Dirty Fracking Business (12 page)

Moira looked along the row at Harbrow, bewildered as to how he’d convinced the premier to make an announcement that would surely destroy Hercules. There were a few gasps from the audience and some subdued clapping, but Tom Morgan and Simon Breckenridge immediately smelt a rat. So did Charles Paxton, who was back on his feet and about to speak when there was a disturbance at the back of the hall.

Josh and Sandi had been standing on tip toes watching the Premier. They had their backs to the street, when a man barged past them. He was wearing a gasmask and a white boilersuit with the words
chemicals killing our kids
embossed on the front in large black letters. He pushed his way through those standing at the rear and ran down the aisle, shouting, ‘You’re a bloody disgrace, Nick Gould. CEGL poisoned me and my kids and you’re not only licensing them to poison the valley but Kravis Island as well. You’re a bloody disgrace!’

Josh and Sandi raced after him, but the feds were quicker and already had him covered, with two of them behind and two in front of him. They would have liked to eject him but they had been warned not to use strongarm tactics that would make the premier look bad, unless it was a matter of life and death. One of them snapped at Josh, ‘Get back to the front door, and this time try to stay awake.’ Camera flashes went off like strobe lights as photographers fought to get closer to the man in the white boilersuit.

Harbrow recognised the voice immediately as the phantom early morning phone caller and cursed the police for letting him turn a perfectly-scripted meeting into a total disaster.

The man continued shouting, while opening the front of his boilersuit to reveal the scars on his body. ‘Filliburton and CEGL did this,’ he screamed, as the television cameras zoomed in on him. Billy McGregor and his gang started yahooing and yelling and someone threw an egg at the premier. It whistled over his head and splattered harmlessly into the wall behind him. Norris Scott-Tempy was hurling abuse at Charles Paxton and the man in the gasmask was being swamped by reporters firing questions at him. In fifteen years Nick Gould had never lost control of a meeting. He stood on the stage, angry and open-mouthed in astonishment at the pandemonium. He felt someone tugging on his sleeve and looked around to see Clarrie and two feds, ‘Come on, Boss, let’s get out of here.’

‘Shit, what just bloody well happened? I need a drink, real bad.’

Steve pushed his way through the crowd to get closer to the man who was the centre of attention, catching a fleeting glimpse of Donny Drayton with his arm around Bianca, protectively steering her towards the exit. As he drew closer, Steve recognised the man in white; he didn’t know him but had seen him around town.

Harbrow had been going to stay in town overnight, but now he was anxious to get out as soon as could, ordering his driver to take him to the airport where, he hoped, his crew would have readied the jet for take-off. He’d had enough of Paisley to do him for a lifetime.

The premier and his entourage were staying at the upmarket Blaxland River Motel, where Moira had booked a function room so that they could share a few celebratory drinks. As she handed her car keys to the valet, a sense of dread overtook her. She knew that Nick Gould could be a real pig when things didn’t go his way, particularly when others were at fault. She had asked the motel to cater for fifty but, when she entered the room, it was like a wake, with only the premier’s entourage and half-a-dozen freeloaders there. The premier beckoned her over to where he was holding court at the bar, his face black with rage. He downed a whiskey in one gulp and told the waiter to ‘keep ’em coming.’

‘Who was that prick?’ he growled. ‘Christ, how’d he get in wearing that stupid boilersuit? Where was security? Where were the cops? What happened, Moira? What happened?’

Before she could answer, he held his hands up as the theme music for the Channel Six late-night news played on the flat screen televisions. A female reporter led in with the premier’s attendance at a meeting in Paisley to announce the approval of CEGL’s twenty-billion-dollar development in the Fisher Valley and Kravis Island, before the image of Charles Paxton appeared, asking if the
approval would justify killing our kids.
Then there was footage of a man wearing a gasmask running down the aisle shouting. There wasn’t a word about the supply of cheap power and gas to suburban Sydney or the investigation into the operations of Hercules Gas.

‘Get me another whiskey,’ Nick demanded, resting his forehead in his hands and muttering, ‘I’m finished, I’m gone.’ Then he heard the reporter ask,
Mr Prezky, why did you attack the premier?
He looked up to see a rugged, dark-haired man still wearing the white boilersuit.

