Her civil disobediences ran deep.
Even without her role in facilitating draft resisters, the government could bring charges against her for her TDT escapade. Jamie Richardson was an escaped felon. They could give her four years for any of it. Having gone so public in her resistance to the draft, they’d throw the book at her, a prize catch. A chance at retribution against every grubby long-haired hippie protester drop-out who ever thumbed their nose at the powers that be with their lawlessness. Senator Roland Richardson would be ready with his noose to string her up.
Yes, a cigarette would quell the jitters, she thought and not for the first time considered taking up the habit. Instead, she tried concentrating on breathing in and out deeply while checking in the mirrors for the dreaded police car.
To pass the time and help her relax, she thought about other northern trips to these parts, occasions when she found great camping spots, typically beautiful Australian scenery, and where she met interesting characters.
Two years ago she'd had a weird experience here in Bowen. On a whim she had made a diversion. Someone from her past, an architect, had dropped out and she had heard he was living as an artist on a commune up in the hills. She found him––and the child-of-light sharing the dream with him. A tiny one-room timber shack, glorified with rainbow murals and prayer flags. She shared their sweet wine and then their bed that night. It felt right. Love, peace and harmony. Who were they hurting? No one. Until his young lover broke out her hash cookies pre-dawn.
After a time, she had walked outside the hut to be alone and enjoy the beauty of the night, a scattering of stars across a navy blue sky and a full yellow moon that eventually came down and joined her.
It was a golden orb the size of a house. She tried climbing up and over the orb but it kept rolling back onto her. She knew that if only she could make it to the other side she’d find what she was looking for but the golden orb kept rolling backwards and she kept sliding and losing her grip. And she could hear her mother calling in the distance, from a bus running alongside the orb, yelling at her to jump on. Except, when the bus got closer she saw it wasn’t her mother. It was Jude. Jude was holding a baby in her arms.
She drove away from the commune at daybreak without saying goodbye to the artist or his teenage lover.
After several minutes lost in memory, she realized she had left enough time for the police to have doubled back and come for her if they were of a mind to do it. She would leave the jeep parked here and walk to the Commercial. The phone booth was on the way.
–5–
Fortitude Valley, 1971
It was a loud, insistent ring. Without hesitation, Rex grabbed his stick, stood up and hobbled down the last three steps and across the pavement to the phone box. With his cane, he knocked the stool away and reached in for the receiver.
‘We’re keeping the fat man busy, pal.’ His opening words. They never wasted time with the niceties of polite communication. No names. No identifying information about location or intention. ‘The dude’s got a real hankeren for you, babe.’ He looked through the glass to the black Holden.
When Miki gave him the details of the assignment he whooped, shooting a look across the road again. ‘Oh, yeah! Eat shit, you motherfuckers! D’brodders and d’sisters has struck again!’
Holding the receiver between his cheek and his shoulder, he took out his Swiss Army knife and started carving his notches, three of them, three more to add to the others. This was history being recorded in defiant strokes. They were thwarting the might of nations here, thought Rex as splinters, like a hard rain, fell onto the ledge among the jam jars of frangipani.
‘Eat shit, Richard Nixon, eat my shit, you son-of-a-bitch!’ he said out the door to the black Holden as he continued to gouge out the timber.
Miki said something while he was tidying up his mess but he missed it. She repeated it; she intended taking her chances and turning up on Saturday night.
‘Negative, comrade. Not safe around here.’
There was a lull in the conversation. Nothing coming down the line from Miki.
‘You heard me?’ he said. ‘This place is hot, man. Hot. Aich-oh-tee. Hot. Far as I know, your digs are safe. No sweat there. But round here’s a definite no-go area, man. Too many fans coming through the doors. They're reckoning on you fronting up to sign a few books and chat with the kids.’
There was another long silence. He waited for her response as he tucked his knife into his belt. There was only silence.
‘You’ve done well, pal. Take a break comrade. Okay?’ He worried when there was only more silence on the other end of the line. ‘Things cool with you, sister? You sound flat.’ All he heard was ‘Peace.’ and then she cut the line.
He worried about his colleague. When she was on a downer like this she got real dark. It would be the ballot. He knew this Birthday Lottery bullshit shook her up. It shook everyone, but Miki Patrick took it real bad.
He wandered back inside, passing the dreadlocked couple who were walking out with an armful of second-hand Nation Reviews, free with every purchase. They showed no sign of any purchase, but that was okay with him. He hobbled across the wooden floor and stood in front of Miki’s pictures.
One picture in particular had his attention, the one taken at the meeting down south, back in November last year, showing a bunch of them organizing the moratorium. He smiled at the memory. He had been fascinated by the tall, dark-haired beauty from Queensland who stood up at the meeting and railed against the Birthday Lottery.
It was Miki who more or less put the National Service Act on their agenda that night. She had them eating out of her hand, the meeting finally moving a motion demanding the pollies repeal the Act. It had been one Hell of an emotional rant she’d given them. Not only about the Birthday Lottery but the fact they sent these Nashos overseas, into harm's way.
‘I’ll be shooting through then, hey Rex?’ said the girl, coming around to the front of the counter. ‘Mind if I borrow these? Just for a couple of days, okay?’
He had forgotten about her. Again.
‘Keep ‘em, babe.’ What did he need with a dog-eared Bukharin or a second-hand Gramsci?
His leg ached like a bastard and relief was all he cared about as he started closing up shop for the day. He would fix himself a plate of beans, knock the top off Black Jack and settle down in front of the Pye. See which poor suckers’ numbers come out and wonder how many of the devil’s chosen would turn up on his doorstep tomorrow.
No wonder Miki was in a funk. The Birthday Lottery bullshit was a big ticket, enough to bring anyone down.
How ever many young guys got the nod, thought Rex, he would be there for them if they came to call. The battle raged. He was envisaging those three new gouges on the phone booth wall outside. It thrilled him. Well done, comrades, he chuckled to himself as he entered his cramped flat down the end of the long cavernous School of Arts hall.
The old velvet armchair––the one Miki dragged in off the street at the last Council chuck-out––took his weight as he collapsed back into it, at the same time reaching for the unwashed glass and whiskey from atop the set of draws. Nothing much else eased the pain. He poured a double and tipped it back, savouring the fires of redemption.
Eventually he turned on the console and poured another Jack. He flicked the nob to Channel Two, adjusting the rabbits’ ears till the worst of the snow cleared. He would kill time with Bilko until the draw.
The lottery; the human fucking lottery, he said to the inside of his eyeballs as he dropped back into the embrace of the armchair's soft cushions to await what was coming.
–6–
Bowen, North Queensland, 1971
Miki