The Courier's New Bicycle (6 page)

After several minutes, no movement in the shadows opposite, Anwar puts on his overcoat and I pocket my can
of mace. We lock the van and walk carefully over to the EHg building. Behind us, choppy planes of ink-black water shine like freshly poured tar, and waves slop under the lone wooden pier, nudging at its mooring bollards. A regular ferry service used to stop here, and in happier times there'd be a row of hopefuls casting their lines into the not-so-clean waters of the bay. Unfortunately, the seafood caught in the Yarra Basin lost its appeal once it was discovered that the mercury levels in the fish had reached percentages high enough for folk to start filling their own thermometers.

Anwar leads and I follow, our torch beams flicking across the broken architecture. I'm glad not to be searching here alone.

We enter the rear of the building, passing glass-divided labs with aisles of benchtops and shattered sinks, then the powder-preparation rooms, their ransacked containment cabinets all doors open. Beyond that is office space, the equipment long gone and nothing of interest.

It's the same at NatureCure, so we move on to BioSyn. There we find three people sprawled semicomatose in a corner and rudely give ourselves permission to rifle through their stash. But it's not any stuff marked with EHg's logo, just some brandless feel-good-then-die crap laced with God-knows-what gut-rotting, brain-sizzling impurities. We hand it back and leave them moaning incoherencies in their grotty corner.

On our return recce of Barrow Road and the business parks behind it, we stop several times to peer through
windows and try locked doors, and once to investigate a movement between buildings that turns out to be two people grinding their pelvises into each other against a wall. We even swing by the paint factory, shining a light on its front entrance to check for the flag — not up. There's nothing anywhere to suggest the presence of a packaging operation or distribution site.

Our last stop is the Ponds on Reserve Road. Several vehicles are already in the picnic parking area, none of them what you'd call flash, so ours fits right in. I grab a blanket from the back of the van. Not exactly the height of sartorial elegance, but who cares on a park bench? Time to sit and see what's on offer.

The moon rides the zenith, and the place fills with flitting shadows. Night creatures — some animal, some not — move between the windbreaks and flurry disconcertingly in the sedges. Forget the wildlife; the cruisers and bruisers are here for sex and kit, both willing to trade what they have for the other. I grip Anwar's arm unashamedly and pray that no one comes at us with a knife.

Across the next bum-freezing hour we get a number of propositions — a few drug-related, a few carnal, and a few quite difficult to picture — but no offers of EHg-labelled kit. We return to the van then head up Reserve Road to the T-intersection with Barrow, swinging right into the driveway of Enzo's Auto Wreckers.

The sign is a gleeful mechanic wielding a giant hammer above a ramshackle car. It hangs precariously by one corner.
Behind it is a workshop space and burnt-out office, and, in the adjacent paddock, hundreds of compressed metal carcasses stacked like mini high-rises.

Anwar wheels one-eighty degrees then backs into the workshop and turns off the ignition. We'll wait here for the moonlight parade. To park in plain view between now and dawn would invite someone to pinch the only things that look worth having off the van. Its tyres.

 

A warning rumble, slowly growing, and the first arrivals burble past: all kinds of retooled, recycled and refitted machines, none of them with a hope in hell of conforming to the latest emission limits. They crawl in from Port Melbourne and the city, the drivers finding their way here through the back streets, risking the notice of the emissions patrols and any citizen affronted enough by their shameless flouting of the laws to report them. That challenge, of course, is part of the game, and once they get here it's a dangerous, high-octane game. The drag racers are a law unto themselves, and this is their playground.

The Bend is busy tonight, and it's not just transmogrified petrol guzzlers and revheads. There are shadowy others arriving the lo-tech way: by scooter or bicycle, or on foot.

We watch them pass. The plan is to wander down to where the racers and onlookers will have assembled on their favourite stretch of cut-up tarmac, and ask around the groups. It isn't exactly my idea of safe snooping, but this is a close-knit crowd who'd notice anyone new in their play
area, especially if they were doing something as foolish as trying to sell kit out of a car boot.

Not that the racing fraternity would care. Notoriously single-minded in their sporting pursuits, they don't get their kicks from the substances bartered most nights at Fishermans Bend. To them, using chemical help is equivalent to cheating. Their passion is for the growl of illegal engines, the squeal of stolen tyres and the thrill of the chase, all stops out, down a bumpy and potholed stretch of wasteland road. The fastest and most fearless are treated as demigods, their supporters clamouring to be chosen as passengers.

‘When was the last police bust?' I ask Anwar, who always knows these things.

