Dirty Fracking Business (27 page)

Meanwhile, the army trucks continued to move down the middle of the rows of vehicles, lifting them out of the way and onto the following flatbeds. Some of the protestors, with their cars parked at the rear, moved them, but most remained steadfast. The passage that the army trucks had cleared was quickly filled with dissenters lying or sitting down. The police inspector in charge of the operation had been advised that, once the leaders and troublemakers were locked up, the remaining protestors would fall away but, if anything, they seemed more determined. Frustrated, he grabbed the megaphone and shouted, ‘I warn you, do not make me use force.’

This was greeted by jeers and catcalls as the protestors filled the area from which the vehicles had been carted away. Meanwhile, the inspector barked instructions into his two-way and soon the large black police truck, followed by the Filliburton convoy, rumbled into sight; the protestors steeled themselves, many locking arms. A large tank was mounted on the body of the black truck. ‘Do not make me use the water cannon,’ the inspector shouted. ‘I implore you, clear out of the way and make it easy for yourselves.’

This was met with more booing and defiant hand gestures, but some of the bravado of a few minutes earlier had been replaced by looks of anger and resignation. Steve Forrest stood amongst the television crews who were filming the drama unfolding in front of them, not believing that the police would actually use the water cannon.

‘They’re bluffing,’ he said to one of the cameramen. ‘He who blinks first loses.’

At the back of the crowd, Tom Morgan made his way to the helicopter, asking those nearby if they wanted to join him on the trip back to Paisley, but he was met with stony silence. They had not washed or shaved for nearly three weeks, their eyes were red from lack of sleep, but their resolve was undiminished. Morgan had not the slightest doubt that the police would use the water cannon and, when they did, the blockade would be smashed. He also knew they might impound the helicopter and possibly arrest him, and he reasoned that he could do far more to help if he remained out of jail.

‘You have one minute to move,’ the inspector yelled, as the ominous black truck edged to within twenty-five metres of the protestors, its cannon swivelling and focusing on its targets.

Some at the front started to pull back ever so slightly and a woman screamed, ‘Hold your line. Don’t move.’

‘They won’t fire. They can’t,’ Steve whispered to himself. And then the first jet of water blew the protestors who were standing, off their feet, and those lying on the ground were rolled over like tumbleweed. The black truck moved slowly through the passage, sporadically firing its cannon, while the police arrested dissenters who were throwing rocks at them.

‘No violence,’ the General shouted, but those who were saturated, crushed and angry continued to hurl rocks. No-one could stand against the force of the water cannon and within minutes the motorbikes and convoy were on the other side of the barricade, roaring towards Shawn Rosen’s property. The protestors quickly reassembled, clambered into their vehicles and gave chase, but the damage had been done. By the time they arrived at Shawn’s property, the police were manning the front gates and the trucks were being unloaded.

Television stations across the nation broke into their regular programs to show graphic close-ups of the police hurling protestors into the back of divvy vans, the army removing vehicles with their heavy equipment and the water cannon pounding all those in its way. Some presenters described it as bastardy, while others said it was un-Australian. Newsroom switchboards went into meltdown as they fielded calls from irate viewers.

Spencer Harbrow sat in his office, rubbing his hands together in glee as he watched the coverage. There were those in government who had fought to keep his convoy of trucks from following the police and army, but his plans had prevailed and, with one decisive blow, he’d opened up the Tura
estates.
He glanced at another screen with stock quotes running across the bottom; CEGL’s share price was up over six percent for the day on heavy volume. The public might hate what he had done but the stockmarket loved it and that was all he cared about.

Nick Gould viewed the television footage with disgust. He’d had no choice but to send the police in, but he’d been ostracised in the media and held up to ridicule by the cartoonists in a way that he’d never experienced before. He had talked about ‘the national interest’ and ‘protecting sovereign rights’ but this had been ignored. Instead, he was attacked for siding with big business to crush the little man. He was glad this was his last term in office, as the folk hero status he had enjoyed for so long had been badly tarnished; his popularity was unlikely to ever return to the heights of his halcyon days. One small saving grace was that the PM was copping even more flak than he was and she was the subject of scorn on the nightly current affairs programs. She had had no choice, and the press drew comparisons with the great Labor PM of the mid-twentieth century, Ben Chifley, who’d sent the troops in to reopen the coal mines and crush the miners’ strike, only to be destroyed at the next election.

By the time Steve Forrest reached the Rosen property, workers operating heavy machinery had started digging out the earth and tippers were dumping their loads of gravel. Trucks were being unloaded on the track to Shawn’s house and access to it was completely blocked. An angry group of fifty diehard protestors, mainly Tura landowners, screamed abuse at the police, but they knew they had been defeated and that it was only a matter of time before drilling on
their
properties would begin. Steve quickly typed up an article headed
No Justice
and emailed it off to Buffy. He then hitched a ride to his car with one of the disillusioned protestors.

