Dirty Fracking Business (9 page)

Vicki, who was barely talking to him these days, was in the kitchen making coffee when he returned. She did not bother asking where he had been or what he had been using the old taperecorder for, knowing he would either grunt or ignore her. The bills kept coming in, the mortgage had to be paid and the house insurance was due, but the wages that Dean brought home, on the occasional days he deigned to work, fell far short of making ends meet.

‘Are you working today?’ she asked, more in hope than in conviction.

‘Tomorrow. I know it’s tough, but if I don’t do something we’ll never get any peace. I’ll work longer days and make up what I’m losing. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.’

‘Honey,’ she said, softening her tone. ‘There’s nothing you can do. CEGL is a huge company with millions and millions of dollars and we can’t even pay the mortgage. You can’t win and we’ll just have to get used to the noise.’

‘It’s more than the noise; it’s the poison they’re putting into the water and the air.’

‘We could always shift.’

‘This land, the trees, the animals: it’s our little haven and I’m not going to be run off it. I’ve got a plan. I just need to spend a little time on the Net.’

‘I’ll get you a coffee.’ She was relieved he wasn’t going to take any more days off - at least she thought he wasn’t.

CEGL’s website had photos and details of all of its directors and senior managers and Dean was surprised to find that, with the exception of Sir Richard Crichton-Smythe, their private phone numbers were listed in the White Pages. The CEO, who Dean thought looked like a smooth, slimy creature, resided in the exclusive suburb of Point Piper. He wrote down all the numbers in his diary and then sauntered down the hallway whistling loudly before saying, ‘Honey, I’m off to work for the rest of the day. I’ll make up the time I lost this morning, so I won’t be home until late. Don’t worry about dinner; I’ll grab fish and chips in Tura.’

It was just after eight o’clock when he arrived home and thirty minutes later he was sound asleep on the couch with the television partially drowning out the compressor noise. At 1.45am, when the alarm on his wristwatch went off, the TV was still on. When he turned it off, the
whirr, whirr, whirr
was more intense than ever and he flushed with anger. He washed his face in the kitchen sink, grabbed his prepaid mobile phone and a torch and hastened out to the Toyota. Sitting on the passenger seat were the taperecorder and his diary. The first number he phoned was Spencer Harbrow’s and after a few rings he heard a sleepy, ‘Hello, who is this?’

‘Did my phone call wake you up?’

‘Who is this?’ Harbrow barked.

‘It’s no fun being woken up in the middle of the night, is it, Spencer?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Well, your bloody compressors keep me awake every night,’ Dean growled and turned his taperecorder to maximum volume. The
whirr, whirr, whirr
echoed around the Toyota. ‘How do you like it, Spencer?’

‘Phone me again and I’ll report you to the police,’ Harbrow yelled.

Nine phone calls later, Dean was well pleased with himself. He had not known it, but Moira Raymond was an insomniac who valued every minute of sleep and was furious at having been woken from a rare, deep sleep. ‘It’s terrible being woken up in the middle of the night,’ he said, as he flicked the taperecorder on.

In the early hours of the following morning, Dean repeated the exercise and was surprised that only three of the numbers were engaged, indicating that the phones had probably been left off the hook. He told Moira Raymond that, when she turned the compressor station off at night or silenced it, he would stop making the phone calls. She had choked with anger.

On the fourth night, the first two numbers he phoned were answered by a woman who enquired whether he would like to leave a message. He had anticipated that they would secure private numbers, but they had obviously contracted with a call centre, which was now fielding all his early morning calls.

He smiled to himself as he phoned Harbrow’s number again and, when asked if he would like to leave a message, he screamed, ‘This is an emergency, there’s a gas well about three kilometres to the east of CEGL’s site office in Tura that’s blown sky high and there’s flames erupting everywhere. Get someone out here right away.’ Twenty minutes later, a convoy of CEGL trucks and water tankers raced down the road. Dean knew that CEGL did not want to attract attention and would not call the fire brigade - he also knew they could not run the risk of not checking to see if one of their wells had exploded. He planned to continue making random calls until they silenced the compressors.

Charles Paxton had not fully understood the autopsy but he knew the words benzene, toluene and xylene. As he sat quizzing Dr George Bingham in his surgery, he was ropeable. ‘What do you mean, only traces?’

‘The traces found in his kidneys and liver were within acceptable levels.’ Dr George sighed.

‘And what is an acceptable level for a six-year-old boy?’ Paxton brought his fist crashing down on the desk. ‘Would a six-year-old living in Cronulla, Manly or even Western Sydney have any traces of those chemicals in his body?’

