Hunting In Packs

The sins of the present were best left unsaid, only staining the past. He was a hunted paedophile and we the pack had been deliberately let loose on him. The police minister wanted to make an example. He was cheap bait. And nothing could redeem this most recognisable of characters; known for his hunted, rodent demeanour on the evening news clips played repeatedly; found guilty of molesting three young children in a Brisbane hotel room. Six, seven and eight. The press secretary made sure we knew that, if nothing else. There wassn't any moral equivalence about this one. And of course we all knew her, she'd been on the other side, our side, for so long. The good times were all gone. Well they weren't really, but none of us drank like we used to. Into clever oblivion.



Every news outlet had been fully alerted to the time when he was expected to be released from a western Sydney jail, where, after the 15 years for the Queensland events he had been imprisoned for breaching his parole conditions; to wit selling cleaning goods to schools. There isn't such a thing as privacy with something like this. We all lined up out the front of the centre; the shooters from Fairfax, News, ABC, Channel Nine, Seven, Ten. All the radio stations; 2GB, 2UE, young blokes, nice most all of them. In those zippy little black four wheel drives and zippy black hair. Half an hour before he was due out the press secretary came out to give us our final instructions.



He would walk from this door to the car, where he would be transported of the property. Where? To the local train station. There were flies everywhere, you kept having to block them away. Can you park the car further away, so that he has to walk right across in front of us. He might want to answer questions. He might want to protest his innocence. He's done it before. I'll do my best; she said. And finally, in a farce, in the heat with those damned flies, we all stood in a line behind an imaginary no-go zone, a crack in the concrete. Minutes passed, the flies kept getting in the way. We were all lined up, all waiting, coralled. The minute he appeared predictable pandemonium broke out. The TV crews were right in his face, do you still maintain your innocence? Are you a danger to the children of this state? What are you going to do now? He kicked out; hunted, as the corrective services staff bundled him into the back of the car. Mad dash to the vehicles. A cavalcade out of the prison, right left several kilometres down to the Windsor train station.



There even more predictable mayhem broke out; as the authorities deliberately abandoned him to the media. Hunted he ran up and down the platform. A bullet would be better, a person emerging from the station said as I frantically parked the car, having dumped the photographer at the front. He lashed out again, everyone getting good shots, some getting a few bruises. Then he said: I'll give you one thing, and went on to say that he wanted to see someone in jail. Then he kicked out again, with his two plastic bags, all the possessions he had in the world, no one to pick him up, not a friend left, kicking out and hunted until finally he sought refuge in the station master's office.



The police sped him away from the station. We tried to follow but they were gone before we could get out of the carpark. We made a desultory search of the suburb, other news cruise had also lost track of them, and judging the task hopeless headed back to town. Our job was done. We had all the pictures we could ever want of a hunted man. Where was he going, that man with his two plastic bags and a face which ensured he would be hunted the rest of his days?



Christmas came on for most everybody; the bombs kept going off in Iraq and Rumsfeld couldn't even be bothered personally signing the letters of condolence from the government. Merry Christmas. If I was one of the parents who had lost their child in that useless war, I would be very very angry indeed.



The kids and I are driving up to the ex's tomorrow for Christmas, into the Australian landscape with storm, flood and hail warnings literally going out tonight. Is this the skirmish to wreck shreds in the fabcric, screaming, screaming? Or peace under the pepper tree? The sins of the present are best left unsaid, only staining the past.

Drenched in Fear

We all make mistakes, he said kindly, in the already steamy morning heat. It had been a long time since the city had splintered beneath his feet. Now steamy undertow was all he ever got, the buildings anchored into place. That morning, when he had been an entirely different person, which had been entirely about survival and blanketing out the fear, he had moved with an easy lope through the back streets of Elizabeth Bay. There was more than water glimpses. He used to sit up on the roof of the apartment block then known as Withering Heights and later as Gotham City, those flats where all the prima donnas of the era acted out their lives, and wonder why no one else was sitting up their watching the sun come up, those spectacular trails of pink cloud down the harbour, the birds so entirely graceful above the television towers.