Because Filliburton and CEGL poisoned the air and the water in my dams when they were exploring for coal seam gas and me and my kids got very sick. And we’re not the only ones; there are many families around Tura who have recently been struck down by ailments that leave them with red itchy welts on their bodies, bleeding noses and diarrhoea.

Filliburton and CEGL are big, responsible companies and they say that the ailments have nothing to do with them. Why are you so certain that they’re responsible?

There was no sickness in the valley until the gas companies started sinking gas wells. In my case, Filliburton dumped wastewater on the tracks on my property, which seeped into my dams. When I had my dam water analysed, it contained dangerous chemicals used in fracking.

Why didn’t you complain to the company?

I did, and they told me to get lost, and the local council said that the big gas companies had the government in their pocket. They built a compressor station near my home that runs twenty-four hours a day and it makes it impossible for me and my family to sleep. Worse, I’ve since found out that it vents invisible toxins into the air. They don’t seem to have to comply with any laws, so I guess they’re not worried about noise and air pollution.

The camera panned back to the reporter, who was biting her lower lip and scowling.
Unbelievable,
she said, before going to an ad break.

‘That prick just cost me the election. God, Moira, where was the security?’

He was right. The television footage was damning and Moira was glad that she had remained in close contact with the leader of the conservatives.

‘I think you’re overreacting, Mr Premier. I’m sure this will blow over. We had nothing to do with the security; your people organised it. I promise I’ve never heard from or seen that man before,’ she lied. She had not recognised his voice earlier but, as soon as he’d mentioned the compressor station and lack of sleep, she knew it was the ‘nutter’ who had made those late night phone calls.

‘Did you have a hand in this, Clarrie?’

‘Boss, you told us to get rid of the metal scanners. If we’d kept them, this never would’ve happened.’

‘Bullshit! How would they’ve stopped him? He would’ve run through them in the same way he ran through the doors. Was anyone manning the front doors?’

‘The feds organised it,’ Clarrie muttered nervously, anxious to deflect the blame. ‘They put two local cops on the front doors, and they were watching you when that imbecile broke in.’

The presenter for Channel Twelve’s
Today in Politics
appeared on the television screens and, sitting in the chair to the right of him, was the troublemaker.
Dean Prezky, welcome to
Today in Politics
. Can you tell us a little ab …?

‘Turn those bloody televisions off,’ the Premier yelled to no-one in particular and the screens were instantly black. ‘Clarrie, you’re the bloody imbecile. Get out of my sight and take the others with you.’

‘Bu …’

‘Now, Clarrie, now!’

‘Where’s ya boss, Moira? Why isn’t he here commiserating with me?’

They were alone except for the bar staff. ‘Nick, Spencer had already organised to fly out toni …’

‘Don’t lie to me,’ he whispered, surprising her. He wasn’t angry, but sad, and reminded her of a big, despondent bloodhound. ‘If it had gone well, he would’ve been here taking all the credit. You know it was him who came up with the idea of tipping a bucket over Hercules, so that I could show the government was serious about safety.’

‘I didn’t, but I guessed it when you were speaking. He’s had his eyes on Hercules’ licences for ages and he usually gets what he wants.’

‘Has he ever got you?’

‘Never.’

‘Well at least I’ve got something in common with him,’ he said, getting maudlin as he slipped an arm around her waist. ‘How about coming up to my suite for a nightcap?’

‘I’m sorry, Nick, I couldn’t do it to Maureen. I’d just feel so guilty.’

‘Come on, you hardly know my wife. You wouldn’t have talked to her more than three or four times in your life.’

‘Yes, but I really like her.’

‘How long has it been since you’ve been with a real man?’

‘That’s none of your business.’ She laughed and pushed his hand away. ‘I’m sorry, it’s getting late and I have to get home.’

‘I’m bettin’ it’s a long time,’ he slurred. ‘You’re married to that bloody company and the top job, aren’t you? Well, I hope they sack that up-himself Spencer “bloody” Harbrow and give it to you. Now can we go upstairs?’

‘You’re incorrigible.’ She had seen him in nasty moods many times before, but tonight he was sad and trying to make light of it. She didn’t think that he even wanted her to go up to his suite, but was just carrying on with the charade to show her he hadn’t lost his manliness. Maybe not, but she knew he was about to go through a huge change after having been the most powerful man in the state for the past fifteen years.

