9

A TIRED-LOOKING guard checked my ID and waved me through the gates. He pointed out an empty parking space. Not empty. The jack who’d taken charge of things last weekend was standing there, waiting. I stared at her name badge: Tuffnell. That’s right.

‘You’re late,’ she said.

‘It’s just on nine.’

‘That’s the meeting time. Visitors must allow fifteen minutes for processing.’

‘No one told me.’

‘Just hurry up and get out of the car. I’ll conduct the search myself.’

I followed Tuffnell to the visitor waiting room. She tipped the contents of my bag onto a table and began sorting through every single item with disdain. Her long nails like tweezers, picking things up and letting them fall. She pulled out the lining of my sunglasses case, looking for a hidden compartment. The process was galling and embarrassing.

And to think the day had started with such promise. The pink morning sky had made me want to sing. And I was looking my best in a floral silk blouse and cream linen pants. My feet were comfy in a pair of soft cotton socks and cream leather mules. I’d lifted my sartorial game lately, having hit the fund. I’d even lashed out on designer sunglasses, polarised for extra glare reduction. I’d had my old pair for years. It was a weird universal law that you never lose or sit on the sunglasses you don’t care for.

I’d even remembered to bring all the things I needed: Kylie’s papers, the guidelines for the inspection, and the departmental ID. So that was a win. I had an old clipboard from a conference I’d attended, and I’d attached all the Department of Justice paperwork to it, with Kylie’s papers at the back.

Tuffnell pried open the clipboard, took all the paper out, and flapped the pages around. Then she scrutinised my lanyard, noted the photo, and scowled at me. I smiled and put it on.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll take you to Ranik.’

Alan Ranik, according to my notes, was the general manager of Athol Goldwater. I gathered the papers, reattached them to the clipboard, slung my handbag over my shoulder, and marched after Tuffnell and the resonating clap of her boots spanking the lino. We came to a carpeted area for administration offices, and the clacking came to an end. She knocked at a door at the end of the corridor, and then opened it and went in. I followed. She had a silent interaction with a young man sitting behind a desk, and then turned and left without a word. The man waved me through to a second room.

Behind the door, a small man with blond hair in a timeless pageboy cut, reminiscent of a Beatles wig, stood bouncing on his toes in the middle of a large office. Most of the office block had a prefab, temporary feel, but this room was decorated for permanence. The walls featured two large abstract paintings, some framed qualifications, and a bookshelf stocked with leather-bound books. A brown chesterfield said old money. The white MDF desk said Ikea.

‘Mrs Hardy, welcome. Pleasant journey?’ Traces of England in the rounded vowels and polite manner. We shook hands.

‘It’s Stella.’ The hair — I couldn’t help but stare. It seemed to be unironic.

‘Alan. Let’s get started, shall we?’ he said. ‘Time to make up.’

‘Let’s.’

‘I only have an hour and a half, I’m afraid. Then I’m meeting some department people. Should be plenty of time, and I’m happy to support it. Quite a good initiative, inspection teams.’

He spoke as we walked, giving me a breakdown of the leadership team. ‘The operations manager handles the high-level, day-to-day operational needs of the prison.’ I trotted behind him, not giving two hoots about the leadership team. ‘… responsible for managing a team of custodial and non-custodial officers delivering a range of correctional services.’ Bored, so terribly bored. ‘… and our OM is highly experienced, twenty years in the UK.’

‘Are the staff here employed by BS12 or Corrections Victoria?’

‘BS12. I’m on a contract. But most staff are full-time employees, covered by an enterprise agreement. I can get that out of the files, if you like?’

‘No thanks. Can I meet him, the OM?’

‘He’s on leave. I’m acting OM until his return. Basically, the role ensures that policies and procedures are followed by liaising with internal and external stakeholders …’ I didn’t care. ‘… to ensure that offender-management issues and requirements are being met …’ Bored to the point of physical pain. ‘… and the services to the various areas within the prison, reviewing practice, and procedures relating to prison …’ Where was a cliff to jump off when you needed one? ‘… and court custody activities, and develop and implement policies and procedures …’ None of this was relevant to my brief. Maybe that was the idea, to drown me in guff. ‘… contributing to continuous improvement initiatives.’ He drew breath.

‘What about the regular prison staff? Like the woman who brought me here?’

‘Who? Oh, Nell? She’s not regular. She’s the principal practitioner.’

‘The PP.’

‘Yes!’ He regarded me with new interest. ‘It’s a key position, reports to me directly.’

‘But what is her role?’

‘Manages escalation behaviours …’ blah blah ‘… through line management by the RD and myself.’

‘RD?’

‘Regional Director. It’s in your notes. We helped write them. The PP works with the OM and staff from CV.’

‘Corrections Victoria?’

‘Yes. One big happy family: Adult Parole Board, Victoria Police, the Major Offenders Unit, Sex Offender Management Branch, Parole Central Oversight Unit.’

‘What about your average jack, I mean, screw, I mean, officer-guard-person?’

‘They ensure the smooth running of day-to-day operations.’

‘Overseen by the PP.’

‘The PP and the OM,’ Ranik said.

‘Okay.’ I clicked my pen and wrote, Nell Tuffnell followed by three question marks.

