As Jack’s eyes adjusted he saw lights ahead in the bush about a kilometre away; and as the wind shifted, there was the sound of heavy machinery at work. Mike and Charlie were conferring quietly. Mike whispered to Jack, ‘This is not our land, but we think we know what they’re doing. They’re reconnecting an old illegal irrigation channel that was decommissioned a few years ago. This will divert water meant for others downstream, including us.’

Jack asked naively, ‘How can they hope to get away with it—surely someone will notice?’

Charlie replied with barely subdued anger, ‘If we yell loud enough the Department will come out and investigate, but by then the water’s gone and is in someone’s storage dam or on their crop. They just get a rap over the knuckles, at worst. Usually nothing happens.’

Jack was incredulous—this is blatant theft, he thought. ‘Look, you guys, can we get close enough to get some photos? I’ll have this on the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald tomorrow,’ he said. The father and son exchanged glances and then nodded.

‘It might be better if you stay here, Jack. Give Charlie your camera. I guess it’s one of those new fangled digital ones?’ Charlie took the camera as Jack showed him which button to push.

‘You stay here with the dogs, Jack, and if anything happens get on the quad and get the hell out of here. Reckon you can find your way back to Charlie and Sandies’ place?’ Not a hope in hell, Jack thought as the others started to inch forward on foot using the scattered trees for cover.

In the now rapidly fading daylight Jack could see Mike and Charlie cautiously edging toward the lights and noise. Then a gun shot rang out. Mike and Charlie hit the deck. Jack wasn’t sure if they were taking cover or one of them had been hit.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he said out loud, trying to suppress his panic. Without thinking, Jack charged toward Mike and Charlie to see if they needed his help. The dogs followed his lead. As he got closer, Mike and Charlie jumped to their feet and came running back past him. Great!

‘Jack, what the hell are you doing? Get out of here you crazy bastard.’ As he turned to follow his retreating ‘mates’ Jack heard the now unmistakable sound of quad bikes starting up. He glanced back to see headlights and the silhouettes of two burly looking blokes—toting shotguns—come crashing through the bush, heading for them.

They all made it back to their quads which were still warm, thankfully, and fired up instantly. They took off in a cloud of dust, grass and rocks. This wasn’t the time for making a stand! The pursuers were about 100 metres behind and Jack heard another gunshot echo across the plains. He felt a sharp stinging all over his back, neck, and the back of his head. He heard one of the dogs on Charlie’s bike yelp. Jack quickly felt the back of his neck for blood and was relieved to find nothing but sweat mixed with dirt and grime. He hunched forward and tried to catch up to Mike and Charlie, glancing over his shoulder only to see the pursuers gradually gaining on him—I am a novice after all, he thought. Shit!

Just then a battle-scarred feral pig burst out of the undergrowth to Jack’s left. It was roughly the same size as the quad bike and on a collision course with Jack. The pig had one intent—to get across the track and into the thicker vegetation on the other side. Jack and his thundering quad bike were not going to stop it—that was clear. Jack swerved sharply, and miraculously didn’t roll as he clipped the low shrubs beside the road. Glancing behind he could see the pursuers were now only 50 metres behind.

Another gunshot rang out and Jack heard Mike yell, ‘It’s just bird shot, keep going.’ He didn’t need to be told twice.

As their quads four-wheel drifted out of the timbered area onto a wide gravel road the angry pursuers slowed and then retreated, no doubt concerned about there being witnesses to them taking pot shots at the trio. Mike, Charlie and Jack kept going at high speed for another five minutes before Charlie yelled, ‘I think we’re ok now, fellas,’ and they all slowed and then stopped to listen. No lights or sounds of trouble. Thank God, was all Jack could think. His hands were trembling and the knees were a bit wobbly too. This was certainly a far cry from writing about Hamilton Island holidays, Jack reflected.

Mike replied, ‘Could’ve been worse. At least they only used bird shot. That way no-one gets seriously hurt and all those within earshot think it’s just those bloody bird scarers. Now that they know we know what they’re up to, things could get interesting. We’d better get home and be prepared for anything, Charlie. I’ll ring around and let the others know about this, and go through the motions of calling the tap turners in town tomorrow—not that that will make any difference. Jack, you still want to write this story mate?’

‘Try to stop me now,’ Jack replied, thinking that may go down as one of the dumbest things he’d ever said.

The rest of that night was uneventful. The patrollers returned to Charlie’s and told Sandie about what had happened. She told them they were silly buggers, but they all knew she didn’t mean it. These battle lines had been drawn many years earlier.

Mike and Jack made their way back to Sunset Downs. ‘You drink port?’ Mike asked as they settled down in the big leather lounges on the veranda, with the cicadas chirping loudly in the hot night air. Jack was still jumpy, especially whenever the bird and flying fox scarers went off.

