THE ORANGE SUN dominated the sky like a gigantic fireball. A relentless, scorching wind howled like a thousand wolves, blowing columns of red dust in angry swirls across the desert plain. It was a desolate scene of decay, a skeletal ruin — a dust bowl where no rain ever fell. It was what remained of the city of Sydney.
Overhead an atomic storm moved in: awesome black thunderheads rolled at high velocity, a mere three hundred metres above the ground. Amid the tempest of swirling nuclear energy, snake-like tongues of green lightning were expelled with fury, licking the ravaged earth. Cracks of electrostatic thunder resounded, vanquishing the sound of wolves.
Suddenly, from behind the twisted metal skeleton of a once proud building, a female figure appeared. She was on the run, clearly desperate to escape someone or something. While trying to dodge the rusted shards of corroding iron girders, she slipped and slid down a jagged slope of rubble and landed flat-out on the desert floor. Propped up on one arm, Djard checked the new cut to her already bruised and lacerated legs. Her dirty face was masked in fear. She winced in pain, and her eyes flicked nervously about, like those of a frightened cat. Stumbling back to her feet, her long, matted blonde hair trailing out behind her like a banner, she ran out onto the blistering hot desert sand, speeding over it like a startled goanna.
When she reached a low, crumbling circular wall she stopped. Trying to catch her breath, she cautiously moved away from the strange edifice — clearly it was giving her a bad vibe. Suddenly, she was distracted by a whimper from behind an outcrop of rock. She scurried over to find the source of the sound.
As she reached a shaded alcove, she found an older woman lying on the sand. Djard bent down and raised the woman’s head, looking at her with caring eyes.
Both women were wearing only leather lap-laps covering their genitals. Their bodies were dark from the sun. Djard was in her early twenties, her body lean and ripe. The other woman was thirty plus, and the worse for wear.
The older woman’s left thigh was scarred with the letters MT, a brand meaning Empty: barren, affected by radiation, unable to reproduce. She was a target to be hunted by hostiles.
Suddenly, the moment was broken by a loud, husky voice.
“Get MT … Pouch mine!” it commanded.
The voice belonged to Ex, chief of the tribe of barbarians pursuing Djard. He stood confidently astride the two frightened women, stabbed his Japanese Katana sword into the ground, and, grinning triumphantly, rested his big, hairy muscular arms on the hilt. He was clothed in scavenged pieces of leather and rag, bound together with strapping. Over one shoulder was hung the rusted front mudguard of a motorbike, worn like amour. On the other shoulder was a wide strip of car tyre. His clothing, such as it was, strained to accommodate his hulking chest and shoulders. Unkempt, matted ochre hair dropped all the way down to the middle of his back, and his towering six-foot six frame and battle-scarred face gave him the awesome appearance of a warrior born to kill.
Djard jumped to her feet and shaped up defiantly to Ex, her hands clawed to scratch at his eyes. One of Ex’s five men rushed past her, and raising the older woman to her knees ready to rape her. The woman groaned, but didn’t have the energy to scream or resist.
Djard, unable to subdue her anger, charged Ex, thumping him hard on the chest and screaming: “No! No! Scud! Scud!” Scud was a rabies infection. The old woman had been savaged by wild dogs and infected with the contagious viral disease.
Ex savagely grabbed her hair and eyeballed her. “Scud?” he repeated, then grimaced when she nodded affirmative. His eyes wide in alarm, he snapped at his men, “Scud! … Rub her! ... Now!”
Quickly, Karn, a smaller brute than Ex, drew a blade from his belt, scurried to the prostrate woman and, grabbing a handful of her motley greying hair, pulled her head back and slit her throat from ear to ear in one quick stroke. The woman didn’t flinch. Blood gushed from the wound.
