The Farm

The farm

We drove down there to check it out, as a place to grow, Jason at the wheel of the white Landrover and me riding shotgun, dying for a piss the whole way, especially after drinking a large takeaway latte earlier that morning. The place was what you might expect, a one-storey stone building with a wooden veranda on three sides, crowned with a corrugated tin roof and surrounded by course, gun-metal grey gravel and additional agricultural buildings-sheds and a large water tank, all of it backing onto sloping, rectangular paddocks sectioned off by wire fences. Paddocks which, once traversed would lead you down to a creek a dry creek at the time of our first visit. A creek which defined the boundary of the property, separating it from the green mesh of natural bushland which reared up to cover the sides of the surround hills, up to the foot of several stone cliffs. And it was just beyond the creek, not too deep into the bush, that we found the clearing like a natural amphitheatre, the proposed site for the crop. And shortly after we'd arrived, I say, “Mate are you sure about this? I mean...a judge?” And Jason goes, "He's a retired judge. And it’s fine. He owns the place sure, but it doesn't matter. He's never around. He's handicapped, or disabled, whatever the current acceptable word for being in a wheelchair is these days. Besides, you don’t really have a choice in the matter, do you?” And as he talks, Jason begins to sound annoyed, and he turns around to face me and I just see an internal blankness in his eyes, and I know that the potential for violent, like an unseen vibration lingering in a tuning fork, resides deep in his bones and muscles, and that once the command had been given, the body will deliver this violence without anger or anything that resembles emotion, it'll just happen automatically. And I immediately understand the matter is not up for discussion. It has already been decided. And Jason goes, “Act accordingly, keep a low profile and you'll be right, okay? Any of these gentlemen farmers come snooping around you tell them you’re fixing a fence. Understand? And then you call me. immediately. Otherwise, all you need to concern yourself with is delivering the crop. We clear?"

Horses, dogs and cards

Before all of this, I'd been pretty good, the odd slip here and there but overall nothing too financially damaging. But then things got out of control and I found myself calling my boss Rodger at 4 am, and he gave the number of one of his so-called his special mates, a loan shark of sorts, and to be fair to Rodger, he did warn me, saying, "I am strongly advising you here and now....do not borrow money from these people, okay? They are not to be trifled with." And did I listen? No, I did not. The call was made and shortly after that, the money was delivered, handed to me without a word by an innocuous looking man with short grey hair, after which I went back inside the casino and lost it all in the space of four short hours. The result being, I found myself into these people for 50 grand on top of the money if already lost. Coming out of the casino, now into bright sunlight, tourists and minor gamblers milling around the front entrance, and the adrenaline I'd been riding already beginning to subside and leaving me feeling like a flat, dull version of what I'd been only an hour before back at the tables, I realised this was the same kind of behaviour that had ruined my first marriage and completely estranged me from my wife. Back then, I'd emptied out our mutual savings account not once but twice and yes, each time I'd voluntarily gone to seek treatment, and I promised myself and my wife that this would be the last time, that I would change and put this demon to rest for once and for all, and stop jeopardising my family's future. But deep down, I knew it wouldn't be like that. There was always going to be that little voice in the back of my mind saying, who are trying to kid? You'll be back. And sure enough, I'd find myself at a low point or under pressure or even in moments of extreme boredom, and that was it: I'd reflexively start thinking about the gates at the track springing open, releasing horses and dogs, followed by shuffle and acceleration of those animals, triggering that first bloom of adrenaline. And before I knew it, I'd find myself in the TAB or in the gaming area or in a private card game, having completely forgotten about the resulting self-loathing which would inevitably occur once things went badly, because for a long time it was difficult to really remember the bad times because usually, I was breaking even, losing but then winning it back, in small increments. This went on for years. It was my secret life of luck. And you can ride for years, fooling yourself that you have it all worked out and then one day...it's gone. Vanished. In reality, it was always a steady, almost imperceivable financial drain, a slow leeching, but this is where all the rationalisations and justifications and head games come into play, balancing everything out, making it all seem viable, sustainable, even when things were getting crazy. And this time? With the fifty thousand dollars loan? This time was bad because I kept thinking I could correct the situation, that I could find my luck again, even as I drilled straight down to the bottom of my savings and then kept going, right past the usual fail-safe mechanisms which ordinarily would have stopped me. The problem- actually there were many contributing problems- was that this happened at the start of a three-day weekend and usually there was something to contain my impulses, some kind of barrier or limitation like work or a scheduled visit with my daughter. Something. However, this time, I just couldn't catch a break.