‘Thursday week ago.'

‘So they're not due again for a couple of weeks?'

‘About that.'

We lock the van and close the garage tilt-a-door, then join the shadowy throng heading up Reserve Road.

Nation First may think it has conquered the opinions of the suburbs and suppressed dissension in the inner city, but it's given up the battle out on this stretch of urban wasteland crouched between the shells of industry and the wide slick waters of the Yarra. Here, a section of the city's underbelly is gloriously revealed and the architects of prohibition only have themselves to blame, pushing individuals to ever more inventive expressions of subversion and resistance.

The cops know that if they take away the option of Fishermans Bend (as they were forced to do with the nightly
‘cruise parade' along Lygon Street a few years back) the racers will only regroup in a less convenient spot, so they've opted for a pragmatic solution. As long as the activities are contained in an isolated area away from the rest of the city's inhabitants, and the racers do nobody but themselves any harm, the police patrols are happy to turn a blind eye. Their bosses, however, still need to show a nervous public some encouraging statistics, and so the ‘stings' happen once a month, as rehearsed as a play. A line of paddy wagons wail out of the CBD, lights flashing, but with the word already gone out, the racers simply don't show. The cops arrive to nothing but old rubber burns in the road. They haul a few wasted souls out of the shadows and pick up a bit of contraband from a once-round of the Ponds, then make their report, satisfying the community's need to believe they're out all hours keeping folk safe in their beds.

We arrive at the racetrack start, a giant roundabout at the junction of Reserve and Wharf. The rivals are already parked around the circle, their spectators gathered in the middle on makeshift risers to watch the duels and cheer on their favourites. Anwar and I survey the moonlit scene, each souped-up ride attracting its own knot of torch-carrying groupies.

The energy here is primal, supercharged: the pungent smells of rubber and exhaust cutting through the cold night air, and the crowd getting off on their own potent mix of adrenaline and hormones. I can understand the attraction, even though engines aren't my thing — they're far more
Inez's passion. If she didn't cherish every perfect part of her restored '58 FC, she'd probably be down here on the full moon burning rubber with the best of them.

On first look, the drag-racing fraternity is an eclectic mix of dress codes. The racers themselves favour motocross clothing stitched with a multitude of defunct brand names, while their groupies appear to divide along rather old-fashioned lines — the butch and the femme; although it would be a mistake to assume only one sex is being represented within those categories. Briefly I wonder where I'd fit in, until I catch sight of the ‘ghetto' set in baggy clothes with caps and hoodies.

Anwar and I agree to approach the groups separately. I'm a bit sorry, because to witness this unassuming and neatly suited man at work is quite something: his natural equanimity, matched with genuine interest, manages to persuade even the most reticent to divulge what they know. It's a gift, and I keep hoping some of it will eventually rub off on me.

He heads to the group gathered at a piece of grotesquery that could once have been a Volkswagen Beetle but now looks more like its mutilated offspring, while I make for the closest knot of spectator femmes.

Aware of my approach, they tacitly ignore me until I'm in their midst. I introduce myself, and they eye me with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. I can see they're wondering how to categorise me. I feel the irony: always the ‘other', even here.

The first to introduce herself is ‘Tits'. I'm not sure I've heard right. I keep my eyes on hers.

‘Titania,' she explains. ‘Like in Shakespeare. And that's my boyfriend, Squid, over there, who your friend's talkin to right now.'

Following Titania's lead, the rest offer limp hands to hold briefly, the baubles on their fingers like beads on abacuses. The friendliest of them totters expertly on a pair of platform shoes. Goth in her use of lipstick and eyeliner, she has safety pins stuck through each eyebrow, her nose, her bottom lip. I get the feeling the trail doesn't end there. She tells me her name is Lola.

I explain what Anwar and I are looking for, and one by one they shake spiked and lacquered hairdos.

‘Talk to my boyfriend, Skinny,' says Lola. ‘He knows everything about everything.'

She points across the road to a figure getting out of a matt-black speedster, most of its engine sitting on its bonnet. A truly brave act would be to drive
that
through suburbia. As for his name, this is no urban-slang irony. Skinny really is skinny. He swaggers over and horizontals his index and middle fingers at me in a drag-racer's salute.

I ask him what I asked the group, and he replies emphatically. ‘No way, bro, not here. And I'd know, cos I shittin well own these bad streets.'

Skinny blows smoke out of more orifices than his car's rear end, but he's likeable with it. Beneath the macho veneer, I detect a brittleness that makes me sure his girlfriend is the stronger, emotionally, of the pair.