Ex violently dragged Djard to the ground and pushed her head into his crotch, signifying to all of them that she was his property. Djard struck back and sank her teeth into his thigh. Ex let out a growl and struck her with an almighty back-hander that knocked her over. But Djard was a tough girl. With a shake of her head to fight off the shooting stars that swirled around her vision, she scrambled onto her knees. Before Ex could move, a battle cry rang out unexpectedly from the distance, distracting the team of barbarians and saving Djard from further abuse.
Ex signalled his men to disperse and take up defensive positions. He scanned the hot terrain for hostiles. A stream of anxious sweat traversed his battle-scarred cheek into the thick stubble of his beard, then dripped from his hairy chin onto his filthy chest.
The desert stretched all the way to a line of low, rounded hills on the horizon. It was not without rugged beauty. The white-hot sun beat down on an expanse of predominantly ochre sand, splashed here and there with vivid streaks of grey and red rock outcrops eroded by the winds into shapes that might have been the works of some psychotic sculptor. From behind one of the outcrops Ex sighted movement. Suddenly six ferocious-looking warriors stepped out, armed to the teeth, ready for battle.
Ex looked down at Djard attempting to crawl away and took a fresh grip of her hair. He pulled her back to sit obediently by his knee, like a dog. Glaring at the leader of the opposition he yelled: “Derg ... Pouch!” He jerked his grip on Djard’s hair to indicate he was referring to her. “Ex!” he growled, beating his own chest to claim possession.
Derg — for that was the leader of the rival gang’s name — responded with a loud, defiant, challenging laugh.
Ex nodded at Karn, who obediently ran to his side and took over the restraining grip of Djard’s hair. This battle would be over ownership.
Ex drew his sword from the ground and pointed it threateningly at Derg. Derg, a seasoned campaigner with a Samurai ponytail on the back of his tattooed, bald head, had a muscular physique just as powerful as Ex’s. He grinned defiantly, displaying only a couple of teeth in the black gummy void of his mouth. Raising and whirling a long-handled axe above his head was his acceptance of Ex’s challenge.
Ex growled a battle cry. At the same time Derg countered with his own cry, and with great gusto they charged at one another.
Derg powered down the rocky slope, stopping abruptly just two metres short of Ex. Dust swirled up all around them. The two big men paused, sizing each other up. Derg was shorter than Ex but more muscular, with thighs like tree trunks. He wore a rusted heavy link chain looped over his shoulder and fastened to a broad leather belt around his waist. A Katana sword was slung over his left shoulder, and he held his axe with both hands. Ex cared little that Derg was the more heavily armed. The two locked eyes in a venomous stare-down. Then, with blood-curdling cries, the two big men clashed.
In the sudden frenzy of fierce action they all but disappeared in a sea of swirling red dust. The clang of sword on axe, metal on metal, rang in the spectators’ ears. Suddenly, all sound ceased, and only the dust wafted languidly around the glistening warriors. Both sides watched with interest as the dust drifted away, revealing the two men snared in a tug o’ war — weapons locked together, arms trembling in a contest of sheer strength. They both released pressure at the same time and pulled back. Derg cast his axe aside and unsheathed the Katana that had been strung over his back.
Both combatants shaped up, paused, then came at each other with incredible force. The clash of steel rang out with each terrifyingly powerful blow. Derg hacked ferociously, aiming for Ex’s gut, forcing Ex to defend fiercely to block the bestial slashes. Using his sword, Ex trapped a blow from Derg, and with brute strength slowly forced the locked blades so the shorter man had to raise his arms. Once Derg’s arms were high enough, Ex freed his blade, turned side on, and, as Derg lunged at him, brought up a fist tightly gripping the hilt of the sword. The blow connected under Derg’s chin with such force that the whiplash knocked him out cold. Derg went down for the count.
Raising his sword triumphantly, Ex was about to bring down the deathblow when he was interrupted by a charge from Derg’s second in command, Gronk. Anticipating the reprisal, Ex stepped deftly aside, dodging the charging warrior and, as he passed, slashing at the backs of his legs. The flashing steel sliced through Gronk’s tendons, crippling him. The tattooed warrior collapsed to his knees in the sand, crumpling into a rapidly-growing pool of his own blood.