Old growth, new growth

The seeds germinated, sprouting in cotton wool, before I transfer them to the site, while also laying out a PVC irrigation system which drew water off the dam through a series of pipes and a battery operated pump. And then I hauled sacks of Chinese fertiliser packaged in polypropylene bags along the access road on the back of a quad bike, a vehicle I found in the shed, making sure to separate the males and females plants, carefully planting each seedling in the earth at uniform  intervals, along with handfuls of nutrient-rich fertilizer, checking and double checking everything was done correctly, then driving back to the farm each week, through the little tourist town, a place comprised of a single main street containing the usual variety of business, a federation style pub, a brick library and park fronted by a military monument-a cannon plugged up with concrete. And then, through a neat industrial estate further on, to check on each plant. And over time, thankfully, I found that each plant had taken root and had thrived beneath the sun, straining out of the soil, first a shrub, then growing stronger, taller, becoming as a knee-high plant loaded with dense and THC potent buds, all of which were covered with beautiful purple hairs. And this was not your usual city swag. No, this was a high-grade weed, the strain widely acknowledged among more informed connoisseur and picky dope nerds, 500 plants all told, which might have had a street value of 100 thousand dollars, although it was difficult for me to be sure on that because I'd been out of the game for so long. And so, after an initial period of nail-biting that included the constant Googling of factors that might kill off my crop (regional pests than might consume cannabis, erratic weather conditions, unusual police activity in the area....) and finding nothing threatening, I was understandably relieved to realise that these plants were actually going to survive and thrive. All I had to do now was ensure delivery after the harvest.

Jason

I first met Jason when he came to the restaurant. Rodger knew Jason from years before, when he used to frequent the restaurant, and that afternoon, Jason just appeared, wandered out back, very casual, appearing in the doorway, quietly asking if he could have a word with me. And at first, I thought he was delivering something or looking for the toilet. "What the fuck is it?" I asked. I was in the middle of prep, going over all the shit you need to think about as executive chef, well ahead of time well before the customers started arriving, trying to avoid all unforeseen mistakes and calamities which would result in your team ending up in the weeds. I can't remember what day it was exactly, only that it was going to be a busy one, which meant 100 plus covers and all the usual pressures that you have to expect during a busy service. I was pissed off because I don't like being interrupted when I'm working but then, realising he wasn't one of the regular suppliers, I understood who he probably was. And that by ignoring all his texts over the past couple of weeks, stupidly hoping that the problem would just go away, evaporate, I had made it necessary for this man to track me down, to come to the restaurant and talk to me face-to-face. A mistake to be sure. Anyway it wasn't a particularly advisable method of dealing with my debt, but it was predictable. I'd done the exact same thing when I got into serious debt in the past, when I was still married and I tried to hide it from my wife. Of course, you can only dodge this kind of thing for so long before it finds you. In my wife's case, she found out one day when she went to the ATM and discovered there was nothing left in any of our mutual accounts. In any case, once I realised who he was, Jason and I went out to the back, into the alley, because I don't want to have this conversation in front of my staff. And I was just running off at the mouth, making excuses, talking about how I was intending to pay him back but that I'd been so busy recent and Jason cut me off by pinning me violently to the wall by my throat, closing off my windpipe between his thumb and four fingers, and while this is happening, he calmly told me if I even make him come down here again, he would dip my feet and hands in the deep fryer. And then he asked me if I understood? If I get the message? And for the first time, it really hit home that Jason is a. a psychopath and b. a big boy, solid as a tree trunk, his upper body stacked with muscle which is only just beginning to go to fat with middle age. And that he was capable of introducing violence to the conversation in a measured, calm way and without emotion. A calculated tool of persuasion. Nothing personal, which is worse in a way because at least you can predict personal violence. And in that moment, my brain deprived of oxygen, my feet slipping on the greasy tiled floor and my hands grappling pointlessly with his clamped fingers, I understand that he could easily make good on his threat to deep fry my hands and feet. It would be nothing to him.

