Prohibited Zone (3 page)

‘Aw, cut it out, Hose,' said Spud. ‘We don't need that sorta talk here.'

‘In this reshpecable eshtablissment,' said Hose, whose tongue wasn't quite up to the ambition of his brain, modest though it was.

‘How would anyone know, anyway?' asked Chook. ‘Don't they wear a dirty great muzzle over their faces?'

‘It's called a burqa,' said Baz. ‘And not all women wear them. Hardly any from Afghanistan, actually. Mostly they come here to get away from that sort of thing.'

‘So she's a bit of alright, is she?'

Baz shrugged. ‘Yeah, she's pretty. I wouldn't like to cross her boyfriend, though; a somewhat scary son-of-a-gun, he is.'

‘Did he escape too?' asked Chook.

‘Yeah.'

‘I'd better keep me hands to meself, then, if I find her in me bed.'

‘Might be a good idea, you old stud.'

Chook showed us his dirty teeth, picked up his drink and headed back to the pool table, where one of his mates, Ritten, had just racked the balls and was lining up a break.

‘As far as I'm concerned they're welcome ta each uvver,' said Hose. ‘I only wish they'd go fuck 'emselves somewhere else.'

Two men babysitting their beers in the corner caught my eye. They were turned slightly away from each other so that between them they had a good view of the room, and they were surveying it with the subtlety of searchlights in a concentration camp. The older of the two sat upright and wore a grey haircut and a moustache as neatly trimmed as a retiree's lawn. He was handsome in a jaded sort of way and could have been military or ex-military or even ex-Hollywood. The younger one slouched and had longer hair by half an inch. He had a thin, juvenile moustache, the kind that teenagers sometimes wear to prove they've reached puberty. He seemed to be studying me, so I studied him back.

Rabbit had come over and was ordering a beer for himself and a Coke for his wife. He had black hair and mid-brown skin, and quiet eyes that watched the world with practised wariness. He wore a pale-blue t-shirt and a pair of shorts that were pulled up just a little too high.

‘What's up, Westie?' he asked.

‘Not much, Rabbit. What's up with you? Haven't seen you for a while. How's the clan?'

‘Clan's good, mate. Missus is 'spectin' again.'

‘Again? Jesus, Rabbit, you're giving rabbits a bad name.'

He grinned, a sudden flash of brilliance.

‘Can't help meself, mate.'

‘You are helping yourself, that's the problem.'

He laughed.

‘This one's on me,' I said, as Spud delivered the drinks. ‘Good work.'

‘Thanks, Westie,' said Rabbit. ‘We'll see ya.' He took the drinks and headed back to his wife, who smiled at him as he approached, and he smiled back. They'd been married for more than ten years and had five kids. They were brave smiles. Rabbit said a few words to Doreen, who looked up at me and waved.

‘You know they're organising a posse,' said Baz.

‘Who are?'

‘Chook and his mates.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Corrections Australia has offered ten thousand for information leading to the arrest of any of the escapees. I think they're planning to go out in Ritten's Jackeroo after they've had a few more beers.'

‘A few more beers is just what they need.'

Ritten was taking a shot at the yellow, cigarette between his lips. He was a hustler; he and Chook often double-teamed on the pool table to relieve the innocent of their gold coins. He lived in Pimba with a woman who was ten years older than him. She was a cleaner at the detention centre and he worked casually – very casually, I'd been informed – on some of the local properties. He was wearing a flannelette shirt with the sleeves ripped off. He had a severely receding hairline at the front and very long hair at the back. There were only a few parts of the world where that sort of hairstyle was fashionable, and Pimba was one of them.

‘More than likely they'll just break an axle,' I said.

‘Or their necks,' said Baz. ‘I don't think the escapees have too much to fear from them. Those guys can't find their own cocks most nights. And if they did they wouldn't know what to do with them. But they're not the worst of the vigilantes. Some mean suckers will be out tonight looking for a nice reward.' He nodded towards a huddle of four shaved heads. One of them belonged to Hose, who had lurched over from the bar and was now propped against a barrel. The other three were also guards; I knew them all by sight and a couple by name. Most had been in Woomera for only a few months, but they were already close mates. When off-duty they hung out together, drank beer together, and told angry stories together about the daily mayhem of the detention centre.

