Dirty Fracking Business

  ‘Come on,’ Beck said to his mates, ‘let’s get out of here; I’ve had enough of these jabbering idiots.’

  The publican watched Billy and his gang follow them out to the car park, fearing that all hell was about to break loose, but the young larrikins, other than shouting out a few smart remarks, clambered into their cars. Beck stormed across the bitumen as the cars screamed off, with the gang giving him the finger and plenty of abuse, while his mates stood glumly looking at the Filliburton Hummer with four flat tyres.

  It was after midnight when Josh got the call to attend an incident in the car park of the Paisley Hotel. When he arrived, a roadside assistance vehicle was next to a Filliburton SVU, with the mechanic crouching next to one of its flat tyres. Surely he hadn’t had his sleep wrecked for something as minor as this. As Josh got out of the van, Beck strode towards him. ‘I want those young punks in the pub charged with destruction of property.’

  ‘Jeez, Frank, getting your tyres let down is hardly property destruction.’

  ‘Christ, I know that. The idiots filled the valves with gunk and we can’t get any air into the tyres. What are you going to do about it?’

  Josh fought to hide a grin. ‘Did you see who did it?’

  ‘No, but it was that blond kid; he was in the pub looking for trouble. I’ll break his neck if I ever get my hands on him.’

  ‘If you take the law into your own hands you’ll have me to answer to.’

  Beck was about to argue, when the taxi he had phoned arrived and he jumped into the front and rolled down the window, while his mates got into the back.

  ‘Josh, this is no joke. I want those kids caught and charged. They’re in the pub every night on the pool table, so it shouldn’t be too difficult, even for you.’

  ‘Prick,’ Josh muttered under his breath, anxious to get home and back to bed. Try as he might, he couldn’t get back to sleep and it was still dark when he showered and left for the station to catch up on some paperwork. He was enjoying the peace and ploughing through a build-up of reports, when the quiet was broken by the phone ringing. The caller, the manager of the Paisley Real Estate Agency, was irate. Someone had defaced his front window and had poured glue into the locks on the doors, front and rear, and it was impossible to get into the building. Five minutes later, Josh brought his van to a halt in front of a window covered with the words parasites, traitors and scum in heavy black paint. The little man standing on the footpath and gesticulating furiously was obviously the manager and his staff looked bitter, but most folk passing by were smiling.

  Chapter 22

  The normal format of the Paisley Chronicle was to feature a major current news item on the front page and to run an editorial on a contentious issue, which was really Steve’s personal opinion, on page three. Such was the importance of his findings in Queensland and his new-found passion in opposing big gas, that he dispensed with protocol and headed the front page with the editorial Too much at risk.

  The editorial compared the symptoms of the children in the Paisley Memorial with those of the kids on the Spurling Downs, and followed up with the plight of the still-born calves, those born with deformities and the deterioration in breeding.

  The third page continued in the same vein. Steve described the failure of the gas companies to plug wells, the methane leakage into the air and the depletion and poisoning of the water, before concluding that the exploration and extraction of coal seam gas in the Fisher Valley and Australia generally was far too risky - it should either be banned or, at the very least, there should be a moratorium until big gas could unequivocally prove it was safe.

  On page two was a petition demanding that the government cease to issue any new licences and that exploration for, and the production of, coal seam gas in the Fisher Valley be halted pending an investigation into the health, safety and environmental issues that resulted from it. It was a call for unity and it asked subscribers to mail completed petitions to the Chronicle, which would submit them to the government.

  Buffy thought the article was Steve’s finest, but was disappointed when he told her that he was going to run it by his lawyer before publishing. She need not have worried, as Simon Breckenridge waxed lyrical, telling Steve that if defamation action was brought against him, which was unlikely, he would defend him pro bono.

  The phone call from Jack Thomas was succinct. The contents of the three jars had been analysed and contained a cocktail of chemicals, including boric acid, methanol and hydrochloric acid which, according to him, ‘were all bloody dangerous’.