Payment plan

It goes like this, I would pay off what I could on a weekly basis, which is most of what I earn, but as punishment for evading payment, I would be personally responsible for bringing in the crop. Simple. I need to monitor, harvest and deliver by the agreed upon date of December the 15th. And the reason for all this is, somehow, Jason knew I'd been involved in this kind of venture before, in WA, before I became a chef. I successfully ran two grow houses in quite suburban areas, each operation fronted by two ordinary families. Grow houses I had specifically set up with timed UV lights, reflective panels, extraction fans. Houses with enough spare rooms and shed space to contain two highly profitable indoor forests of cannabis. And in terms of security, I was methodical and cautious, reducing risk whenever possible, always keeping a safe legal distance from both operations and dealing only with one trusted dealer in the distribution chain. And being younger and having fewer responsibilities at that time (this was before Hayley my daughter came onto to the scene), the risk seemed acceptable. I was making more money than I knew what to do with. And having all this extra cash while trying to live, at least outwardly, like someone who was not involved in the drug industry, lead me to start dabbling and then later become heavily involved in gambling. I was very good at running those two houses. Crop after crop came in, with no problems of consequence. And during that time, I also started studying to be a cook, mainly as something to do because when you are involved in something illegal, you are basically living a fictitious life, and there comes a point where you have no choice: you need something to talk about, some kind of cover story. I never tell my wife or anyone else my family that I was growing dope. No way. Success hinged on compartmentalisation and having a credible story, on keeping what happens behind the scenes to yourself. And for a long time this business of mine was ticking over nicely, making money, but then, one day, I decided to give it up. There were omens. Signs. Words and numbers beginning to gain superstitious relevance as they collected on the edges of my conscious mind. In effect, the universe whispering a warning to me, saying, get out before it's too late. This can not go on forever. Get out while you're ahead. Besides, by that point, I had something to lose. Hailey, my daughter had arrived on the scene, and the last thing I wanted was my daughter visiting me in jail. So I decided it was time to stay on the right side of the law. Besides, I had quite a bit of cash put away, money I had managed to refrain for gambling away. So anyway, I decided it was as good a time as any to get out. You have to know when to walk away. I didn't have any kind of epiphany. I just stopped. Anyway, by then I started taking cooking a lot more seriously and I was working part-time in a restaurant so I decided what the hell? Time for a change.

The Judge

When I drove down there, to the grow site, sometimes it was necessary for me to go inside the farmhouse. And to gain access, I'd use the spare key which was kept in the hanging pot plant on the front veranda-a key that Jason had shown me but had told me to avoid using if possible. The inside of the judge's farm house was what you expect of a holiday home: comfortably furnished, empty cupboards with rows of wire coathanger hangers, a light film of dust over everything, and linen, plates and cutlery. I'd been told the judge was too sickly to come out here anymore. And the was true for the other members of his family. Can you imagine having that much money? Enough so that you had a spare house you never bothered to visit anymore? From the outside, you could clearly see where the original structure met up with a more recent addition: a single-storey sandstone building, with skylights and lime-washed interior walls and recessed lighting. A room containing a cast iron stove and various ornaments from different countries such as African and Indonesian carved masks and handwoven tapestries. And of course, many books lining the floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
I went in the house a handful of times, to use the toilet but really just to take a look around (I didn't like being watched by an empty house each time I turned up), and I would notice the photographs lining the walls, all of which had the combined effect of showing the judge's life in a series of stagger glimpses, in much the same way you might flip through the pages of a book. And some of these framed photographs harked back to when he was a young man, fresh out of uni, first working as a junior lawyer dressed in a natty suit then later appointed to the courts as a judge. His wife was included in these photographs, at a dance in white gloves and on the bow of a classic speed boat in Sydney Harbour, the judge at the helm, looking virile and rangy, a cigarette in his mouth, his shirt ripped open in the wind as he pilots the boat. And then later on, in  photos taken in the 1970's and 1980's, his children appear and begin to grow, as the images change from crisp black and white to sun-bleached colour, but then the colours begin to gain strength as I move down the corridor, trying to fill in the gaps, moving into the 1090s, each family photo now crowded with the Judge and his family on ski trips, at the beach, and later, once the kids must have become adults and have been edged out of the frame, it was just the Judge and his ageing wife again, both looking smaller, diminished, in Europe, probably around retirement age now, reaping the rewards of a life working. And in each of these photographs, the Judge ages incrementally as gravity takes hold and the years scored his face and time kept moving on. And standing there, in the Judge's forgotten house, sometimes I would get the strangest feeling of being a ghost on the peripheral of all these lives. And maybe I already was?