Lola gives his hand a little squeeze. ‘Got a hello for your
best babe?' she asks, and he tips her back with a flourish and kisses her the old-fashioned movie way. I have to hide my smile. Skinny is a romantic underneath.

‘You got a name, Andy Pandy?' he asks me.

I thought I'd heard all the variations there were on androgynous, but not that one.

‘Salisbury — Sal,' I reply.

‘Well, Sal, anytime you want to park your Andy Pandy arse beside me in Black Beauty here' — he points to his mean machine — ‘you just come on by.'

‘Thanks for the offer,' I say, sure I'll never be taking him up on it.

Skinny's race number comes up, and Lola takes the ride with him. Tits lends me her milk crate and I perch on it at the edge of the roundabout, craning along Wolf Road.

It's exciting being in the makeshift grandstand with the screeching, hooting crowd. Flashlights laser in all directions as Skinny and his rival rev their motors at each other then burn their way down the churned-up bitumen, the twin clouds of exhaust followed by the rubber-tearing sound of brakes at the far end. Skinny comes back triumphant and treats Lola to another romantic kiss, the rest of us witness to true love right here at the Bend. Anwar quietly suggests we leave, and I nod. I've learnt zip for Gail, but am almost ready to take part in a duel myself — behind the wheel and hand on the gearstick, that is.

Friday night, and the Animal Protection Vigilantes are heading out of the city.

Reflectors flash by. I stare beyond the freeway safety barriers into a dim-lit skein of suburbs. Anwar and I have had four unproductive nights trawling the streets at Fishermans Bend; meanwhile, the bogus kit has made its appearance in several parts of the CBD and initiated talk everywhere of EHg's and Gail's demise. It's almost a relief to be out on a horse rescue.

Nagid drives our nondescript SEC hire van, soon exiting the freeway for the smaller roads that run northeast into the Yarra Valley. Here there's only light traffic, most people saving their energy consumption vouchers for cheaper daytime use. Our destination is a section of the valley just before the old bushfire line. It's 9 pm. All going to plan, the trip to Greengate Farm should take just under an hour.

Max sits up the front, his vet's bag on his lap, while Lydia
and Brigid face Inez and me on the two bench seats in the back. The six of us are uniform in black clothing and steel-capped boots. Our backpacks contain work gloves and balaclavas, head and wrist torches, and the lightweight halters we'll use on the horses. These last are a flat nylon weave: strong but very soft. We share the responsibility of the tools, Lydia carrying the heavy stuff tonight.

Brigid wordlessly passes around the sugar cubes and we stuff a handful each in our pockets. Experience has taught us it's the little things that can decide the difference between a smooth rescue and a rout.

The suburban sprawl gives way to reserve land. At Crystal Brook, Cicada emerges last minute from the shadows of a bus shelter beside the road and we nearly miss him. He hauls on the side door and climbs in beside Inez, barely a nod to any of us. The only one not in black, he's wearing scuffed brown riding boots under grey King Gees, and a chequered flanny and wool jumper already smelling of the stable yard.

Cicada won't go near the city unless it's for an animal emergency. He's made his home somewhere outside it, no one knows exactly where. From what I've heard, it's a bivvy bag under the stars. I feel a little envious of his apparent indifference to the usual human niceties. But I imagine it's a double-edged sword, both freedom and loneliness in it.

Half an hour later we're on a narrow, badly cambered secondary road, and conversation falters, the magnitude of what we're about to do weighing on us. The silence
deepens. We are in shutdown, emotions plugged and thoughts suspended, everything narrowed to the immediate: sitting, breathing, watching.

The land outside is limned by moon. A sign glimmers on the left, an uninspired combination of a cow and a green gate. We kill the lights then drive across the cattle grid, stopping so Lydia can get out and cover the numberplates, front and back. If it all goes pear-shaped, we don't want to be traced via something as simple as rego.

Two hundred metres beyond the cattle grid is the caretaker's cottage, all dark. A couple of dogs set up a frantic barking on the ends of their chains, but there's no light or movement from the house. This, we assume, is because its occupant is at the pub as usual, and James is keeping him company there. While Cicada communes with the dogs, we double-check. No one wants to resort to the contingency plan, which consists of six balaclavas, a length of rope, and tying Russ Stefanovic to one of his kitchen chairs.