  ‘Send me the analysis report,’ Dean said. ‘I want to look them up on the Net and see what harm they do. Is the analysis of the three jars all the same?’

  ‘Identical.’

  ‘We’ve got ’em then. We’ll put the footage together with the analysis and then see if the lying bastards still claim it was an accident.’

  ‘I want to nail them and their mates in the government just as much as you do, but you don’t want them to find out you were on their land spying, because they’ll make your life hell.’

  ‘I’ll be careful, Jack. You leave it with me.’

  Paisley was abuzz about the article and petition in the Chronicle and circulation was a record exceeding 12,000. Len Forrest was overjoyed and carried a copy under his arm, needlessly telling anyone in town who would listen, that it was his son who penned it.

  Charles Paxton read about the deformed calves and felt the blood rush to his face. He had suspected that big gas was responsible for Gentle Lady’s deformed foal and now, despite not having the laboratory results, he knew he was right.

  Moira Raymond cursed. CEGL’s strategy was to divide the community, but this article called for unity in opposition to big gas and she wondered if she had underestimated Steve Forrest. There was nearly nine months of the advertising contract with the Chronicle to run and she decided she would write a rebuttal of the editorial in the form of a community announcement and insist that Steve print it.

  When Buffy said there was an Amanda Simpson from the Maddock Group on the phone, Steve had no hesitation in taking the call.

  ‘So you don’t think it’s a trick this time,’ she teased.

  ‘No, Amanda, I don’t. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I think you already know.’ She laughed.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘We’d like to publish your article, without the petition and with a few minor deletions and changes. I’m emailing the changes to you and I’d like your return email consenting to the amendments.’

  ‘Providing there’s nothing major, it should be fine,’ he responded, fighting to keep the excitement from his voice.

  ‘If you ever decide to quit that quaint little paper, give me a call. You have a real way with words … when you’re passionate about something.’

  ‘Hello Dean,’ Buffy said. ‘You’re here for your appointment with Steve. Can I get you a coffee, tea, anything?’

  ‘No thanks. Do I know you?’

  ‘No, probably not. I’m Buffy Preston and I’ve seen you on telly and I really admire you.’

  Dean Prezky was a private man, still coming to grips with his new-found celebrity status and struggling to cope with the many strangers who addressed him by his first name as if they’d known him for years. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  Steve watched this exchange without saying anything, as he tried to get a handle on the man at the counter who, the major dailies said, had brought a premier down. He exuded nervous energy and obviously wasn’t given to small talk.

  ‘Come through.’ Steve extended his hand. For once it wasn’t crushed and their hands barely touched before Dean was undoing his computer bag and firing up his old laptop.

  ‘It’ll take a minute or so,’ he said, as a statement rather than an apology. ‘That was a good article you had in the paper this morning and you might want to follow up with what I’m going to show you.’

  A gas rig eventually appeared on screen, illuminated by light towers and surrou
nded by Filliburton trucks and employees.

  ‘Where’d you get the footage from?’

  ‘That’s unimportant. Just watch it.’

  When it was over, Steve sat shaking his head in disbelief. He’d discounted some of the more outrageous stories he had heard on the Spurling Downs but now he knew they were true.

  ‘That rig’s less than a kilometre from the Blaxland River. Can you imagine what might happen if that crap seeps into it?’

  ‘How did you get that footage?’

  ‘You don’t need to know. You just need to run the story and have the disk and chemical analysis as support. They’re yours for two thousand dollars.’

  ‘Who was Filliburton drilling for?’

  ‘CEGL’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘There was a CEGL trespassers keep out sign on the entrance to the well-pad.’

  Steve had never paid for information, but two thousand dollars for this damning evidence wasn’t much and the Maddock Group would almost certainly pay the Chronicle another healthy fee for the exposé that he was already writing in his mind. He regretted ever entering into that advertising contract with CEGL, because he felt obligated not to mention them in the critical articles that he’d written about the coal seam gas industry. It seemed morally indefensible to take their money with one hand while attacking them with the other.