‘Your mates,' I said.

‘Yeah, my friends and colleagues.'

‘Don't they have to work?'

‘Yeah, we all gotta go back tonight but we'll get some downtime later when the reinforcements arrive.'

The door opened and a young woman walked in. She paused just over the threshold to survey the scene, and the bar went quiet as she was surveyed back by every man there, including the retiree in the restaurant. Young women were a rare, in fact almost extinct, species in Pimba. But this woman probably disappointed a few of the patrons: she wasn't blonde, she wasn't naked and she wasn't a calendar on the wall. She wasn't even particularly pretty. She was dressed inelegantly in a khaki-coloured shirt buttoned up far enough to hide any hint of cleavage, a pair of long shorts and sturdy walking boots. Between the bottom of the shorts and the top of the boots were the middle parts of a pair of slim, brown legs. Her shirt had damp patches under the arms and her face gleamed with sweat. Her large mouth turned up at the ends as if her face wasn't quite large enough to accommodate it straight. She had chestnut hair that was mostly tied back, but loose strands had fallen forward over her ears.

She knew she had the attention of every man in the room and looked like she couldn't have cared less. She strode to the bar, dropped a cheap satchel at her feet and hooked the stray hair behind her ears; the one I could see was punctuated by two silver studs, one in the lobe and the other about midway up the outer edge.

‘What can I do you for?' asked Spud. The room was still quiet, although she'd lost Ritten's attention; he was lining up his next shot on the pool table.

‘A beer, thanks,' she said.

‘What sort, sweetheart?'

‘Doesn't matter, as long as it's cold. And I'll have a glass of water, too, thanks.' She had a Sydney girls-school accent – half English, half Australian, half ridiculous. She wiped her brow with the sleeve of her shirt. She was wearing a slim, patterned silver ring on the middle finger of her right hand, but no engagement or wedding ring. Not that this meant much; some women I knew wore their wedding rings in their belly buttons. Others didn't bother with a ring at all and quite a few didn't bother with marriage. Ritten took his shot and the mob started talking again. I saw Hose mumble something to his mates, his eyes still on the woman. His mates grinned without humour.

Spud picked out a Coopers Pale Ale, rolled it on the counter and decanted it into a pint glass. He grabbed another glass and poured water into it out of a jug he kept in the fridge. ‘Five dollars. Water's free.'

She handed over a twenty and drained the water in one long swig. Then she picked up the beer and took a sip. She put it down carefully, turned her head and looked straight at me. I was startled by her eyes. They were vivid and lively and intelligent, and a kind of green you don't see much in the desert. Or anywhere. Her face had no lines except the line of her upturned mouth. She held my gaze for just a couple of seconds. Some hair had come loose again and she hooked it behind her ear before twisting back to the bar. She pocketed the change that Spud had put there and picked up her beer again.

Hose beat his way towards us, still carrying his beer. He bumped into her, spilling her drink. She stepped back and held the glass out to reduce the amount of beer that hit her shirt.

‘I beg your pardon?' she said, her voice hostile.

Hose gave a drunken laugh that was as misshapen as his nose.

‘No, I beg
your
pardon,' he said in a very bad imitation of an English accent. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, Princess fucken Di?' He looked around at us for encouragement. He didn't get any but he didn't need it, either.

‘Settle down, Hose,' said Baz.

‘No, Baz. I wanna tell her something. I wanna tell you something,' he said, turning on the woman again and pointing his finger at her. ‘You got a fucken nerve comin' in 'ere. You were wiff them protesters, weren't yer? I saw yer there today. You helped a shitload of 'em towel 'eads t' escape. Three of me mates got hurt so bad they had to go to 'ospital in the Gutter. One of 'em gotta star picket frew his knee. It's on
your
fucken head.' He took a swig of his beer. ‘An' yer mates,' he added, as an afterthought.

The woman's face was still and tight. She put her beer down.

‘No, it's on
your
head,' she said, doing some finger-pointing of her own. ‘You treat these people like animals and you're surprised when they will no longer put up with it. Give me a fucking break. You are a bully.
And
your mates.'

Hose tried to slap her fingers down but she withdrew her hand too quickly.