When Ranik announced we would now begin a tour of the prison, I wanted to weep with joy. We walked to a maintenance garage, marked AGP Shed 1, where a fleet of prison vehicles waited. He clicked a fob, and a gleaming Land Rover with BS12 branding beeped.

We drove along a narrow paved road linking the prison buildings, passing signs requiring all prison vehicles to drive at walking pace. At a fork, we took a path that led away from the main compound with the accommodation units and work areas, and continued through open paddocks for about five kilometres.

‘First stop, the agri-tech hub, up and running now for about three years. The future is tech. Even the hub building is hi-tech: steel prefab construction, lightweight, yet withstands cyclones and earthquakes. We’re at the forefront of agri-tech.’

‘Fascinating.’ I stifled a yawn. ‘Prisoners work here?’

‘Some. The ones with aptitude. Learn valuable skills here.’

As we rounded a hill, a structure that was more warehouse than farm shed came into view. A massive, ugly skeleton of steel beams and struts supported sheet-metal walls. It was even bigger and nastier than the self-storage place where I’d stashed the fund. AGP Shed 2 was three storeys high, with multiple aerials and a large satellite dish on top, and a series of separate roller-door entries down one side. A dark-haired man in a check shirt and moleskins stood in the doorway, a mobile to his ear.

‘That’s Enrique Nunzio. He runs the tech side of things. Topnotch BS12 man.’

I wrote, Enrique Nunzio.

Ranik parked in the makeshift parking area beside another BS12 vehicle. A muddy path led to the shed. I glanced at my spotless cream mules and sighed. I should have known better.

‘Out you get,’ he said, impatiently.

I took up my clipboard and tiptoed gingerly behind him.

The man on the mobile greeted Ranik with an apologetic expression, and gestured to the phone.

‘Ah,’ said Ranik. ‘We may have to get by without Enrique today.’

He waved me inside AGP Shed 2. The place was reminiscent of an agricultural show, replete with pleasantly familiar aromas: fertiliser, hay, manure, animal urine, bovine breath. But something was off; it was stark and sterile. Soft moos and grunts came from closed pens. I walked down the central aisle, security cameras positioned above me every five metres or so. A giant fan at either end of the shed circulated air. Halfway down was a series of small pens. I stood at a stall and slid open a viewing window. A fat black cow was contentedly chewing, there was fresh hay on the floor and water in the trough.

‘Here,’ Ranik said. ‘Have a look in the lab.’

He led me to the rear of the building and pulled open a glass door. Carpet, new furniture, several desks, all with multiple monitors. Large plastic tubs full of stock eartags were stacked on the floor. A map of Australia, with stock locations shaded in, took up one wall.

‘Enrique is an expert in animal nutrition, grazing management, and pasture production. Had a very successful ranch in Argentina. With us, he’s initiated a GIS mapping program.’

‘What’s GIS?’

‘Geographic Information Systems. The project remotely monitors and analyses cattle. Through a deal between BS12 and a consortium of agri-businesses, Athol Goldwater Prison is one of a number of testing grounds. Bleeding-edge stuff. The data can be sent to an app on a smartphone. Imagine farmers assessing pasture performance from the comfort of their Jason recliner! It will revolutionise farming. Even the small pastoral holdings will benefit.’

I thought of my father. And every farmer I ever knew in Woolburn. They liked being outside, using their eyes and ears and hands. They inspected feed with their callused fingers and broke chunks of soil open to feel the dirt for signs of moisture. Were he alive today, my father would have thought sitting in our kitchen using an iPhone was a form of torture.

‘These technologies reduce costs, time, and labour, with the added benefit of improving animal welfare.’

‘Animal welfare? How?’

‘Earlier detection of disease or injury.’

‘Sounds like you don’t need farmers at all.’

‘Oh no, not at all.’ He laughed. ‘Not yet, anyway.’

I watched him pick up an eartag. It was like no tag I’d ever seen, more like a Fitbit for cows. There were an array of models. Beside the tags, there was a stack of objects that looked like plastic collars — large, cumbersome things. I picked one up. It was heavy.

‘What do these do?’

‘Ah, that’s even more ground-breaking. It’s a GPS locator.’

I waited.

‘If cattle stray where they’re not supposed to, a mild electric shock is administered. Expensive fences will soon be obsolete.’

‘It’s a shock collar.’

‘I think of it as a mobile electric fence. The future of herd management. Neat, huh? Now I’ll show you how we attach the tags. The cattle are in the pens ready to go.’

He took off at a trot. I hung back and opened a drawer: stationery, a couple of USBs. Another drawer contained a pile of invoices. I took some pictures on my phone, and as I was closing the drawer, bumped a keyboard. A monitor woke up. An open email appeared on the screen from ‘Al Coleman’: Enrique darling, we’re all set and ready to go here …

I snapped a photo of that, too.

‘Stella? You coming?’ called Ranik.

I went out and found him gazing at that one black cow. She really was a delight, with her glossy coat and lovely big wet nose.

‘Listen, Alan,’ I said. ‘These innovations really are marvellous, but I do need to inspect more buildings. Tick off the accommodation blocks for one, and then there’s AGP Shed 6.’

Ranik’s shoulders slumped a little. We’d moved from his favourite topic to his least favourite. ‘Of course. Let’s go.’