Wasting no time, Ex slammed the hilt of his sword onto the back of Gronk’s exposed neck. Standing victoriously over him, chest pumped out, he raised his sword and gloated briefly over the vanquished barbarian before slicing down with one almighty blow that cleanly severed Gronk’s head. He irreverently kicked his victim’s head like a soccer ball so it rolled to a stop at Djard’s feet, bloody and wide-eyed. Djard winced, then winced again as Karn gave her hair a sharp yank, just to remind her he was still in charge. Djard knew Ex, as the winner of the battle, would now possess her. But as Karn raised a fist into the air and roared, heralding Ex the victor, he loosened his grip and Djard seized the opportunity to escape. Wrenching free, she took off like a frightened rabbit. But Ex was in the way. Reaching out a hand, he once again grabbed her by the hair and wrenched her in close. Struggling, kicking and squealing, she clawed at him, to no avail: as far as Ex was concerned he’d won her fair and square.
Before he could claim his prize, three more of Derg’s men charged down the hill, waving their weapons. They skidded to an abrupt halt just short of Ex. Ignoring Djard, still spitting and scratching like a trapped feral cat, Ex bent down, collected the severed head and threw it at the enemy. He pointed his sword at Derg, letting them know he could easily take his head as well, then lowered it to declare the fight over. Displaying the benevolence of a great gang chief, he was giving Derg, his fellow chief, the chance to live.
Derg’s men, getting the message, stood down, collected Gronk’s head, and all but two of them stalked off, defeated. The remaining two — their names were Chez and Bong — attended to the reviving Derg, while Ex’s men attacked the fallen Gronk’s headless body, stripping it of weapons and clothing — commodities much sought after in their barbarian society.
To celebrate victory, Ex had a new plan for Djard. He dragged her across the burning sand into the middle of the strange circular wall she’d avoided earlier. Horrified, kicking up dust as she struggled with all her might, Djard knew what was coming. The now-recovered Derg and his two remaining henchmen, hearing her screams, realised there was going to be a ritual killing. Her bloodletting was a dedication to the gods, a sacrifice that would bring favour and good fortune to Ex’s clan.
Holding Djard down, Ex tore a silver medallion from around her neck and held it up as a trophy for the other warriors to see. He growled loudly: “Shine!” and pushed Djard to her knees. Pulling her head back by the hair with one hand, he raised his sword in the other, ready for another beheading.
Suddenly, as though nature resented his actions, the sand beneath their feet began to give way. Derg and his men saw Ex and his captive sinking into the sand, and seized it as an opportunity to attack. Karn saw them coming, but was torn between saving Ex from the sands or fighting off Derg and his men. Before he could decide, Derg crash tackled him like a raging bull, and they both tumbled over the low wall and into the quicksand. One of Derg’s men, Chez, dived forward in time to grab Derg’s leg, but ended up toppling over the wall into the treacherous sand with him. Bong stopped dead, not prepared to follow the others into the swirling, sucking sands. Ex and Djard, still struggling, were sinking fast. The more the others panicked, the quicker they were drawn down. Karn and Derg were still locked in a wrestle hold. Thrashing like a drowning man, still holding Derg’s leg like his life depended on it, Chez, Derg’s faithful warrior, was all but gone from view.
The remaining warriors rushed to the edge of the wall, too afraid to go any closer, and watched, helplessly, as the five people caught in the whirlpool of death vanished right before their eyes. The sand filled in around Ex’s hand, still holding his sword upright. Then it too slowly sank into the quicksand and disappeared. All fell still.