‘Is that a no?’

‘Goodnight,’ she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. ‘Don’t forget, a week is a long time in politics.’

Billy McGregor and his gang had decided before the meeting that they would create an almighty ruckus and drown out the last few minutes of the premier’s speech. They felt sure this would attract the attention of the television cameras and, if they were outrageous enough, they might even feature on YouTube. However, the main reason for their planned antics was that they were seeking to become as popular as Len Forrest and Charles Paxton. They were annoyed that yet another ‘oldie’ had gatecrashed what they saw as
their
party.

The morning peak hour snarl brought Sydney’s traffic to a standstill. Half the drivers had their radios tuned to 2ZL, listening to its famous talkback presenter, Aaron James. He was speaking about the disastrous fall of one folk hero, Nick Gould, and glowingly about the anointment of another, Dean Prezky, before unleashing his invective on the coal seam gas companies.

‘What’s been overlooked in last night’s debacle is the sheer stupidity of Nick Gould and his government granting licences to a foreign company, CEGL, to plunder our food bowls in pursuit of coal seam gas for export to India and China. This is a dirty, inefficient gas with a low calorific value that CEGL lie about by calling it clean. Contrast this with Oilside, whose offshore wells in the west produce high calorific, genuinely clean gas. Twelve of their wells produce the equivalent of four thousand coal seam gas wells that destroy hundreds of thousands of acres of our land.

‘CEGL, and its partner in crime, Filliburton, pump a concoction of water, sand and toxic chemicals, like hydrochloric acid, acetic acid and naphthalene, an ingredient used in napalm, deep into the ground in a process called fracking which forces the methane to the surface. Half this toxic mix remains in the ground and no-one knows what happens to it, but in America it’s been known to poison water wells. The half that comes to the surface is not only toxic but full of saline and has to be environmentally disposed of, something CEGL and its cronies pay scant regard to.

‘And to think some fool in government has issued exploration licences to explore for gas in Sydney and its eastern suburbs.

‘I’ve been swamped with correspondence from the Fisher Valley and let me quote from one letter. “The gas companies are without morals and integrity. They ride roughshod over us, do not consult with the community, tell blatant lies and have no respect for the people who have invested their lives in establishing tourist, wine and farming businesses.”

‘Another letter says, “How can we allow the government to destroy this beautiful valley, a major tourist attraction and internationally renowned wine-making area?”

‘CEGL has seventy-five percent of the licences issued in the Fisher Valley, covering two million acres. One company with seventy-five percent, it makes you wonder doesn’t it? It was announced last night that they’re going to run a pipeline through some of the finest agricultural land in the world, but the farmers are told nothing, despite the potential damage to the nation’s bread basket. It doesn’t surprise me to find the chairman of CEGL, the right dishonourable Harold Llewellyn, or should I say Sir Lunchalot, up to his neck in this. The only reason he ever got to be a senior federal minister was the farmers and now he’s selling them out for a fist full of roubles, and this in the heartland of the National Party.

‘The same thing’s happening in Queensland and the Federal Minister for the Environment recently approved a fifteen billion dollar project on the Spurling Downs, after ignoring his own department’s advice that there was a real risk of land subsidence, water pollution and the destruction of fauna and flora. It seems governments are unable to resist the lure of the enormous taxes and royalties that coal seam gas will generate. Bloody fools!

‘Let me tell you how the state government and its gas company cronies use a well-intended piece of legislation to achieve their tawdry goals. Part 3A of the Planning Act gives the Planning Minister the right to forcibly acquire or access properties for, say, a freeway or bridge. You guessed it! They’re going to use this legislation to run a pipeline directly through rich fertile land to Kravis Island, because that’s the most cost-effective route. The pipeline could be laid under stock routes, tracks and adjacent to roads but, no, that’s too costly, so these economic and environmental vandals choose instead to destroy our food bowls.

‘The gas companies know that, if they can dupe a few landowners in an area into voluntarily signing land access agreements, they can then make application under the infamous Part 3A, claiming that those landowners who haven’t signed are impeding projects of state significance. The minister virtually rubber-stamps these applications and the aggrieved landowners get stuck with arbitrated agreements.