He had talked to Sandi many times every day, but had not seen her for over two weeks. When he barged into the apartment unannounced, she threw herself at him, hugging him and telling him how much she’d missed him, before gently pushing him away. ‘Phew, you stink.’ His clothes were filthy and he had a full beard, his hair was greasy and his teeth had not seen a brush since the day he had driven out of town. ‘You need a shower, badly.’

‘Don’t go away,’ he said, throwing off his shirt. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes, smelling like a flower.’

Although he felt sorry for the landowners, he was glad the strike was finally over. He had stressed terribly about being away from Sandi, something he’d never felt with Bianca.

The shower door opened and Sandi hopped in, a playful grin on her face. ‘Can I wash your back, Sir?’

‘How about something a little more personal,’ he said, pulling her close to him and kissing her passionately, as the warm spray splashed over them.

‘You smell so good,’ she said, nestling into his chest as she gently ran her fingers up and down his hardness, barely touching, knowing that it drove him crazy.

His breathing was shallow as he dropped his hands from her breasts and manoeuvred her up against the shower wall, his hands massaging and lifting her taut bottom ever so slightly as he guided himself into her. They were soon in rhythm and then he went faster and harder as the water beat down on them, and Sandi responded, gasping, her breath intensifying. Her release was fantastic and she screamed while he simultaneously exploded inside her.

As they swayed under the hot water, she giggled, ‘How good was that and why have you got that dopey smile on your face?’

‘God, I missed you.’

Norris Scott-Tempy had never been popular with the good folk of the Fisher Valley but, once they found out that he had aided and abetted Filliburton by letting them hide their vehicles on his property, he became the most despised man in the valley. In the aftermath, someone took to his pristine, black Rolls Silver Cloud and painted the word
scab
all over it in fluorescent, white paint.

After the demise of Moira Raymond, Donny Drayton soon found himself demoted back to being a land access consultant and Bianca, facing diminished financial prospects, was quick to cool their romance.

The cell at the Paisley police station was capable of housing six prisoners in cramped conditions if absolutely necessary, so there had been no choice but to process the paperwork on the forty-six arrested at the Tura blockade and release them back into the community. Paisley Court was overflowing with reporters and gawking spectators on Monday morning. The defendants, who in the main were represented by Simon Breckenridge, faced a total of ninety-seven charges, ranging from obstruction, which carried a $440 fine, to assaulting a police officer in the execution of his duty, for which the maximum penalty was seven years imprisonment. The magistrate, an angry, middle-aged, balding man with bifocals sitting on the end of his hawk-like nose, was no fan of
big gas
and did not record convictions against those charged with minor offences, including Charles Paxton. Instead, he ordered each of them to pay fifty-five dollars in costs and to get out of his court and make sure they were not brought up before him again.

Serious charges against twelve of the thirteen remaining defendants, including Billy McGregor, for obstruction, intimidation and assault, were adjourned for two months and they were released on their own recognisance. Dennis Fulton was the only defendant committed to appear before a District Court Judge on the serious charges of inciting a riot, assault, obscene language, offensive behaviour and resisting arrest.

Dean Prezky bounced out of court wearing his
gas man
attire and was immediately assailed by television cameramen and reporters, all looking for a twenty-second grab that would lead into the nightly news. He was soon railing against the prime minister for sending in the army to stop ordinary law-abiding citizens from protecting their properties from what he described as ‘rapacious foreign investors’.

Charles Paxton looked like a defeated man as he slumped out of court supported by his good friend Tom Morgan. ‘They killed Charlie and now they’re going to destroy the valley, Tom, and there’s not a goddamn thing we can do about it.’

‘It’s too early to give up, Charles,’ Morgan said unconvincingly, knowing that the value of coal seam gas projects across Australia ran into the hundreds of billions of dollars and that Queensland had already been described as the Saudi Arabia of coal seam gas which, by his reckoning, made New South Wales the next Kuwait.

Steve Forrest had been in court to support his parents who, after incurring $110 in costs, were free to go without a conviction, leaving their records unblemished. As they stood on the footpath, Steve looked around him and was hit by a sense of failure. The protagonists were quiet and the bluster of the past few months seemed to have died. He knew that they would bounce back and fight again, but that they would do so aware that there was no prospect of winning. Someone suggested going to the pub, but this was met with little enthusiasm and, instead, those who had fought the good fight drifted off to their cars. They knew that in the not-too-distant future there would be thousands of gas wells sunk in the valley.

On the walk back to the
Chronicle’s
offices, Steve phoned Jake Martin. The phone was answered by a softly-spoken woman who, upon hearing who was calling, sounded concerned. ‘He can’t talk to you, Mr Forrest.’

‘Is he all right? Who am I talking to?’

‘I’m Jake’s wife, Helen. Look, we can’t talk to you. Please don’t phone again.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Steve could hear agitated voices in the background.

‘Steve,’ a raspy, familiar voice said. ‘We can’t talk to the media and you in particular.’

