THERE ARE WRITERS who will thank their editors, bow and brownnose and then enjoy the blue pencils driven through their wrists. The author Felix Moore was never one of them. Trapped in the Koala Lodge, with editors next door, he has been turned into a mill puppy, a poor bitch locked up for breeding purposes, who must forever have her children removed. The hammered sentences, the deeply imprinted pages, are delivered to others with no guarantees of what parts will be excised, what calumnies inserted. This was not what he had expected when he accepted that fat brown envelope from Woody Townes.

There is no direct exit from this room, one door to a shared bathroom and the other to what one might call “the editorial suite.” It is from this grimy bathroom that he collects his gruel and frozen peas. Here also, on the closed toilet seat, he leaves his daily pages to be removed and edited without his approval or involvement. It has been said that this is for his own safety. He is a national treasure, too important to be a witness to a felony, to face the dangers of the front. Yet in spite of this cosseting it seems likely to him, now, as he writes, that he will soon be shot and killed. Stet. His wife will read his last words, he loves her [sic]. Leave tenses as is or are. He treasures her, regrets more than he can say. Nothing is lost to memory, the nest of sheets, smells, baby throw-up on his shoulder, in the middle of an interview, in the midst of history. He has not forgotten, even near the end of his wasted days, the nights spent worrying about the dyslexic daughter, her too-pretty sister who was just too confident to survive another day.

As he writes he is bilious, sick with memory and uncertainty, fear that the end will come before the end is told, that there will be no end. He had wanted Gaby Baillieux to do what he had failed to do on Drivetime Radio. He wanted more than that. How pathetic his ambition now seems, how small his own imagination. He had been a journalist with one story, one cause, one effect. He had been born in the previous geologic age while she was born into the Anthropocene age and easily saw that the enemy was not one nation state but a cloud of companies, corporations, contractors, statutory bodies whose survival meant the degradation of water, air, soil, life itself.

She, Gaby Baillieux, was once a schoolgirl. She stood on the crispy cold grass, in the middle of the Agrikem paddock just after dawn, in the company of blowflies, sad horses, amidst the perfume of dioxin. She wore a yellow Hazchem suit. The poison flowed from fresh white plumbing, as dull as ditchwater.

Disguised humans clustered around the sewer inspection hole, blue and yellow figures like cartoon gnomes in Hazchem suits. All Melbourne’s TV channels were there, their OB vans parked in McBryde Street, their satellite dishes turned towards the rising sun. Inside the barbed-wire perimeter, shivering crews crowded around the cage.

Inside the yellow suit, sweaty, blinkered, the girl was afraid of someone sneaking up beside. There were sixteen blue and three yellow-suited figures. She no longer knew which one was Frederic.

A large car, a black Ford LTD, entered from the direction of the factory, driving very fast, steering directly at the cage of gnomes. The starving horses scattered. The girl’s throat was dry and she wondered would she even be able to talk when her moment came. She turned to face the Ford as its front right wheel dropped in a ditch and the whole pitched sideways. The roaring engine seemed quite distant. She clearly saw the driver crawl up an incline to the passenger-side door. He was very wide-shouldered and although not tall, possessed by a powerful fat-necked big-chinned fury. As he came he shouted something. She saw he had fat thighs and a distinctive pigeon-toed walk. He was carrying a rod, or tyre lever.

She thought, he does not know I’m just a kid. He will bash my head.

He was using the word trespass. She had time to think, good handle. I am Trespass. I own you.

The crowd of men and women in blue Hazchem suits shuffled and crinkled and now enfolded the Agrikem executive in what the Chinese call a cabbage defence, that is they wrapped loosely around him like the leaves of a cabbage, at once passive and impenetrable, so he was locked in the place where his effluent streamed back into the sewer.

The ABC picture had a cool aesthetic quality. The viewers saw the blue plastic petals open to reveal the Agrikem man. At Patterson Street Coburg, the local member sat on the floor before the television, waiting to hear the angle on the nurse’s strike.

The yellow figure removed her hood. The cameras became agitated. The girl was too shockingly young. She had blonde curls and thoughtful soft grey eyes. The manufacturer was broad-faced, thick-necked, his face unexpectedly sensual. His lips were bows, his cheeks buffed like apples. When he saw the girl he laughed in disbelief.

In Patterson Street, Sando watched his daughter read aloud the chemical analysis her boyfriend had stolen from MetWat. As she recited the contents, he thought, she has made a huge fool of herself. At the same time the ABC rolled the analysis like film credits. He thought, this has taken hours to set up. In all that time not one of the stations had sought a comment from the government.

And where did you get this information? the Agrikem executive asked. He was a hard-nosed bastard, Sando knew.

Gaby said, The state government has a zero tolerance for dioxin. Is that right?

This is all a nonsense. We have MetWat analysis. Talk to them.

This is the MetWat analysis.

Where did you get these?

The girl had a small pimple on her tumescent upper lip. It only emphasised her beauty.

She said, Will you promise to stop this poisonous effluent?

I’m calling the police.

So you won’t turn it off?

Of course not.

Very well, she said, then we will.

How could you do that you idiot? he asked. Clearly he had not really taken in the nature of the plumbing. Now he watched as Mervyn turned the brass valve and the flow was stopped completely.

The man later identified as Ken MacFarlane walked to his beached car, paused, and proceeded to his manufacturing facility. Simultaneously the Premier of the state was being called by all of Melbourne’s media. Gaby Baillieux appeared on the television, again and again, on the huge screen in City Square, on Swanston Street. The Premier of the state cancelled all appointments and spent the morning in conference with MetWat and his environment minister.

This was how Gaby and Frederic and Cosmo and other unnamed individuals closed down the Agrikem plant. Her later exploits would be less visible and more far-reaching, but this was the first, the intoxicating spectacle that would lead her, eventually, to the Koala Lodge.