‘Despite CEGL’s dominance, there are another twenty companies, mainly smaller ones, who have been granted licences, and Nick Gould made a big deal about suspending the licence of Hercules Gas last night, but he did it after the horse had bolted. I doubt that CEGL and Filliburton have the expertise to safely drill these noxious gas wells and I’m absolutely certain their smaller peers don’t. Yet here they are drilling through our aquifers and next to our rivers, where, if something goes wrong, we’ll have the onshore equivalent of the Exxon Valdez.

‘The
National Advocate,
which I rarely see eye to eye with, is, like this radio station, owned by the Maddock Group. Recently, the
Advocate
published some very instructive articles about coal seam gas and CEGL. This resulted in a defamation writ, which I have in front of me, being issued against my employers by the supposed blue-chip legal firm of
Braithwaite Ogilvy and Llewellyn
, and, yes, the Llewellyn is none other than Sir Lunchalot. The writ is specious, without foundation or merit and is an attempt by CEGL to silence the
Advocate
from reporting the truth. It’s an abuse of the legal system and accordingly my employer has reported this distasteful action and the shyster lawyers who instituted it, to the Law Society.’

Listeners were treated to a few seconds of the sound of tearing paper, before James’ voice came over the air again.

‘As you’ve just heard, I’ve disposed of the writ in a way that measures its true worth. You would’ve thought that issuing the spurious writ was enough but it wasn’t, because CEGL’s advertising agency,
Aspley & Partners
, whose senior partner, Clem Aspley, also serves on CEGL’s board, cancelled all CEGL-related advertising contracts it had with my employers. There are some major differences between my employers and CEGL; my employers are ethical, they’re not bullies, and they use real lawyers skilled in drafting contracts and recovering damages, which
Aspley & Partners
will soon discover.

‘And to think this is a company that Nick Gould supports. Well, we’ll soon have an opportunity at the ballot box to tell him what we think. We have to go to an ad break. I’ll be taking calls when I return.’

The switchboard operators were flooded with calls.

•

The call for Josh Gibson wasn’t from the Commissioner this time but from a superintendent, who berated him for ‘taking your eye off the ball’ and ‘letting riff-raff disrupt the premier’s important announcement.’

Josh suspected it would not be long before he was demoted to constable and walking the beat in Sydney again. When he put the phone down, he momentarily lost it and tore into Sandi for not properly keeping watch. She ran out of the station in tears. As he reflected, he knew he would have to apologise to her and again pondered what
big gas
was doing to his community.

The front pages of the Sydney dailies carried pictures of Dean Prezky, in full attire of white boilersuit and gasmask. They universally captioned him the
gas-man
. Early morning television presenters and radio talkback hosts fell over themselves to interview him and, while he’d had no training, he took to the media like a professional.

The
National Advocate
ran the story on its front three pages and pulled Steve Forrest’s article, deciding it would have far more impact if they ran it the following day when a little of the frenzy about the
gas-man
had died down.

Steve wrote what he thought was a balanced article about the night’s events in the
Paisley Chronicle,
only to be told by Buffy that she was really sorry that he’d reverted to his boring old style. He had not reported it, but Prezky’s claim that he, his children and his neighbours had the same symptoms that Bettina Scott-Tempy had described in relation to the children in the Paisley Memorial Hospital, had seriously disturbed him. Was it the start of an epidemic in the valley and did it prove that exploring for and extracting coal seam gas wasn’t only unsafe but downright dangerous? Or were they isolated instances where the gas companies had illegally, or out of the ignorance of their employees, sprayed toxic water on roads and tracks? If it was the latter, then those responsible needed to be held accountable, but it was something that could and would be stopped and, that being the case, he saw no need to lobby for the closing down of the gas companies’ operations. If, however, it was inherently unsafe and dangerous, as his father and others claimed, it needed to be banned. He had always been against those who opposed progress and now he thought that they might be right. However, he didn’t know how he’d be able to confirm or set aside his suspicions.

