The sky was clearing as I drove along those new roads with the trucks that comprised most of the traffic. I located the railway station and drove slowly west back towards the Olympic site. Just past the Bicentennial Park, on the left, a road in the process of construction seemed more than usually cluttered with vehicles and equipment. I turned into it and drove less than a hundred metres before I was stopped by a row of witches’ hats. The grading of the road finished here and the machines were pulled to the side. I got out and walked to where two knots of people were confronting each other on opposite sides of a creek about four metres wide. I recognised the spot from the photograph on the leaflet – same narrow stream, same scrubby trees and mangroves.
On my side were hard hats, yellow raincoats and a couple of suits, plus a pre-fab security shelter and porta- loo. On the other, jeans, bomber jackets with green stripes on the sleeves, long hair, a tent and several battered 4WDs. No psychedelic van. A banner strung between two trees read SAVE TADPOLE CREEK. A heated discussion was going on between a man in a suit a la Mr Smith, and a tall, bearded youth who was waving a sheet of paper. I moved off to one side and went down the gentle slope, hoping to get close enough to hear what was going on without being observed. A stiff, cold wind had replaced the rain and was blowing the sounds away from me. I heard ‘injunction’ and ‘obstruction’ being shouted, cheers and jeers and not much else.
Suddenly, a hard hat spotted me.
‘Media!’ he shouted.
The group turned as one and, as if to relieve their frustration, four or five of them started to run towards me. I’d had enough of confronting people for one day. Without thinking I lengthened my stride, got my balance and jumped the creek.
I made it, just, and managed to keep my balance on the other side. A cheer went up from the protesters and my would-be attackers stopped dead on their side of the creek. The protesters gathered around me. I was slapped on the back. A soft drink can was shoved into my hands.
‘On you, mate!’
‘Great jump!’
‘Let’s see you do that, you pricks!’
They crowded around me, shook my hand and estimated the jump at six or seven metres. I nodded modestly although I knew differently. I was steered back to the tent. I’d slightly jarred my landing foot but I couldn’t let on. As we went they jeered at the opposition on the other bank and shouted some pretty strong abuse. Some of it was very provocative and the hard hats looked provoked, but they stayed on their side. I was surprised that such a small barrier stood for so much, but I guess waterways have done that from the beginning of time.
I considered passing myself off as a representative of the media but quickly gave up the idea as unworkable. Amid all their hilarity and chatter one thing came through strongly and it was something I’d observed on other picket lines. The biggest threat to enthusiasm and commitment is boredom. My dramatic arrival had combined with their confrontation to provide a welcome break from the boredom.
We reached the tent. It was well set up with an urn, a microwave oven, a primus stove, sleeping bags. There were books and magazines in boxes and cartons containing tinned food. These people were here for the long haul. The bearded one who’d been waving the paper at the others across the water hadn’t taken part in the general celebration. He was still outside the tent watching the opposition withdraw. He swung on his heel and came inside. People moved to let him through. He was in his early twenties, tall and well built with a beard like Ned Kelly.
‘Ramsay Hewitt,’ he said. ‘And you are…?’
I decided to play it straight, or straightish. He looked shrewd and for all his youth experienced, difficult to fool. ‘Cliff Hardy,’ I said. I put the can down and pulled the leaflet from my jacket pocket ‘I came across this in the course of my work and was curious.’
‘That jump of yours broke the ice, if you see what I mean,’ one of the protesters said. ‘They’ve shoved off.’
‘Shut up!’ Hewitt smoothed out the leaflet as if it was a cheque in his favour that had got crumpled. ‘Are you with the media?’
I was tempted to snow him for his arrogance but thought better of it. ‘No. I’m a private enquiry agent.’ I produced my licence but he scarcely looked at it.
‘Another fascist,’ he spat.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I’m opposed to the third runway. I think.’
A woman in the group laughed but as a whole they were losing interest. Hewitt turned on his heel again. He was good at that. ‘Piss off.’
That suited me, more or less. I shrugged and put the leaflet and my licence folder away. ‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘how’m I going to get back over this creek? I hurt my ankle.’
Hewitt swung back and looked as if he wanted to hit me, but he was smart enough not to. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t surprise me that the security service here’ve set up someone like you to do something fucking flash and infiltrate us. A good long jump. So what? It’s an old trick. It happened…’
‘At the siege of Chicago,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I’ve read the Mailer book too.’
‘You make my point. Bugger off.’
‘I’d like to ask a few questions.’
‘Don’t push your luck. No-one here’ll talk to you.’
‘You speak for everyone, do you? Who’s the fascist now?’
He walked away. It seemed to be coffee time and the other protesters were milling round the urn and the microwave, except for a woman who was watching me from a distance. For no good reason I formed the impression that she was the one who’d laughed at my third runway reference. I moved away slightly and she followed. She kept an eye on Hewitt until she saw he was fully occupied in discussion over his precious piece of paper. She approached me with her hand out.
‘I’m Tess Hewitt, Ramsay’s sister. Don’t mind him, he’s on edge.’
She was in her thirties, tall and athletic-looking in jeans and a denim jacket. She had short blonde hair, brown eyes and regular features. A slight over-bite. Her handshake was firm.
‘He’s too suspicious,’ I said. ‘I’m not what he said.’
‘Then what’re you doing here?’
I took out the photograph of Eve and showed it to her. ‘A missing persons case. Do you know this woman? Or someone who looks like her?’
She glanced at the photo and bit her lip. ‘Of course I do. That’s Meg French, the poor thing.’
6
Her remark jolted me. ‘Why?’ I said, ‘What’s the matter with her?’
I must have spoken more urgently than I’d intended because she looked at me closely. ‘Now I see it. The slight resemblance. Is there a family connection?’
‘Could be. It’s a long story. But why did you call her a poor thing?’
She reached out and touched my arm. ‘I was referring to that dreadful boyfriend of hers, Damien. He’s violent and dishonest. I don’t know what she sees in him.’
‘I’ve been told he’s good-looking.’
‘Oh, yes. Certainly he’s that. And bags of charm. He comes across as bright, but I suspect he really isn’t.’
Generally speaking, I don’t like being touched by strangers, but I didn’t mind at all in her case. There was a warmth about her that was welcome and I was in need of some human comfort. ‘You say he’s violent. Towards her?’
‘I saw him hit her once, yes.’
‘Jesus.’
‘The funny thing is, it was after she did what you just did.’
I was confused. ‘What?’
‘She jumped the creek. Just for fun. She cleared it by a bit more than you though.’
‘It’s not such a great jump. Twelve or thirteen feet.’