Fictional Lives

The rest of my life when on as before. I worked mainly at night, took my daughter Hayley out once a fortnight to wherever she wanted to go, even though I knew it was becoming a bit of a drag for her because, being a teenager, hanging out with dad was hardly the done thing. Wasn't cool. But she didn't mind when we went shopping for something she wanted like clothes or when we went a movie in one of those multiplexes. Occasionally I'd get annoyed when she wouldn't put her fucking phone away but I'd hold my tongue because it was just the way teenagers were today, wasn't it? All of them not happy unless they were talking to twelve different people at the same time, sending photographs of themselves doing god-knows-what. But no, I'd stop myself from saying anything too critical because it would only have caused resentment and wasn't this all part of parenting? Disapproving of whatever your kids were into at the time? Anyway, what choice did I have? Withdraw like my old man? Becoming a non-entity? There was no way I would do that to my daughter. During that time we seemed to have less and less to talk about, but to my way of thinking that was okay because spending time with her was the important thing. Just being there. Regina, my ex, told me that Hailey had a boyfriend, a polite young guy with a fringe hanging down over his face, but I wasn't to bring up the subject because she was too sensitive about it. So we ignored this new development. And I couldn't talk now, could I? Expecting truth and transparency? Me having this new and unwanted secret, lying again to my daughter through omission. So we skirted around these truths and went shopping and watched shitty movies. And the rest of the time- my free time- was spent waiting, resting, reading easy crime novels with tough protagonists, shopping and watching TV. And seeing as how I didn't drink-I'd never really had a taste for it-, and the restaurant I worked at wasn't really the sort of place where the staff sat around after closing, fraternising and getting pissed, I didn't really have much to do other than work and get ready for work. Four or five times a year I paid for sex, just to release build up and not feel completely disassociated from my masculinity. And I went on the odd date as well using the computer. They were at best, interesting but ultimately failed experiments in reconnecting. At certain times in your life, you can fall out of step with the opposite gender. This happens for a number of different reasons. I was still interested but if I was being honest, I didn't want anything long term. I had enough on my plate with my daughter and dealing with my ex-wife's bullshit. And sure, I was conscious of the fact that you didn't want to drift too far away from the world of women. The danger of isolation can be that you figure out too late that no one really wants to die alone. Anyway, at least from the outside, it looked like I was just getting on with my perfectly unexceptional life.

Trouble

Walking among the rows, checking on the health of each plant, submerged in the dank perfume of cannabis, spiky foliage up to my shoulder now and by my estimation, maybe a month away from harvesting, I notice something down on the ground. A white thing, which stops me dead in my tracks. I look down at this object, this cigarette filter, which is crushed flat in the middle of a bootprint, an elaborate tread pattern stamped in the dirt, and I drop to one knee and pick up this cigarette filter and turn it over in the palm of my hand. And it is at this point that tiny shrill alarm bells began going off in my head, one after the next, and then my heart was suddenly jack rabbit fearful and empty at the same time, a sudden drop in pressure as if all the blood had been sucked out, forcing the muscle to collapse. And I know that the only way this dirty, crushed cigarette filter and this boot print could possibly be here is because someone has been checking this place out. And recently. This knowledge is based on the certainty that I have been over every inch of this area, every pebble and every plant. And knowing this, causes me to look around, scan the imposing static of the distant bushland, becoming aware that suddenly this environment has gained the sinister weight of concealing a watcher or even several watchers, and no matter how hard I try to locate the source of this feeling, to flush it out with my eyes, all I get back is the silent pressure of being observed. And me, being a city boy, suddenly I feel completely out of my depth, swallowed up in the sudden immensity of it all. And somehow nothing happening is worse than a resolution to this question. And I completely fail to follow Jason's instructions. I don't text him right away like I'm supposed to, hoping that by going about my routine, the problem will simply go away because my main objective is to keep this operation at simple as possible, to get to my goal, to harvest the weed and then to pay off Jason and get on with my life. Stupidly, I choose to bury my head in the sand. I kept ignoring the obvious questions like who are these people? And if they were sniffing around, why didn't they steal some plants? From what I could see, nothing was out of place. All the plants were present and accounted for, happily growing at a steady rate, mainlining sunshine, H2o and nutrients in the soil. And then I realised with a sense of both relief and continued anxiety that if it had been the law, I would probably have been busted already. The question was answered several days later when breaking one of my usual safety precautions because of bad planning, I was forced to pull over at the service station in the little town to the north. No big deal right? Anyway, I had just about finished filling the tank, my eyes fixed on the analogue numbers as they ticked over in the old fashion petrol bowser when two men approached me.

