To celebrate the finishing of my Detective Voss manuscript, I thought I'd like to share a little bit from my first novel Kundela. The setting is Port Augusta, at the cross roads from Pert to Sydney and Adelaide to Darwin. Regarded as the gateway to South Australia's outback Port Augusta has many attractions to interest the visitor.
In this chapter Senior Constable Jeff Rankin has asked his superior about getting forensics to examine the remains of a dead steer clay panned (shot and dressed on its skin) on the Gillespie's property, Wanooka's Well. The sergeant has another plan.
Commended in the FAW Christina Stead Award 2013
Kundela is available through the Kindle Store for less than $3.00 for another 2 weeks.
The Sergeant had stored an
assortment of tools in the back of the patrol car earlier and now, with a
frozen cow’s head riding alongside everything they needed, the two officers
drove to the gliding club. Jeff unlocked the gate and swung it open, red dust
powdered by the car’s wheels hung in the still mid-morning air as Jeff returned
to the passenger seat.
‘What’ve
you got planned?’
‘Watch
and learn Jeffery boy. Watch and learn. When I was a kid, I was fishing out in
the gulf and caught this big spider crab,’ He indicated its size by taking his
hands from the steering wheel, stretching his arms across the width of the car,
‘My old grandad showed me how to keep it as a trophy and that’s what we’ll do
with this one.’
Doug
Simpson stopped the car and pointed to a bare patch of ground near a stand of
acacias that defined a long established bull ant’s nest. He opened the boot and
took out a toolbox. It contained a mix of spanners, knives, string, pliers and
tape.
‘Here
Jeff, put these shopping bags over your boots, use the rubber bands to seal
them against your trousers. You won’t want any of those angry little buggers
getting into your strides. I parked back a way, because I don’t want any of
them riding back to the station with us.’
Jeff
watched as his boss worked, setting up his bush laboratory. Ants reacted to the
vibrations coming from movement near their nest and streamed out in angry
lines, ready to attack the intruder. A deft hand sent the lid from a
twenty-litre paint tin, frisbee style into the centre of the nest, stirring
them up even more.
Jeff
wondered what an onlooker would make of two police officers dancing around in
the scrub. He looked at the ground, high stepping, trying to keep away from the
insects, and then he worked it out. Studying his footprints in the sand more
closely he yelled, ‘Modern day Kadaichi Man. That’s it Boss. Look at your
footprints. They look the same as in the photos. Those buggers had their boots
covered, but why? There was no ant nest close enough at the kill site.’
Doug
unrolled his long shirtsleeves and, tucking them into the blue rubber gloves,
placed the beast’s head onto the plastic lid. Battalions of soldier ants
attacked, clambering onto the plastic protecting his shoes. Jeff burst out
laughing as his boss danced and stamped his way back to the car, his jagged
movements ensuring any remaining ants fell into the dry red dust, while he
brushed at them savagely with his hand.
‘Now we
have to protect it from eagles, foxes and crows. Pass me that old plastic
rubbish bin and a few bits of wood’
Jeff
stood back as Doug assembled his contraption. First, he placed the bin over the
thawing head, then the woolpack Joe had given him to cover it last Friday and
around the perimeter, he used the wood Jeff had collected to hold everything in
place. Ants swarmed over Doug’s boots again, he started stamping and slapping
at them, making sure none breeched his defences.
‘I should
take a photo of you and put it up in the rec room,’ Jeff laughed.
‘After
all I do for you. I don’t think so!’
Back at
the car, Doug stripped off the plastic bags and pulled his trousers out of his
socks, checking carefully to see if any ants remained on his clothing. Once
satisfied he was ant-free, he removed his gloves, putting his and Jeff’s
discarded protection into a zip-lock bag and sealing it.
 |
| A stop on our trip through the Oladdie Hills north of Orrooroo searching for inspiration when writing Les Gillespies Gold |
‘Now we
can come back in a couple of weeks and they will have stripped that out,
leaving any projectiles on the lid for us. What do you think?’
‘Should
work I reckon. With those skills, you could have a bit of blackfella in you
too.’
‘Don’t
think so, mate.’