He always thought things would move full circle. But that is not what happened. Those days when the mandy stagger was a fashion accessory and everyone slept with everyone, before AIDS came along. Before everyone died. Before a whole swathe of Sydney life just got swept away. I hope you learnt from that. He looked up startled at the boss. The dog show gone so terribly wrong. It had been one of those Sundays when there truly was absolutely nothing going on. There was an admittedly huge dog show out west, and thus it was that I came to do my first, last, only dog story. There were all sorts of dogs; pink blotched things and French carriage fluff balls that calmed you down when they sat in your lap. See, they really do calm you down, the owner declared triumphantly, dumping one on me. Pointing at a Bichon Frise I asked what it was while the photographer clicked away. A cross between a maltese and a poodle, the bloke who was supposed to know these things said. So I reliably reported that the Bichon Frise was a cross between a maltese and a poodle and for weeks the letters pages ran hot with outrage. Just when you thought the scandal would subisde another wave of letters would arrive, some signed with indigant doggy paws and declarations that would have me know that they were pure breds dating back to the royal courts of Spain in the 1500s. To rectify this I initiated the idea of putting an item in what was then known as Column Eight on the front page of the paper. The item duly ran. And the editor loomed above me, declaring "I hope you learnt from that".



We learn more from our mistakes than our successes, he said on the roof, trying to instil calm, the rain that was to drench the state and fill the dams already in the air. If only he could remain so certain.

Grey Spots in the Stifling Heat

This is a story I wrote for our local rag the South Sydney Herald, due out about now.

The older I get the more I resent paying taxes; and this case, where the government has just run roughshod over everyone in the local area, is a classic example of why. They say they are responding to community concerns, when in reality they are doing nothing of the kind. We pay a fortune in taxes and we the people get nothing for it. I think governments should return to nuts and bolts; trains that run on time, hospitals that work, politicians that respond to people's concerns, courts that dispense prompt and efficient justice. Instead about all we ever get is rubbish from grotesquely overpaid bureaucrats and politically correct idiots who do more harm than good. Our suburb is a classic example of the harm they cause, with a small group of drunks and addicts holding the whole place to ransom while the lovies bleat on about the poor and disadvantaged. If they didn't drink so much or weren't so chronically addicted maybe they wouldn't be so disadvantaged! Maybe a bit of tough love might be the solution. Maybe they should go to a detox like half the rest of Sydney has had to do over the years. I've run out of painkillers and the cracked rib is making me feel very creaky and groany and cranky, so that's enough of a rant today.



Here's the story:





RESIDENTS, homeowners, police, shopkeepers and the aboriginal community of Lawson Street and the immediate surrounds have slammed the Carr Government’s determination to place an unwanted $1.5 million drug, alcohol and needle exchange service in a residential area to replace the Redfern’s old "needle bus". News, via an announcement from the Premier Bob Carr, that the old Alleena Centre at the top of the street near Redfern Station will become a needle exchange came as a shock to residents, who had not been consulted on the move, and has been met with hostility from almost everyone with a stake in the future of the area.



Half a dozen families with young children live within 50 metres of the front door of the planned centre. One of the chief criticisms of the needle bus was its location close to a park where children played. Organisations to come out against the Lawson Street proposal include the Aboriginal Medical Service, the Aboriginal Housing Company and the Police Association. Community group REDWatch has criticised the complete lack of consultation. Residents on the street have formed the Lawson Street Action Group and circulated a widely supported petition calling on the NSW government to abandon the scheme.



Sydney Lord Mayer Clover Moore said it was unfortunate "there was no consultation about location and that key Aboriginal organisations such as Aboriginal medical service and Metropolitan Local Aboriginal Land Council" did not feel part of the process.

But it is not just the aboriginal community that was not consulted. What is remarkable about the blanket opposition to the proposal is that this is one of the most leftwing precincts in Australia, where support for harm minimization drug policies is strong.



The Carr government is already showing signs of ducking for cover on the issue. A spokeswoman for Frank Sartor, responsible for the Redfern Waterloo Authority, could offer no explanation as to why the street’s residents, aboriginal health services and the police had not been consulted. Although the issue clearly concerns child welfare a spokeswoman for the Minister for Community Services Carmel Tebutt claimed it was not her responsibility and refused to comment on whether placing a needle exchange next to young children was appropriate.

In a glossy brochure distributed to households in the area the government claimed the new community health facility would assist in responding to needs identified in the Interim Report on the Inquiry into Issues relating to Redfern-Waterloo and the Report on the Review of Human Services in Redfern and Waterloo. Both reports noted the need for detoxification and other drug and alcohol related services in the area. Neither report recommended the creation of a facility in Lawson Street. The Interim Report is clear in recommending that the Needle Exchange Bus be placed "away from the residential area to a nearby industrial area.