‘I can’t answer that, Charles, but do you use diesel or gasoline on your farm?’

‘You know I do. Every farmer does. What kind of question’s that?’

‘Benzene, toluene and xylene are naturally occurring chemicals found in diesel and gasoline.’

Paxton paused, his face darkened. ‘Spit it out, George! What are you getting at?’

‘As I told you, the traces were too small to be toxic and there’s nothing to say they came from the gas wells and, yes, it is possible they came from the supply of diesel you have on the farm.’

‘No it’s not. You know as well as I do that Charlie either drank or breathed something that came from those bloody gas wells. I know that, if those gas companies had never set foot in the valley, he’d still be alive,’ Paxton shouted, as he stood up and stomped towards the door.

Steve set the alarm for 3am so he could Skype his friend in Denver, where it was nine o’clock in the morning. The conversation was depressing:

Yes there had been some illness and maybe a few deaths but coal seam gas was a boon to the American economy. It was providing cheap energy, replacing oil imports from the Middle East and the share prices of companies engaged in exploring, developing and extracting were going through the roof.

When Steve asked how many deaths it would take for his friend to change his mind, the response was:

It’s the price of progress, Buddy, and the Greens are just blowing everything out of proportion, exaggerating and telling lies. Hell, if we listened to them, we’d all be living in mud shacks and eating daisies. There were deaths when they built the Hoover Dam, there were deaths in the nuclear power stations, but you can’t let a bunch of hillbillies selfishly sit on something that provides so many benefits to the masses. You’ve phoned at the right time, because we’re promoting a small company that has some highly prospective licences around the Colorado River and I can put you into the shares at the right price. If the exploration is successful, it’ll almost certainly be taken over by one of the oil giants and you’ll do very nicely.

Steve declined the offer. He had learnt very little, but his friend’s cavalier attitude and callousness gnawed at him. This, together with being unable to think of a credible excuse to get out of having dinner with Norris Scott-Tempy, made getting back to sleep impossible. Frustrated and needing to write, he got up at 4:30, showered, and headed for the office
.

Writing did not come easily to him and he would wrestle over words for ages, only committing them to print after much painstaking self-editing. He had penned many articles about landowners’ rights versus the rights of the state, always marginally coming down on the side of landowners.

Perhaps it was the early morning peace, the unwanted compliments from Scott-Tempy or the impending visit of the premier that drove him, but for once the words flowed easily and his typing fought to keep pace with his brain. The article was far from marginal and accused governments and
big gas
of selling landowners out for ‘thirty pieces of silver.’ Steve questioned whether governments should have the right to grant mining licences over private property but, if they did, he argued, that landowners needed to be fairly compensated for the loss of their quiet enjoyment of the land. He raised the matter of paying compensation to the owners of properties that adjoined or were in close proximity to land where gas wells were sunk. He discussed the Supreme Court decision that had determined that all parties with an interest in property had to sign land access agreements before they were valid. The decision had infuriated the Mining Association and it had lobbied hard to have it overturned. In the amazingly short time of three months, a bill to set aside the court’s decision was introduced into the parliament. Steve concluded by questioning who was running the state,
big gas
or the government. He made a few minor changes, read it for the last time, and changed the headline from
Landowners’ Rights
to
Stolen Rights
.

Buffy had hardly spoken to him since he had agreed to run CEGL’s announcements and the atmosphere in the office had been chilly. As she came through the front door just before 9am she pretended not to hear his breezy greeting.

He dropped the article on her desk. ‘Can you have a look at this? I want to run it on the front page tomorrow morning.’

‘When I get time,’ she responded curtly. However, the headline caught her eye and, by the time he had sat down, she was already half-way through the first page. A few minutes later she swivelled her chair around. ‘Steve, I never knew you could write like that, it … it’s so passionate, it’s marvellous.’

‘I didn’t either.’ He blushed. ‘Did you pick up any errors?’

‘Not a one. Would you like coffee?’

•

The following morning, compliments flooded in and Buffy signed up over one-hundred new subscribers.

Len Forrest called in and embraced his son warmly. ‘I knew you’d eventually come around, Son.’ Steve nodded, not having the heart to tell his father that he still wasn’t opposed to the extraction of coal seam gas and that the intent of his article had been to highlight the injustices that landowners were subject to under the existing legislation.

Moira Raymond read the article and slammed the paper down on her desk. It was well written and heartfelt and would likely unify landowners; but her real fear, even though she considered it highly unlikely, was that one of the major publishing groups would syndicate it.