‘You make me wanna spew, yer stuck-up bitch. Think yer so smart. Just . . .' He groped for some words. ‘Just fuck off.' He made a back-handed gesture in the vague direction of the rest of the world.

She flushed, all the way to the outer edge of her ears and back. She looked at Baz and then me and then back at Hose. Then she shrugged, still red but outwardly composed. ‘I'm entitled to drink my beer,' she said.

‘Take it easy, Hose,' said Baz. ‘Just enjoy your drink and don't swear at the customers.'

Trent laughed.

‘Yeah, whatever,' said Hose, draining his bottle. ‘S'long as she fucks off.'

‘She can stay where she is,' said Spud, winking at the woman. ‘Anyone with money to spend is welcome here, as long as they behave. You can go outside yourself, Hose, especially if you're going to spew.'

Hose put his bottle down with a thud and held up his hands in a mock gesture of surrender. ‘Alri', fuck it. It just shits me how these do-fucken-gooders think they know what's goin' on but they've got no idea who these fucken rezzies are and what they're really like. They believe their bullshit stories and get sucked right in and it really shits me. Gimme another beer.'

Spud fetched him a stubby and took his money. The woman was still staring at Hose, but he was ignoring her now. She decided to look at Baz instead.

‘I don't suppose you're heading to Adelaide tonight?' she asked him. ‘I need a lift.'

Baz shook his head. ‘Wish I was, honey, but I'm on a double shift tonight. In fact, most of us are only on our dinner breaks. We've all got to go back.'

Hose growled, but didn't say anything. He was having enough difficulty getting his change into his pocket. He wouldn't be a lot of use back at the detention centre tonight. Or maybe he would.

‘Too bad,' said the woman.

‘Yeah.'

‘I'll take you to Adelaide, darlin',' said Chook, who had come back to the bar. ‘You'd have to drive, but, 'cos I've had a few.'

She looked at him with wary interest.

‘I don't mind driving,' she said. ‘What sort of car do you have?'

Chook's face grew a grin. ‘Didn't say I had a bloody car,' he said.

That earnt a beery laugh from Trent, who generally gave them out cheaply.

‘Jesus,' the woman said to herself. She looked at Spud. ‘Do you know anyone who's going to Adelaide tonight?' she asked him. ‘And who isn't an arsehole?'

‘Ha! In this place?' Spud tried to catch my eye. I still had more than half my beer left, so I grabbed it and went outside.

‘See ya, fellas,' I said as I left.

‘Yeah, see ya, Westie,' said Baz, wearing his Sunday-best smile.

‘Enjoy yourself in the big smoke,' said Spud. The long thin bugger just couldn't help himself.

3

O
UTSIDE SMELLED FRESH AFTER THE SMOKY AIR
of the bar. The sunset was completely gone now. The stars were bright, despite the pale light given off by a rising fluorescent moon and a lone electric light mounted on the wall behind me. Crickets were giving voice to the eternal agony of the night. I sat at one of the wooden tables in the beer garden, facing out, and drank more of my beer to help deaden the screech. The door to Spuds opened again and the elderly couple exited, the husband leading the wife. He nodded to me and she smiled and they walked together to a Commodore with a caravan in tow. Headlights were tracking along the Stuart Highway. They passed the turn-off to Woomera and Roxby Downs without hesitation and continued in a northwesterly direction. The next town was Glendambo, one hundred and fourteen kilometres away. Another hundred and fifty clicks beyond that was Oodnadatta. Southward along the highway I could see a strange diffusion of pulsing light and decided it was another police roadblock; I guessed it was about two kilometres away, just over a small rise. Probably there was also one to the north of the turn-off.

My phone rang. It was Baz. He sounded like he was walking; maybe he was heading to the bathroom.

‘Damsel in distress, mate.'

‘Your point being?'

‘No point, just a social commentary.'

‘Thanks for that, mate. When I want a bit more of it I'll call you back.' I heard him chuckle as I folded the phone. I drained my beer and was about to stand up when the door opened and she came out. As the door shut behind her the noise in the pub increased.

‘Come back, darlin',' called a voice; it sounded like Chook's. ‘I'll let ya sit on me face.' There was a unified peal of half-drunk laughter.