  ‘All right, I’ll buy it but, before I write anything, I’m going to show it to CEGL’s management and give them a chance to put their side of the story.’

  ‘Are you completely mad?’ Dean scowled and reached over for his laptop. ‘You do that and they’ll stop you from publishing and there’ll be a lot of questions about how the footage came to be in your possession.’

  Steve knew, that unless Filliburton had acted unilaterally, Dean was probably right, and that he would most likely be hit with an injunction from CEGL. But he could not take their money and not give them the opportunity to respond. If only he had listened to Buffy and his father, he would not be in this compromising position. ‘I think you’re over-reacting Dean.’

  ‘Maybe, but I risked an awful lot to get what you just watched and I’m not going to let you jeopardise the prospects of the public hearing about it.’ Dean stood up and threw the computer bag over his shoulder. ‘I know CEGL run big advertisements with you but I never thought you’d put dollars before the public interest. The disk is no longer for sale. Well, not to you anyway.’

  Josh Gibson knew that Billy McGregor had been behind the sabotage of Filliburton’s SUV and the Paisley Real Estate Agency. All of Paisley knew, and Billy knew that Josh knew but, as they sat eyeing each other in the police station, Billy, with a huge grin, denied everything.

  ‘I never left the pub, Josh. Ya can ask the publican; he’ll vouch for me. I never touched that big ape’s vehicle.’

  ‘You mightn’t have yourself but you sent someone out to do it. Who was it?’

  ‘Hell, ya make me sound like the godfather or something. I ain’t got that type of power. Wish I did.’

  ‘Where were you when the real estate agency was trashed?’

  ‘Dunno. What time did it happen?’

  Josh knew he wasn’t getting anywhere. ‘Billy, I mightn’t be able to prove it, but I know it was you. You think you’re smart but you’re not. If that guy, Frank Beck, had gotten hold of you last night, he would’ve broken your neck. I want you to knock it off; it’s not up to you to be fighting the gas companies.’

  ‘But it is for Charles Paxton, huh? Why didn’t ya charge him, Josh? You knew the wolf I saw that night was his dog, didn’t ya? But he was never charged.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Didn’t ya read the Chronicle this morning? They’re poisoning our water. I reckon everyone should be fighting ’em and if I knew who was running around with that glue last night I’d be the first to congratulate ’em.’ Billy stood up. ‘I sure hope ya don’t catch ’em Josh.’

  It was common knowledge that the producers of Channel Six’s Your Nation were producing an exposé on the coal seam gas industry and that they’d been filming in Queensland for the past fortnight. After Dean Prezky had his run-in at the Paisley Chronicle, he’d drawn the conclusion that if a little newspaper owed big gas favours it was likely that the larger Sydney newspapers would be in the same boat. It was then that he thought of approaching Your Nation with his footage, knowing that, if they picked it up, the public would get to see what he had seen rather than reading what some journo had converted to print. The producers had fallen over themselves when he told them who was calling and what he had. They asked him to email it to them but, when he declined, they invited him to come to Sydney so he could show it to them in person.

  ‘Honey, I’ll only be gone for a day,’ he protested, when Vicki got into a tizz.

  ‘You’ll kill yourself before this is over. It’s a three-hour drive, you’ll be there all day, and then you’ll be driving home at night. You’ll be exhausted. If Your Nation is so interested in your footage, why can’t they come here?’

  ‘It doesn’t work that way. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful and if I get lucky they might pay me something. That’ll make it worthwhile, won’t it?’

  ‘Not if you’re dead. Maybe you should find a cheap motel and drive home in the morning?’

  ‘We can’t afford it, Honey, you know that. I’m leaving at five o’clock; I’ll try not to wake you.’

  ‘I’ll be up. I’ll make you a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘I love you, you damn fool.’