Through a small cracked window with torn curtains, a red neon light from the city street strobed, illuminating the interior of a tiny Kings Cross flat. Two bodies glistening with sweat rolled in a tangle of bed sheets, on a bed squeaking with the rapture of lovemaking. In the flickering sheen of the neon light pulsing in the window, two bodies appeared to be moving in slow motion. Their panting rose in tempo, their breath grew heavier and heavier, climaxing in a crescendo of groans and cries of ecstasy. Alice rolled off the slender girl, onto his back. Stain laid her head gently on his bare chest.
Wearing only his navy captain’s hat from the gig, Alice scanned his drab surroundings and groaned poetically: “Before ye, this abode stands as testament to my achievements in life thus far … Frigging nothing! A lousy Kings Cross bedsit, so small ya couldn’t swing a cat, a collection of rock ’n roll trophies — including me — second-hand clothes, second-hand instruments, and…” he peered down at Stain, “Second-hand…” he decided to take a new tack before he put his foot in his mouth, “… second hand-jobs!”
Despite his sneering, rebellious image, off-stage and out of the limelight, Alice was a totally different man. Warm, caring, introverted and even a little taciturn at times. He had a tendency towards philosophy and waxing lyrical about how he’d improve life for everyone if he could. A half first nations boy he’d been brought up an orphan in a foster home with nothing — no toys, lousy food, nothing but heavy-handed discipline. As for love, his ‘carers’ wouldn’t have known how to spell it.
As soon as he was old enough he’d used music as a means to escape the horrors of his environment, and songwriting to vent his anguish. But he hadn’t counted on his words striking a note with the rank and file. Nor had he reckoned on the recognition that, within only a handful of years, had changed him from a nobody to a household name. He was revered for having the guts to speak out for the underdog. Even he wasn’t aware of how much his words had shaken the very fabric of the establishment. As a result, he was living on borrowed time.
Alice and Stain had been an item, off and on, for the past four years. They’d never lived together — Alice preferred independence to feed his creativity. She was a singer, and did back-up for him at his bigger gigs. Theirs had always been a casual affair. Only now was it becoming more serious to Alice. Lately he’d felt the need for a more permanent relationship, even though that might that mean giving up some of his independence. Truth be known, they knew precious little about each other. Tonight was the night, in Alice’s mind, that was going to change.
Stain looked up at him and whimpered, “How was it for you, baby?”
“Amazing … you?”
“Massive!” she replied with a naughty grin.
Alice’s exterior was weather-beaten and somewhat hardened by life, but now a smile broke on his face, making him look boyish again.
“Can I ask you something Alice?”
“Sure babe, fire away.”
“What was it like for you growing up?” She asked.
Alice thought about it for a moment. It wasn’t an easy question to answer. It was a part of his life he hadn’t confided to anyone since moving from Perth to Sydney six years ago. He’d never found it easy talking about his past, in fact his life before Sydney was a complete mystery to everyone close to him. That’s what kept him aloof. He’d always preferred it that way, it supported the content of the songs he composed. But he was growing out of it, because he wanted to be closer to Stain. Their relationship was helping him to confront his inner demons.
“Okay babe,” he finally said, attempting lightness even though his heart was beating hard. “Fasten your seat belt and I’ll give you the drum. But I warn you in advance, it’s a ride and a half.”
“I can handle it baby,” she said with a big smile, snuggling up close.
Alice took a deep breath. “I was born in Fremantle, just south of Perth,” he began. “My folks, I’m told — I don’t remember them much — were criminals. They grew dope for a living, and that meant they dealt with some shady types. My dad was an aboriginal, my mother an immigrant from Britain. Yes, that makes me half cast.
“Our house — weatherboard, peeling white paint, overgrown lawns, the whole thing —backed onto bushland. They planted the dope among the native bushes, and no one was the wiser.
“My only solid memory comes from when I was five. Dad had got a part-time gig at a local butcher shop. He got into a fight with his boss, chopped the bloke’s head open with a meat clever and hung him up on a meat hook out the back. Someone found him later that day, not dead but close to it. I kind of remember my dad coming home with blood all over him, saying it was from work.