We return to the van. Moonlight stipples paddocks cropped back to nothing, the stony ground transformed into a patchwork of silvery greys. The dark hulks of dairy cows loom both sides of the unfenced track. A couple wander into the beam of our headlights and stop, their heads turned towards us, benignly looking. Nagid brakes hard. The last thing we need is a vet emergency of our own making.

The cows move off slowly. It looks like Greengate uses Jerseys for their milkers. I've always felt sorry for any farm
animal having to endure the harsh realities of Australia's heat-stripped terrain, and somehow it seems wrong to have cows from Jersey grazing in anything other than lush, undulating fields protected by copses.

Chill air blows in as Max rolls down his window to listen. There's the occasional lowing of an adult, but no calves. They'd have been taken off their mothers' teats on day one and sent to slaughter.

The track climbs gently. We summit the rise. Beyond it, the land drops away to river flats and the dairy hunkered in its protected valley, invisible from the road. A single floodlight illuminates the empty car park at the front. We pull up outside the pool of light, Inez busy at her palm computer. If her hacking program hasn't worked, or something's happened with Lars, then shortly we'll be walking within sensor range of a back-to-base alarm and bank of floods, our arrival recorded for posterity.

She lifts her head to the rest of us. I give her an enquiring look and she responds with a decisive tap on the pad. Balaclavas and gloves go on. From now we'll hold to silence as much as possible.

The dairy is a large hangar-like space beneath a slanted corrugated-iron roof. To the left is the administration area and visitors entrance; to the right are the yards and races that funnel into the milking shed. Even from here the smell of shit and milk is strong.

I step into the illuminated area, testing. No alarm. No bright lights.

We hurry together across the car park, our breaths puffing out little white clouds, then huddle around the entrance for the moment of truth. Ignoring the number pad below the doorhandle, I push and hear the snib release. The door swings open. High five for Inez.

Head and wrist torches flick on in succession, a corridor illumed. Shed-side, the wall is half glass to give a view of the milking operation from a nice clean distance. A couple of energy-saver lights cast a ghoulish glow on the race that leads to the carousel-style milking parlour and its monitoring equipment. The cows' lactation rate boosted with growth hormones, the animals soon learn to take themselves to the milking shed to relieve the bursting pain in their udders. It's short-term gain for the dairy and agony for the cows, their lifespan reduced from twenty to about three years.

We begin our check of every room, in case anyone's decided to stay at work to cook the books or cosy up with a special friend instead of going home. I adjust the rope looped across my shoulder, the same contingency plan for them as for the caretaker.

The first door says
OFFICE
. The room has a desk piled high with papers, and an overflowing waste bin. The shredder has documents waiting in the slot. I pick up the slim sheaf and fold it into my jacket to look at later. It might be interesting to see what information Greengate wants destroyed.

Next is a kitting-up area for the workers, a row of white plastic aprons and overpants hanging on hooks with
gumboots lined up in neat pairs beneath, ready for the early-morning shift. Above a box of papery mob caps is a sign: D
ON'T
F
ORGET
Y
OUR
H
EADWEAR
!

We pass the workers' kitchen and eating area with its plastic tables and plastic chairs and ubiquitous sink-top urn. After that are toilets and a storeroom.

Last on the right is a door marked
PRIVATE
. This is the control room where Lars will be ignoring his hijacked surveillance monitors and shirking his scheduled checks for the night. Inez messages off a quick enquiry. On the reply, Max puts his head around the door for confirmation. Then we move on.

The corridor elbows left, ending in a fire exit. Before that, on the right, is another door,
NO UNAUTHORISED PERSONNEL
writ large. Unlike the others, this one has no handle, just a touchpad on the wall.

I look around. The CCTV lens is positioned on a cornice behind us.

Inez goes to the touchpad and punches in the code supplied by Lars.

Nothing.

She frowns. We hold our collective breath as she does it again. This time there's the sound of the mechanism unlatching, and she shrugs. We're through to the horses' secret enclosure.

First is a rectangular yard with a low Laserlite roof, corrugated-iron walls and no windows. This is the cleaning and inspection yard, its concrete floor bevelled to gutters at
the edge for easy hosing. It would be boiling hot in summer, and is freezing now. A row of feed bins attach to the wall opposite; beside them are stacks of plastic jerry cans and a tap with a hose. Left is a double-door fire exit. This, we know from the schematics, is the horses' only way out, making the whole place a fire trap as well as a torture chamber.

The internal door clicks behind us. I glance up, straight into the dead eye of a CCTV lens, and silently thank the APV's lucky stars for Inez's techno wizardry. We pull off our balaclavas and pocket them, then get the halters from our packs and loop them to our belts. I hand two to Cicada.