The brochure said the service would include "treatment and care of drug related injuries, provision of sterile injecting equipment, drug and alcohol assessments and referrals" and specialist services would include "mental health and sexual health services" and HIV/AIDS and Hepatitis screening. The facility is scheduled for completion by the middle of 2005 and will cost $1.5 million to establish and $550,000 annually. Bizarrely, the brochure also claimed it would provide antenatal and post natal care, although there are no examples of any centre in Australia which successfully combines a needle exchange service with general health services for pregnant women or young babies.



Ignoring local anger over the centre, Bob Carr said the area was a known haven for drug dealers and users. "It will deliver a range of health services to this disadvantaged area," Mr Carr said. "Our goal is to clean up the area to see that it functions better.’’

The Premier’s office, when asked by the South Sydney Herald if the Premier personally condoned placed a needle exchange next door to where children are living, responded that the NSW government is "committed to providing health care services for the entire community." When asked if the Premier was personally aware that children were living next door to the proposed methadone clinic and needle exchange his office sidestepped the question and responded that the state government was proposing to establish a "community health facility in Lawson Street that will provide primary health care services for the entire community. This includes access to medical services, nurses health care workers and health education workers. Needle and syringe provision will be only one aspect of the health care services provided."

The Premier’s office went on to claim that in establishing the "health centre" they were responding to needs identified in various inquiries that there was a "high incidence of co-existing drug and alcohol and mental health issues in key population groups", people with mental health problems and "young people with high unemployment levels and drug and alcohol issues". These issues do not exist amongst the actual residents on Lawson Street. Most of the people who live on the street are fully employed and own their own homes or are students renting accommodation close to Sydney University.



Local police described the plan to replace the Block’s needle van at The Block with a needle exchange in the residential heart of Redfern as "madness". "Where you have a needle exchange, you get heroin addicts, and where you get heroin addicts, you get an increase in crime," Constable Paul Huxtable said. "That is the simple reality of the situation. It's madness. It just doesn't seem sensible at all and it flies in the face of the government inquiry which said it should be built at the northern end of Redfern in an industrial area."



In a letter to the Premier Dr Naomi Watts, Chief Executive of Redfern’s Aboriginal Medical Service, now housed in a spanking new centre nearby, said no one consulted with them or any other aboriginal run organisation. "To say that I am livid with rage would be an understatement. And let me tell you I am not alone. There is universal anger amongst all the local Aboriginal agencies. Once again we have a perfect example of a government riding roughshod over agreed policy and established procedure. I sincerely hope that you will reconsider your proposal and that your government will honour the terms of the Aboriginal Partnership Agreement so that we can sensibly progress the important issues in relation to drug and alcohol problems locally."

Chief Executive Officer of the Aboriginal Housing Company Mick Mundine said: "Get rid of it. We don’t want it." He dismissed the claims that the centre would provide postnatal care for young mothers as nonsense: "You can’t have children mixed up with giving out needles. It is sending the message there are still drugs on the block. No one is going to take their children to a needle exchange. No one wants it here. You are bringing junkies right on to Lawson Street when we are trying to get drugs out of the area. We have all had enough."

Craig Ketnell, who lives literally next door to the proposed Centre with his pregnant wife and young daughter, has formed the Lawson Street Action Group. "This is not a harm minimisation debate, it is about the location of a centre which will bring hundreds upon hundreds of people with serious mental health and addiction problems on to our doorsteps," he said. "In this state you cannot build a brothel next door to where children are living, so how can you build a needle exchange and methadone clinic?"



The petition he has organised to be presented to Bob Carr has received almost universal support.

"In conjunction with the aboriginal community a lot of good has been done in this area in minimising the drug problem since the riots early this year," he said. "The government is already acting as if this insane idea is an accomplished fact. None of the politicians making these decisions would choose to live with their children next door to a methadone clinic or needle exchange, not one of them. This is a serious threat to the safety of our kids."