“Anyhow, I remember all this because it was my fifth birthday. It was night time, and I was just blowing out the candles on my cake when we heard a voice on a loud hailer calling for dad to come outside with his hands up. Dad jumped up from the table, mad as a cut snake, grabbed a couple of shotguns out of the pantry and handed one to mum. She was as tough as goat’s knees my mum, heavy on discipline. She belted me to the floor and then went to the windows and started shooting. It went on for a while. I remember being on the floor with my fingers in my ears, blue flashing lights filling the room, glass spraying everywhere from gunfire. Eventually they ran out of ammo, I guess, and had to give themselves up.
“A policewoman held me, kindly enough I suppose, while I watched my folks bundled into a police van. My mum waved at me from the window. I never saw either of ’em again.”
“You must have been heartbroken,” Stain said, quietly wiping away a tear.
“Nar, they’d raised me to think it was inevitable,” said Alice, quietly. “Anyhow, I was put into Clontarf Boys Town Orphanage. It was run by brothers — monks, that is. I wasn’t even a Catholic. Maybe that’s why I got so much abuse. It’s definitely why I hate organized religion. I was only a little fella when I went in, but by the time I reached puberty I was a seriously tough nut, with a dirty big chip on my shoulder and a take-no-prisoners attitude.
“By that point the orphanage was due to close. It had been around since 1901 and nothing had changed since then, either in the joint or in the arseholes running it. God, I hated them. Escaped more times than you could count on your hands and feet. When it shut they fostered me out, and that was even worse.
“First foster home I went to, the bloke would belt me with a cane for looking at him the wrong way. I got out after a year and into the next dysfunctional home, and it went on like that til I was sixteen. That was my last foster home. I was going to school in Subiaco, finishing my school certificate — I was crap at school, hated it, by the way — but I got in a band with a bunch of schoolmates and realised I could sing.
“My foster mother at the time, Julie, encouraged it, but her husband wasn’t at all woke. He used to belt her and treat me like I didn’t exist, called me a white abo, a misfit. One night he came home from work drunk as a skunk and got stuck into Julie. I smacked him with a rolling pin and he was taken to hospital with a split head. I got the blame, even though Julie tried her best to stand up for me. Her husband thought I was screwing her, so he wanted me out of there.”
“Were you? Screwing her?” Stain asked, tentatively.
“She was a nice lady,” said Alice. “But I was just a kid. I knew the way she was being treated wasn’t right. She tried to help me, so I tried to help her. That was all there was to it. Anyway, I got dragged before some sort of state government tribunal for indigenous foster kids, and they sent me up north to work on the gas fields.
“I’ll never forget that first day at work. I got dropped off at the mining site, only a bunch of tin sheds, and told to go to see the foreman. He was sitting behind a makeshift desk, chain-smoking. He had a big square jaw, a big black beard and he was bald as a badger. He bellowed at me with his six-packs-a-day voice: ‘Well look at what the cat dragged in, a bloody queer half cast from Perth. Heard on the grapevine you’re a tough little shit — we’ll see about that. Outside! Let’s see what you’re made of, son.’
“Christ, he was a big bludger, arms like legs, six foot four. I knew I was in trouble, scrawny little bugger that I was. We got outside and he picked up a tyre lever, threw it at my feet and said: ‘Pick that up and do your best.’
“The other bloke from the office, tall skinny bugger with a face like a rat, came out and sat on a drum to watch the performance. I just stood there. No bloody way I was going to pick up that iron bar. He would’ve killed me. After long enough for rat face to roll and punch a durry, the big foreman rubbed his hand in my hair and said, ‘Good on ya son, you’ll do just fine here.’ He was right. I spent two terrific years there. It knocked all the crap out of me, taught me humility. By the time I got back to Perth at eighteen, I was a different bloke.”