‘G’day, Jake. You did a deal and Filliburton made you sign a non-disclosure agreement, didn’t they? They’re bluffing, Jake. There’s no way they’ll go back on any deal they’ve done with you. Jeez, if that document ever got out in the public and Filliburton reneged, they’d be crucified.’

‘I dunno what ya talking about. I’m tired and I’ve had enough of being interviewed. I just want some quiet time with my family before …’

‘Did they look after your family, Jake? I sure hope they did.’

‘Sorry, Steve, I can’t say anything.’

‘Did they tell you that, if details of the agreement ever leaked out, they’d cancel it and your family would get nothing? I promise I won’t print anything. This is off the record.’

There was a long pause and Steve could hear the dying man breathing, as he fought to take in air. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Okay, have it your way. I’m sorry we had to meet in such rotten circumstances. You’re a brave man. If there’s anything I can do to help you or your family, don’t hesitate to phone. Good-bye, Jake.’

There was an even longer pause. ‘Please don’t think that I’m ungrateful. Without Dr George and you, I don’t know where I’d be. I can go peacefully now, knowing that my family will never want for anything. Thanks, Steve, and God bless you.’

Steve felt sad but relieved. He knew that Filliburton or its insurers must have confidentially settled with Jake Martin, while at the same time frightening the bejesus out of him and his family. It was probably a drip-feed settlement with a lump sum and then annual or monthly payments that they could terminate in the event of a breach
.
Whatever had been said to frighten them, had worked perfectly.

CEGL’s share price put on another three percent and Spencer Harbrow basked in the congratulations of his fellow directors. The pressing urgency to remove his three dissident directors had passed and, in his mind, he forgave them for having the sheer audacity to stand up to him; he was confident it would never occur again. He had done what no-one else could have in the circumstances and had fattened their wallets once again. They had become compliant and fawning. Besides, if he retained them, he would have no need to grease Joe Biederman’s greedy palm.
Serves him right
, he thought.
If he’d done what he’d been asked, he’d be twenty-five million dollars richer, but he’d been too cute by half
. Biederman might try and cause him trouble, but the ownership of the Margaret Hills tenements was hidden beneath a labyrinth of companies and trusts that would take a lifetime and millions of dollars to unravel.

Jack Thomas had wanted to convene a meeting of the Fisher Valley Protective Alliance straight after the blockade had been smashed, but then had second thoughts and postponed it. The good folks of the valley had given their all and needed time to lick their wounds and recover, before embarking on another campaign.

Thirty days after the fateful day when two Labor governments had turned on their own people and supported a foreign-owned gas company, the Paisley Town Hall was again packed. Josh Gibson, who was manning the door, felt an underlying current of anger, but it was different from the last time the Alliance had met. Then it had been aggressive anger but now it was resigned. The
estatees
had stuck together through thick and thin and had resisted the temptation to put their properties on the market, fearing that once
big gas
got a foothold, values over the whole estate would fall dramatically. Now their spirit had been broken and two properties in close proximity to Shawn Rosen’s had been offered for sale at rock bottom prices; the slum lord had swooped on them, after chiselling the owners out of a few more dollars.

Jack Thomas was still as passionate and fiery as ever but, as he stood up to speak, he could sense futility and see defeat on the faces in front of him. He said a few encouraging words and passed the microphone to Dennis Fulton. The Queenslander spoke about the thousands of gas wells on the Spurling Downs and said that he and his followers were still determined to oppose and block
big gas
from entering any property without the owner’s consent, and that those in the audience should do the same in the Fisher Valley. Someone muttered, ‘And with all your fighting, you’ve still got nearly 4000 wells up there.’

Billy McGregor wanted to shout his support for the cause, but all he could think of was the seven-year jail term hanging over his head and what he’d heard happened to young males in prison.

Tom Morgan, Don Carmody and Charles Paxton were rich, powerful and, in normal circumstances, influential but, up against the might of
big gas,
their power paled into insignificance. They had decided that they would pay the legal fees of those up on serious charges and had briefed senior counsel in Sydney on their behalf. Morgan and Carmody knew that eventually they would have to share their land with
big gas
and, like the good businessmen they were, they were already thinking of ways they might mitigate the damage and the number of wells.

Charles Paxton was unshakeable. His hate for those at CEGL who had killed little Charlie and caused Gentle Lady to throw a deformed foal knew no bounds, and he resolved to defend his properties with guns if necessary.

Father Michael O’Rourke remained silent, having been severely censured by his bishop and warned not to upset large donors to the church.

The meeting never really gained momentum and, while there were those who would still fight, they would never again see the numbers that had rallied to the cause at Old Farm Road.

At the back of the hall, Steve Forrest reflected that they had failed because they had been unable to get those in the cities, who were largely unaffected, involved in the cause. In years to come, those blissfully unconcerned city dwellers would question why there were food shortages and why prices were so high, but by then it would be too late to do anything.