Local boys

The conversation went along the lines of, who the fuck do you think you are? Coming to our neck of the words and thinking you can set up an operation without permission? To which I replied, I have no idea what you're talking about mate. To which the greyhound thin one, the same one who looks like an animatronic puppet, all neck cords and gristle and horribly articulated body parts most likely whittled down by amphetamines, and obviously the brains of this duo said, we know exactly what you doing out there at the farm cunt. So don't test my fucking patience. We want our share. And both men continued to crowd in, with me still holding the petrol pump and the numbers still ticking over as my vehicle drank in petrol. On hearing what he has to say, I replied, okay that's not my....you know....decision. I have to speak to my boss. To which he replied, I don't give a fuck who you speak to mate, just know this....we need to get compensated. This is our patch. And suddenly I find myself suppressing a smile, maybe as a reaction to the tension of this situation, maybe because to my ear, this is all starting to sound like dialogue from a gangster movie. And it was at this point that the automatic cut-off kicked in, stemming the flow of petrol, freezing the numbers at $64.70. And I say, I need to talk to the guy who is running the show. It's not my decision man. And the Grayhound said something like, Right-o. Let's just make sure you convey to this boss of your just how serious this situation is....shall we? And it was at this point that the fat one, the sidekick wearing motorcycle boots and a denim shirt, punches me in the stomach and when I double up, he nails me in the face, then the balls, all the while not allowing me to crumble to the ground, propping me up against the side of my own car, with me being knocked around, trying to figure out when this scene will attract some attention and get me a little bit of assistance from staff in the service station as I absorb one dull blow after another. But then it occurred to me that the three of us were concealed from view behind the line of petrol pumps. And it also occurs to me that these guys might have more influence than your regular joe-blow in this community. And the big guy just kept pounding away until finally I was allowed to slide down to the ground and at least protect myself by tightening up in the fetal position on oil-stained concrete, at which point the greyhound, the thin one got in a few hard kicks with the squared off toe of his own boot. And while this was happening neither man spoke, they just got on with the business of giving me a good beating. And then, after they were finished, I was dragged back up onto my feet, my spine racking the door handle of my vehicle on the way up, blood in my nose and mouth, my head ringing and the pain already starting to come into focus through the shock, becoming acute, localised. So, said the skinny one, breathing hard now for the excursion of kicking my ass, do we have an understanding? I nod, my head cradled in my hands as they walk off. And then I'm stumbling into the service station, credit card in hand, the fat mouth breather fucker behind the counter goes $64.70, please. I lean against the counter, already feeling at least one broken rib, and I can see all the CCTV camera monitors behind the counter and i want to say something but in the end I don't.

Cowboys and Indians

Jason brought some of his friends along the next time he came up. They all clamoured out of the two SUV's that pulled up in front of the farmhouse. Big guys, heavily muscled, most of them tattooed and all of them wearing designer sunglasses. They all stood around in a loose circle, sniffing the air, popping their necks, checking their phones and stretching like athletes limbering up for the big game, while Jason quietly talked strategy. All this happened one or two hours before the shit went down and those local boys showed up at the farm to collect. Jason and his friends bought a small cache of weapons, which I only caught glimpses of and which they used in the subsequent confrontation with these local boys, and really, I only had a vague impression of how it all went down because I was told to remain in the farmhouse, where I waited, nervous as hell, having been described as "useless as a pair of tits on a bull" by Jason. It was real Cowboys and Indians stuff. Like I said, I was a witness insomuch as I heard both sides going at it in the dark: revving engines, isolated shouts too distant to make out the words and sporadic gunfire, followed by more shouts followed by what sounded like a thin, pleading scream in the distance, a distressing sound that which went on and on, before finally becoming lost in the dull blanket of silence that wrapped around the edges of house, ear-prickling in expectation, until finally the screen door banged open on its hinges and I heard the floorboards creaking under someone's weight, as this person moved through the house. And I thought this will either be Jason or someone less friendly. And then it occurs to me that either option was potentially dangerous.