‘Only drink it to help me sleep, so it’s probably a good idea tonight,’ Jack replied.

Mike produced a bottle of Grandfather Port and glasses, blowing the dust off as he did so. ‘Jack, you might want to think about going home tomorrow. This is not your fight and after tonight I think it’s about to get even more ugly.’

It had been a long day so Jack’s brain was weary and processing Mike’s words slowly. Suddenly the lights went on in his brain and he had a moment of insight.

‘There’s a mob over in Dawson that hire out for mustering and pig shooting. What’ve you got in mind?’

‘Well, if we’re going to expose what those guys are doing I need photos and be damned if I’m going back out there on a quad bike,’ said Jack.

‘How much is your livelihood worth, not to mention Charlie and Sandie and the kids, and all your mates? And, bloody hell Mike, what they’re doing is criminal. I’ll make some inquiries tomorrow.’

Before Jack retired for the night there was one more question he’d been dying to ask Mike, so he blurted it out. ‘Mike, when you accused Peter Wellsmore of corruption in that meeting the other day did you have proof or were you just bluffing?’

‘Wondered when you’d get around to asking me that,’ Mike replied. A long silence followed and it was obvious he was deep in thought. ‘Let’s sleep on that. There’s someone I have to speak to before I can answer that question, ok.’

Jack awoke to a rooster crowing and the smell of bacon cooking—a sizzling pan could be heard in the kitchen. He dragged himself out of bed and looked at the clock; 6.00 am. Bloody hell! At home he was a 7.30 or 8.00 am riser so he knew mornings weren’t his best time. Wandering out of the spare room, he saw his host busy in the kitchen again. Full of good cheer, Mike yelled—or so it seemed—‘How many eggs for you?’

Jack replied, ‘I’m usually a toast and coffee man for breakfast, Mike. I’m happy to try a country brekkie though. Maybe just one egg and easy on the bacon, thanks.’

A few minutes later Mike appeared clutching a huge plate with an egg, bacon, sausage, cooked half tomato, baked beans and toast. A steaming mug of tea was in his other hand. ‘Git that into ya,’ he said, plonking it all down in front of Jack and heading back to the kitchen.

Mike returned with his own plate; two eggs, two sausages, several rashers of bacon and so on. ‘After you went to bed I made a phone call,’ he commenced hesitantly. ‘The tricky thing with what I said in that meeting is that it was based on some documents I’d been told about by a source in the system, shall we say. The person who told me about them is scared shitless someone will find out and they’ll lose their job, or worse.’

He stopped and looked at Jack intently. ‘You see the problem? If I disclose this information it will be pretty obvious where it came from, and the whistleblower will cop it. I’d like to find another way to prove what these bastards are up to, without using this info. It’s my insurance I suppose, but I can only use it as a last resort.’

Before leaving for Dawson Mike let Jack use his satellite internet connection to check emails on his laptop and browse the Sydney newspapers—the usual political wranglings and shock jock garbage he didn’t miss at all thought Jack. With directions from Mike, Jack hesitantly aimed the Prius back onto the corrugated gravel road. As he arrived in town he spied a windsock blowing gently in the hot northerly breeze at the end of a runway and then the sign to the airport.

Driving up to the shed nestled in the long grass beside the runway—as directed by Mike—he saw a four-seater chopper and a sign saying ‘Sandford’s Helicopter Charters’. He was hoping someone was there as he hadn’t called ahead. He opened the screen door, which squeaked loudly. A dog barked and he heard a female voice from out the back say, ‘Sit down, Spanner’.

He headed toward where the voice had emerged as an overall-clad woman appeared from the behind chopper holding a rag and some tools. She had blonde hair tied up behind her head, a grease mark on her right cheek, and the rest he didn’t notice once he got to the emerald-green eyes. ‘G’day,’ she said, ‘I’m Pip Sandford, what can I do for you?’

Since his short-lived marriage had failed four years ago, Jack had been happy to play the field a bit. When you visit tropical islands to write about the perfect holidays on offer there are lots of backpackers and seasonal workers who like to party hard—enough said. His marriage had been a mistake, and they’d both known it almost from day one. Since then he’d been the classic ‘once bitten twice shy guy’. But, he reflected, he was getting ahead of himself—he’d just made eye contact with this woman and here he was starting to think about their future together.

Jack introduced himself and started to explain why he needed a chopper. She interrupted him, ‘Are you serious? You want me to fly you down over someone’s place; low enough to get photos of them, you claim, breaking the law. Is that a fair summary?’

He nodded. No shrinking violet here but he should have guessed that. You don’t run a chopper charter service out here without being made of tough stuff.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

From the author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8