Hackett remembered Brian showing the dirt-filled 7.66 x 53 mm cartridge, with Arabic script and Islamic crescent at the base, to a hushed group. Everyone wondered if the business end had claimed an Australian or New Zealand life. Hackett offered Brian a six pack of Efes beer for the prized memento, but was rejected. A week later Hackett spotted it rolling around on the bus floor near Brian’s gear, so he tucked it away in his own backpack.
Hackett’s eyes rested upon another unframed picture at the back of the alcove, a group photo of young people wearing traditional Dutch costumes. It was taken in Volendam, a quaint fishing port north of Amsterdam. The visit and photo were a standard part of most tourist itineraries and was, in their case, in the final days of the journey. The tour started with a clog-making demonstration followed by cheese-tasting and small donuts with a sweet syrup. Then it was time to play dress-up with everyone in clogs, the girls in pointed bonnets, flowing dresses and long aprons. Most of the men donned dark jackets, trousers and caps, although there were always a few who swapped genders when a fun photo opportunity arose.
Hackett walked over to the alcove and picked up the photo. There he was frozen in time – 30 years younger with more hair and a Tom Selleck moustache that Marianne insisted he remove before their wedding a few years later.
Hackett was standing in the back row, one away from the now dead Tugga Tancred. In between was one of Tugga’s New Zealand mates, Drew. On the other side was Gerry. Beside him, Helen, another Kiwi friend who followed the trio from Sydney to England for the Big OE. The photo brought so much back in a flash.
Tugga’s Mob! That’s what the other passengers on the trip called Tugga’s mates. They were the biggest, loudest, booziest and, much of the time, most enjoyable group on the tour. They were the first into the campsite bars and usually the last to leave. Hackett had no natural connection with the Kiwis: no career, sporting, cultural or national affiliations. The only common ground was wanting to have a good time while seeing what Europe had to offer.
The Kiwis were big men, close to two metres, with Tugga still towering over everyone. Hackett was similar in height to Drew and Gerry but couldn’t match their muscle mass, theirs being the product of several years felling trees. They had a shared interest in beer, and anything else alcoholic the Europeans could offer, and that was enough to bond them for seven weeks in 1986. So much so that, according to the other passengers, Hackett was one of Tugga’s Mob for the duration of the tour.
Hackett’s thoughts turned to the three surviving members of Tugga’s Mob but were interrupted by Marianne, urging him to fire up the barbecue. He placed the Volendam picture face-down on his desk, saw the faded writing on the back and recalled how most passengers had written their names and addresses on that final group photo on the last day of the trip.
Hackett’s curiosity about them and the other members of Tugga’s Mob stirred for the first time in many years.
A Google search later might be interesting.
Hackett picked up his mobile and tapped out a text to O’Malley. He apologised for missing the earlier message, and told the COS they’d done a good job in the circumstances. Almost as an afterthought, he added that he knew the victim 30 years ago when travelling in Europe. Hackett wasn’t sure why he mentioned his connection to Tugga to the news crew. He didn’t think there’d be any more legs in the story; it looked like a straightforward case of drink-driving and falling asleep at the wheel. Was he trying to give himself more credibility with the lower ranks, show that he was more than The Hatchet? That he was human after all? The thought didn’t linger. It was discarded along with the phone as he headed for the courtyard and a couple of marinated steaks.
Chapter 5
It was rare to find Ciaran O’Malley still working in the newsroom at 6.35pm on a Saturday. He had gone well beyond his rostered 12- hour shift, which started at 5am, even though no overtime had been approved at the station in this millennium. It was professionalism that kept him there, unpaid, to ensure the late-breaking Tugga Tancred story made it to air on time. Staff cuts meant Deveraux had the help of one junior producer to prepare the weekend news bulletins. O’Malley had therefore taken responsibility for the lead story himself, wrangling all the elements together to make the video package presentable.
They struck more good fortune after pinching the chopper pictures from the opposition channel. Curly Rogers, a senior producer with the station’s current affairs show, was taking his wife to Lorne for a weekend without the kids. Mrs Rogers’ holiday was delayed as Curly’s news instincts kicked in when he encountered the emergency crews a few kms from Lorne. His biggest error was to call O’Malley and ask, ‘Is everything under control?’
Ten minutes later a disgruntled Mrs Rogers was driving the family sedan on to the next layby to await Curly’s summons for pick-up, as the crash site was packed with every police car, fire engine and tow truck on the coast.
Curly’s on-screen news reporting days were long gone, like the thatch that once adorned his now shaven head. A certain “look” is required for commercial television reporters and Curly’s chrome dome didn’t suit the station’s presentation requirements. Management still appreciated his journalism skills and encouraged Curly to try his hand at producing and directing. It was still television journalism. Curly loved telling stories with pictures and he successfully made the transition to production, earning himself several awards over the past decade.
But this night, equipped with nothing more than his mobile phone with video and sound apps, Curly launched into the story. He interviewed a senior sergeant, a paramedic and three people involved with the recovery operation, culling the dullest before emailing the files back one-by-one to the station.
Curly looked lean and fit enough to be part of the rescue crew heading down to the wreck. So, like a pro, the 43-year-old enthusiastic mountain biker and keen runner attached himself to the group that clambered down to the rock shelf where the flattened vehicle rested.
Earnest discussions were continuing about how to recover the body and vehicle before the next high tide. Curly picked up rough but pertinent dialogue and pictures. Then someone realised the dude without a fluorescent jacket pointing a mobile phone in every direction was part of the media. Curly didn’t mind getting banished back to the road, as he had content the opposition channels didn’t: exclusive sound-bites and close-up pictures of the mangled car.
Even better, he’d overheard a cop raise an alternative explanation for the crash. That angle would require time to check, and would better suit his current affairs show, Melbourne Spotlight, on Monday.
Curly emailed the last of the story elements through to the studio at 5.15pm The pictures and sound were barely broadcast quality, but in the news business that could be forgiven if you had no other option.
O’Malley, who’d written a script as the files arrived, hauled the newsreader back into the voice-over booth to record the final few paragraphs at 5.25pm. At 5.53pm O’Malley stood beside Deveraux in the cramped news edit suite to view the finished product.
‘You’ve produced a bloody miracle, mate,’ Deveraux smacked the chief of staff on the back. ‘Tell Curly we’ll shout him a few beers when he gets back to town.’
‘Not sure if we’ll see him again,’ O’Malley laughed. ‘His wife was so pissed off about spoiling their dirty weekend she left him to walk to Lorne. He’ll probably have to hitch back to Melbourne too.’
Deveraux grinned as he headed to the studio. Teamwork, and a lot of luck, had produced a better news bulletin than they had contemplated before their lunchtime pies.
Therefore, post-program, O’Malley was feeling reasonably mellow. He looked forward to a cold beer on the way home, ignoring the fact he had to be back at the COS desk before dawn the next day.
That’s when Hackett’s reply text caught his attention. O’Malley sighed as he reached over and plucked the phone from the charger on his desk. He failed to notice the last