Norris Scott-Tempy hurled his copy of the
Chronicle
across the room.
God! He had stuck his neck out and defended the kid and this was the thanks he got for it. The old man had always been a loser and his kid was no better.

The NSW election was only three months away and it would take a miracle for the Labor Party to retain power. When the powerbrokers from the Right Faction summoned the premier, he had wasted no time responding. Now, late in the afternoon, he sat opposite the campaign director while they both sipped tea.

‘Jeez, Clarrie, I could use a whiskey rather than this bloody bath water,’ the big man croaked. He had an open, honest face; proof that looks could be deceptive.

‘After, Nick,’ Clarrie Driscoll replied from the other side of the desk. In direct contrast to the premier, he was a small, sharp-featured man. ‘First I want to talk about the campaign that we’re going to run that’ll keep you and us in office.’ He looked over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses at Nick Gould and marvelled that this hard-drinking gambler and womaniser had been premier of Australia’s most populous state for nearly fifteen years. And all because of one day at the Sydney Cricket Ground in the early eighties, when playing for the Kangaroos, he had crashed through the seemingly impenetrable English defence, after all hope was lost, to score the winning try for the game and series. That day, Nick Gould became a legend who could do no wrong and, when he got drunk or caught in one of his numerous affairs, the public just said
that’s Nick.
If anything, his popularity increased and without him the NSW Labor Party would have been consigned to oblivion long ago. Even though the government was in chaos, he was still the preferred premier, commanding opinion poll support in the high sixties.

‘I understand you’re speaking in Paisley on Monday night and that you’re going to announce that the government’s approved CEGL’s development applications.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Bill Warburton’s not happy. He’s worried about holding his seat. With the three other seats in the Fisher Valley solidly theirs, the Nationals could easily take Penroy as well.’

‘Yeah, Bill wants me to tone my speech down. He’s shitting himself, and told me that if he loses his seat, it’ll be because of the bloody coal seam gas companies.’

‘He’s right Nick. CEGL’s pipeline’s going to go through another five electorates on the way to Kravis Island. We hold two, the Greens have one and the conservatives have the others.’

‘Yeah, yeah, what’s your point?’

‘The numbers men don’t see us holding either of our seats and we’re sure not going to take any off the conservatives.’

‘I thought that was what you were going to say.’ Nick put his massive hands behind his head and stretched. ‘I have a bad feeling about these coal seam gas projects and I can feel the negative momentum getting stronger every day. Did you see those letters in the
Advocate?
Perhaps we’ve backed the wrong horse this time. Maybe I should steer clear of Paisley and get one of my junior ministers to make the announcement on Monday night.’

This would be Driscoll’s sixth and last campaign before he made the big move into the federal arena, and he was determined to go out a winner. ‘Nice try Nick.’ He grinned while running his fingers up and down his long, pointed nose. ‘The only reason we’ve got any campaign funds is because of the resources companies. If you shaft one of the biggest, they’ll not only withdraw their support, but they’ll come after you as well. I can just see CEGL’s advertisements screaming to the voters that their government is depriving them of cheap, green power and gas.’

‘Yeah, I know. If we upset the pricks, they’ll redirect our share of campaign funds to the conservatives. But if we lose those three seats it’ll be bloody near impossible to win.’

‘Channels Six and Twelve are going to be covering Monday night, so you’re going to have to pacify the live audience while speaking to those in the suburbs who’ll be watching their tellies. Our pollsters say that we’ve got a slim chance of picking up some seats in the east, which might just be enough to get us over the line for another four years. You’re a strong speaker and you should be able to blunt any audience hostility. The local and federal police will be there and we’re setting up metal scanners at the entrance.’

‘Don’t piss in my pocket, Clarrie. I know I’m no Mandela but what you’ve got planned will just make me look scared and weak,’ the Premier bellowed, jumping out of his chair and towering above the smaller man. ‘Hell, have you forgotten what the media did to John Howard when he wore that stupid bulletproof vest? You make damn sure there are no bloody metal scanners.’

‘I … I wa … was thinking of your safety.’

‘Well, don’t! Hey, maybe we should get someone from our side to take a pot-shot at me. The sympathy vote would be enormous.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Yeah, I am, Clarrie. Come on, it’s time for a real drink.’ Nick sat down, pushing his cold cup of tea away. ‘Are you coming with me on Monday night?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it.’ Clarrie opened a bottle of
Chivas Regal
and poured two shots.

‘Be at the helipad at five o’clock and don’t be late, because I won’t be waiting for you. Fill this up and don’t skimp this time.’