A strong smell emanates from an opening, far right. As Inez, Brigid, Lydia and Nagid busy themselves in the yard area, Cicada, Max and I move to what waits beyond. The smell gets stronger. Breathing through my mouth, I steel myself; there will be nothing clean or kind about this production line.

There are three rows of stalls with two aisles between, seven horses to a row. A tube snakes from each stall to a collection can on the ground behind. We enter the first aisle. Face in to the wall and haunches to us, the animals are effectively blinkered, but they sense our presence and shift nervously, ears twitching. Dung is piled high in the stalls, and the stench of manure and piss and sickness is terrible.

I inspect a jerry can. Its scummy plastic is one-third full. But it's where the tubing attaches at the other end I'm more worried about.

Every mare is confined in a space hardly bigger than her body. A harness arrangement attaches to a cage-like structure above and loops down around her haunches. This keeps the UCD — urine collection device — in place. She's haltered and tied in front as well, with just enough length to allow her to reach feed and water troughs, the latter being almost always empty, the water meted out in miserly doses to keep the oestrogen saturation in the urine high.

Cicada leads the way to the first stall. He slips inside the gate and works his way along the mare's flank to her withers. She brings up her head and rolls her eyes, but he soothes with his hands and calms with his voice, murmuring the sorts of things that only he and horses understand.

On his nod, Max and I move in beside her to begin the task of disconnecting the UCD. We've done this on over a dozen occasions together and have a system. First I snip the plastic line to the collection can, then Max releases the buckle straps our side of the urine bag and slips a hand between the mare's legs to ease away the rubber perineal seal. This is supposed to stop faeces mixing with the urine, but the seal is perished and probably hasn't worked for months. It will, however, have chafed her skin into weeping, scabby sores. I wait, ready with the anaesthetising antiseptic pads.

The bag drops down and swings against the far rails, a sodden mess. We bring our wrist torches up to inspect the damage. The mare's urethra is pustular and swollen, the urine-soaked skin around it smelly and infected, while the
insides of both haunches are red raw from where the UCD has rubbed day after day, week after terrible week.

Max motions and I pass across a hand-sized pad. He presses it to her vulva and we ready for her to try to kick. We wait a count of sixty, then he hands it back and I give him two more, these for her inside legs. Another count of sixty before the used pads go in a disposal bag, and we're ready to try to move her.

We open the stall gate as Cicada continues his wordless conversation with the mare. While we've been working, he's replaced her filthy halter with a clean one. We're lucky the first one wasn't embedded in her skin.

We start to back her out. This is a critical moment. If she goes down onto the concrete, she'll be almost impossible to get up again. Persuaded into the aisle, she's shaky but still standing, and we can lead her slowly to where the rest of the team is waiting with fresh water and hay.

We proceed like this, one horse at a time, until we have seven in the yard. They are meek and listless; their haunches show no muscle, their coats no sheen. The soft clop of overgrown hooves on concrete is followed by a thirsty slurping in the buckets. Apart from suffering what must be constant pain, each is badly dehydrated due to the miserly water regime. We can only hope they all make it to the sanctuary.

Max's mobile beeps softly. The other cell has arrived.

We open the double doors. Cold air drags in — and a sight to warm it: three transports waiting silently, ramps down.

Six figures detach from the shadows. They extend hands to the horses first, allowing them time to smell the scents on their hands and clothes from the outside world, and then they turn to us. Briefly, cold hands clasp hello. None of us has ever met, or is likely to. It's safer that way.

They glove up, and together we lead the mares out of the shed. Most have trouble walking on stiff, sore legs and stumble; some need a person each side as well as at the front; but none resist the ramps up into the truck. We've noticed this phenomenon before. It's as if their wills are so broken, they don't care where they're being led. It breaks my heart to see, even if it simplifies the loading. Call me overly anthropomorphic, but what I prefer to believe is that the horses somehow know — whether by smell or aura or something else — that we're not the farm workers here to inflict more hurt, but instead have come to help, and that the ramps into the trucks are their escape from pain and sickness and death.

Max and Cicada and I return to the stalls and begin on the second row of mares. When we're done, we move on to the third.

Five hours after starting, we're at the last stall. In it is a white Appaloosa, her head down, her breathing loud and ragged. The collection can behind her is completely empty: a bad sign. Cicada moves slowly along her flank, then looks back at us and shakes his head. This mare is nearly dead in her harness. Sorrow sits like a stone in my chest.