Returning To Normal

The kids are back. The dog couldn't stop wriggling with excitement. This time there was no delays, no planes pulled off tarmacs in obscure parts of NSW, no weird excuses. We arrived at the airport an hour early; sat waiting, the terminal almost empty late at night. Even in the last ten days they seem to have grown. I wait and I want. Proud dad. I wish everything could dissolve into a cosy little cottage in the country, yellow climbing roses over the door. Instead we're faced with car parks that demand you pay outrageous sums of money at the pay station before you exit; they can't even be bothered to take your money in person. The meaning of it all has bypassed us. The Sydney that we loved, the bohemian paradise of 30 years ago, has gone, swamped by a thousand extra people a week in a city already choking on itself. With incompetent and self interested politicians ruling imperiously over a state of chaos. And the oppostion equally as incompetent. The kids are suddenly tweenagers, 12 and 13, not the georgeous little things that thought you were God. I feel much more normal now they're back. Despite everything. I'd love more, if it wasn't for the difficulty of living with someone, the chance that you are going to lose everything. No sane bloke would get married these days; it's not worth the risk. If you were a gambling man you just wouldn't bother. If you could clone them, perhaps I would create another little clutch, the proud bantam with his little gaggle. As it is, nothing is straight forward. At last the boy is back in school. At last the dog has had it's life's meaning restored. I'm still in pain from the accident, which threw me forward to being 95 in agony on the floor, unable to get up for half an hour as the chair collapsed and I fell backwards onto the kitchen bench. A couple more inches and I would have been a paraplegic. Or never gotten off the floor. Struggling to a press conference on international security at the Four Seasons Hotel days later, I thought this is insane; half the city's officeworkers take a day off at the first sign of a sniffle and here I am struggling to work with a cracked rib - and finally went to the doctor. Someone told me a story yesterday, of their grandmother who fell in the shower and she was there for 30 hours with the water running on top of her before she was found. She died a few weeks later; of pneumonia perhaps. Things are in transition, settling back to normal, and I'm glad no one can get to me anymore. The Christmas holidays are rapidly approaching, and I can hardly wait for the long summer days uninterrupted by anything as inconvenient as work.

It's quiet, unnerving

It's quiet, unnerving in the heat. We round in hope, the skin prickly. The boy is due back from the country today. The dog is still moping around the Redfern backyard waiting for him. In the back lane, I can hear aboriginal voices; leftovers from the night before. The area is much quieter now, since the major drug busts earlier in the year, when the police linked chains to front doors and pulled them down; when 225 of them coated the small block and nobody got away. When police with gloves held down suspects in apartheid-like scenes. We are one of the most left wing precincts in the country. I don't think the Liberals even bothered to run; if they did they didn't bother to advertise. Our local member is Tanya Plibersek. Terminally politically correct. As a separated bloke I can't imagine she cares whether I live or die. She's always on about refugees and women; but the men who pay her wages, forget it. And Labor has made her opposition spokeswoman on women, family and children's issues; showing that Labor hasn't realised that many of the blokes in this country, the blokes who's sweat built the party in the first place, will never forgive them for creating those most sexist and abusive of all organisations, the Family Court and the Child Support Agency; for discriminating against separated fathers in the most brutal and savage way possible, and pretending that it's all in the "best interests of the child". They are heading the way of the Democrats, into political obscurity, not realising that the rest of us who have to get up and go to work and pay the outlandish levels of tax in this country are sick to death of being treated with such routine contempt. Sydney is clothed in heat; and apart from the odd decent neighbour, nobody seems to care at all.

Testing this is a test only

Testing this is a test only.

We sat on the balcony despite the wind; some of her younger friends from work there. The apartment was very small and very sparse; but close to everything; as everyone kindly pointed out. He had been very quiet since the accident. This was the first time he had been out in days. He could see down into the penthouse of one of the neighbouring blocks across the street. The pool table impressed him. A handsome man in white shorts talked on the phone. Another was in the gym. Being close to Oxford Street, he assumed; they had no curtains at all. But then a woman appeared; her hair tied back, athletic, young. He would never look that good ever again.

This is a test only.

It is unfamiliar. It is technology that simply wasn't there in the cicada heat waves of summer; when the beaches were remote and the toxic competitiveness of the city had not cast me in a lesser role. The fall came as a shock to a carefully settled life; settled on a floating board above the lava and the chaos which had seared so many years. It was late and the kids were away and he was cleaning cupboards in the middle of the night; as one does. The old wooden chair, carted through the inner-west for more than a decade, collapsed without warning. He fell backwards on to the bench; lay in agony on the floor for half an hour; projected into a 95-year-old future. No wonder they decided to give up and get out. Although barely able to move, he didn't go the doctor for days. He didn't want any more bad news. Life had settled somewhere below the clouds and somewhere above the lurching mind numbing chaos of his derelict past; and that, he did not want to disturb.

This is a test only.