  The disdain on the parking attendant’s face at the entrance to Channel Six’s executive car park suggested that he wasn’t used to seeing dirty, battered four-wheel-drives but, once Dean told him who he was, it was, ‘Yes, Mr Prezky, let me show you where to park and they’re expecting you on the twentieth floor. After you’ve parked, I’ll show you to the lifts.’ Dean smiled to himself.

  Two production executives were waiting for him when he left the lift. They introduced themselves as Brent and Troy and showed him into a meeting room. After asking if he’d like coffee or tea, which he declined, they moved straight to the business of the footage and sat engrossed through the eight minutes.

  ‘Don’t you want to know how I got it?’

  ‘No,’ Brent said quite sharply. ‘We’d prefer not to. Show it again, please.’ This time they asked Dean to freeze the film at certain stages while exchanging knowing glances.

  ‘We need to cut it to about sixty seconds, Troy.’

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking.’

  ‘Sixty seconds! Are you mad? You’ll lose the impact. Didn’t you see that pump, the wastewater, the tubing and the mess? And you’re going to have to show the Filiburton trucks and employees. It can’t be done.’

  ‘Yes it can,’ Brent smiled. ‘After we add some suitable music and Libby Hanover’s introduction, I promise it’ll be a powerful piece of film.’

  All Dean could think of was that they were cutting his three days of hell to one minute, and he wanted to pack up his laptop and storm out. But, then, would any of his footage ever be shown? While he was brooding, a mid-fortyish, blonde woman entered the room.

  ‘I’m Libby Hanover,’ she said. ‘I’ve been so looking forward to meeting the famous gas-man.’ Her big blue eyes shone and she had an infectious smile.

  ‘I’m not famous.’ He grinned. ‘If the truth be known, I just got fed up with coal seam gas companies ruining my life and probably over-reacted.’

  ‘And brought down a premier?’

  ‘If that turns out to be the case, it was unintended because the conservatives are no better.’

  ‘So you’re apolitical?’

  ‘I hate coal seam gas and what it’s doing to me and my family.’

  ‘You’ve certainly made that obvious. Can I have a look at this footage that I’ve heard about?’

  ‘I can hook the laptop up to the big screen,’ Troy volunteered.

&nbs
p; ‘Yes, do that.’

  Libby sat entranced while viewing the film.

  ‘What do you think?’ Dean asked.

  ‘It’s compelling. When you add it to what we’ve filmed on the Spurling Downs, it’ll blow the roof off this industry.’

  ‘We need to trim it to about sixty seconds,’ Brent said.

  ‘I dunno.’ Dean sounded despondent. ‘You can’t cut that much and have any impact. Perhaps I should see if your competitors have any interest?’

  Libby put her hand on his forearm and gently squeezed it. ‘Television time is incredibly expensive and it doesn’t matter who you take it to, it’ll be cut to a minute or perhaps even less. We’re happy to pay a fair price for the footage and I think you’ll be more than pleased with what we go to air with. These two gentlemen are the best in the business and I can guarantee it’ll definitely have an impact.’

  She was one of those people with enormous charisma and charm, whom you felt you could trust immediately.

  ‘All right,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘We’re filming the final segment in the Fisher Valley next week and, if you’re available, you might like to show us around.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Dean. I have to fly, but Brent will fix up the paperwork.’

  It was just after 1pm when he climbed back into the four-wheel-drive. He held a copy of a contract in which he’d signed over the rights to his eight minutes of footage to Channel Six, along with a cheque for $5000. Once out of the car park, he phoned Vicki to tell her that he’d be home early and that he would take her and the kids out to dinner. He didn’t tell her about the cheque. That would be another surprise.

  Steve Forrest often took the long route to the post office rather than run the risk that old Mrs Eleanor Elliot might be sitting on the porch of her cottage, ready to chew his ear about an article in the Chronicle. However, today, for some reason, he’d completely forgotten about her.