The next day, he bought four copies of the
National Advocate
and read and reread his article on land rights, which took all of page three. He folded one copy to the relevant page and put it in a large envelope, addressing it ‘private and confidential’ to the attention of ‘Norrie’ Scott-Tempy. A second envelope was addressed to Bianca Scott-Tempy. He intended to drop the third copy off to his father. The last copy was for the archives he was starting today.

It had been nearly forty-eight hours since Dean ‘Nobody’ had metamorphosed
into Dean ‘Celebrity’ and Vicki was struggling to cope. The phone hadn’t stopped ringing, he was on the radio and television, reporters were at the front door at all hours and he was far too busy to go to work. What had happened to her recluse of a husband, the man who couldn’t stand neighbours, the man who wanted to buy more property so that he could get even further away from them? How were they going to survive?

Every one of the many organisations that opposed the coal seam gas industry in New South Wales phoned, emailed or door-knocked the
gas-man,
all eager to have him join or be associated with them. He feared they would try and control him, so all invitations were politely declined. When Jack Thomas finally phoned, he was aware that Dean had rejected many other associations, so he asked for and spoke to Vicki for a few minutes. He was warm and charming and by the time he asked if he could speak to her husband, he had a fair idea of the state of the Prezkys’ finances and marriage. Dean was tired and grumpy, and the thought of being controlled by a group of rich vineyard owners and horse breeders did nothing for him. When he said he didn’t have time to talk, he was far from polite.

‘Don’t be too hasty,’ Thomas cautioned in his broad Canadian brogue. ‘We can probably do more for you than you can do for us?’

‘How so?’

‘You said on television that you sent water samples to Sydney for analysis. That wouldn’t have been cheap and I have a hunch that you might want some more samples analysed soon. We have people in our group who can get liquids analysed at no cost. Is that of interest to you?’

‘Go on,’ Dean said grudgingly.

‘We also have lawyers, a Queen’s Counsel and two Federal Court judges who are members of our group.’

‘I don’t need them.’

‘You’re a smart man. While you don’t need them now, who’s to say you won’t in the future. Think about it.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘Dean, we’re no different from you. Jeez, Charles Paxton lost a son who had some of the symptoms that you and your family suffered. We’re fighting a common enemy.’

‘If I join your group, I won’t stand for having my actions or words censored.’

‘We don’t want you to join us. From what we’ve heard about you, it might be downright risky,’ Thomas chuckled, ‘for us! I phoned to offer you our services unconditionally, but you’d be welcome at our blockades and if you felt inclined you could address our members. After all, you’re a media personality now. What do you say?’

‘I never look a gift horse in the mouth,’ Dean responded, but his voice reflected his suspicions. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘I have one last piece of advice. There’s a guy who lives out your way, Mick Petheridge. He heads up the
Tura Defence Association
. He’s very clever and someone you should get to know.’

‘The General. I already know him and he phoned me today. I’m surprised you blue bloods know him, though.’

‘When you get to know us, you won’t be. Phone me when you need our help.’

It was eight o’clock when Vicki, who was worn to a frazzle, took the phone off the hook and put the kids to bed. She could still hear the
whirr, whirr, whirr
from the compressors, but the sound was muffled. She craved sleep but was desperate to talk to Dean, who had adjourned to the room they called solitary confinement. He was hard at it on the Net, doing more research on the evils of coal seam gas. Vicki stood in the doorway, looking in as her husband banged away on the keyboard. While he knew she was there he did not look up.

‘Honey, I know the last two days have been hectic, but there’s no money coming into the house. We missed the mortgage payment and I’m getting worried.’

‘The bank can wait. It’s not as if they’re going to foreclose because we’re one payment in arrears, is it?’

‘It’s not only the bank. I don’t have enough money to buy food and the kids’ clothes are in tatters.’ She wanted to say
you promised you’d return to work
but knew that he would call her a whinger and it would lead to a fight, which was the last thing she wanted. ‘Do you remember when AMEX sent you that credit card with a $5000 limit and we resolved never to use it unless we were absolutely desperate? I think we’ve reached that point.’

He tried to shift the chair but got nowhere and fared no better when he made a belated attempt to stand up. Vicki, standing in the doorway, made the room even smaller and he felt trapped.

‘You still have it, don’t you?’

‘Sure,’ he said, looking uncomfortable.

‘What’s wrong? My God, you haven’t spent the five thousand have you?’