A team player

Keep going, said Jason. After I'd finished puking for the second time, spewing up another beige coloured puddle, I found myself straining, exhausted, digging a hole down through rocks and roots and arid soil, the blade of the shovel sparking when it glanced off rocks. And while this was happening, that motherfucker Jason was just sitting there, reading messages on his phone or whatever, his ponderous, unreadable face underlit by the blue light which was thrown off the screen of his device, light which was strong enough to illuminate the thin canopy of tree branches overhead. We were out in the bush, 2 kilometres deep by my estimation, burying this biker cunt, the same thin amphetamine ruined guy who had beat me to a pulp at the gas station, the leader of this group of men who'd come for and failed to secure their cut. And now here he was, part of his head pitifully caved in like a deflated soccer ball as he lay face down in the dirt. And believe me when I say, I've seen lots of dead animals in my time, in cold storage, skinned, glassy-eyed, at various stages of being broken down into muscle, bone, connective tissue, organs and fat. Animals sawed into pieces and hung on hooks but I'd never seen a dead person before. It really did a number on my head. And as I dug, I was still trying to figure out why I needed to be involved in this little misadventure because Jason's brief explanation, that 'I need to pull my weight...take on some of the responsibility,' just wasn't really helping me understand why my involvement was required. This gangster bullshit wasn't my business. I was the gardener for christ sakes. Anyway, when I got about a metre and a half deep, which took a long bloody time with me doing all the digging, we removed everything from the dead guy's pockets: his money, wallet and keys, before rolling him into the hole. He went in like a wet noodle, limbs flailing, landing twisted up and wrapped around himself. And noticing there was still room in the hole, there was another moment of uncertainty, a moment in which I didn't much like being out there in the middle of nowhere with Jason looming over me, but then again, I figured I still owe this guy money so it wasn't like he was going bury me as well. Of course, you never know with these people, do you? Anyway, I filled in that damn hole as quickly as I could, shovelling the dirt back in on the dead guy and I started feeling a lot better once I realised I couldn't see him anymore. And when that was finished, I spread branches and leaves around like nothing had ever happened and then we drove back the way we come, along a series of barely visible tracks, through a new growth pine forest, the headlight of the quad bike bobbing and pushing forward, illuminating repetitive patterns of endlessly advancing tree trunks, as the darkness continued to swallow us up, the sound of the engine droning away in my head.

Tightened security

It started getting to me. In the coming weeks, Jason would call me, or send random texts, checking in, keeping tabs on me, asking me to call him back on different numbers. And when he picked up, he'd say something casual like, how is anything going? And I'd say the same thing each time, something like, yeah man, everything is cool. And he says, you're being security conscious right mate? You are not resting on your laurels? And I'd say, no, no, of course not....everything is cool mate, and there would be a long moment of silence, with me stand there, in the kitchen, at work or in my apartment, the phone pressed to my ear, listening to Jason listen to me. Presumably, Jason was trying to work out if anything usual was going on, listening for doubt in my voice and this made me more paranoid, and this magnified paranoia was purely generated because I felt that, I wasn't putting myself across as trustworthy, and that in these moments, Jason could actually hear my heart beating guilty in the silent lapses of our conversations. And sometimes, when I was at the farm, early in the morning, surrounded by all that distance and isolation and silence, mist spilling across the landscape, waiting for the sun to burn it off, I'd imagine hearing the thump, thump, thump of rotor blades approaching, and then seeing a chopper to come nosing along the gorge, to hover over the grow site like a blow fly, What then? And generally speaking, with each passing day, I was becoming more tuned into the people and events happening around me. This same tremor of fear existed in my blood when I was running those grow houses in WA. And I started playing those head games with myself, interpreting the signs and nervous coincidences, seeing fate's path unfurling at my feet, trying to figure out ahead of time which decisions pointed towards disaster and which ones would lead me to basic safety, if not salvation.

Local news

There was no mention of this man's disappearance in the local media. I only had the briefest of conversations with him yet somehow I was required to keep on imagining what his crappy life in this town had been like and the people he'd left behind after he'd died. And each time I'd look out the car window or return to the grow site I'd get that old irrational feeling of dread, like the landscape could just swallow you up, pulling you down under all the roots and rocks. And I understood that there was no such thing a ghost but that residual traces of the dead got stuck in the minds of the living. The faces, hands, teeth and breath of the dead. And he was there, the greyhound, not quite taunting me but watching, interested, observing as the dead like to do, for the demise of the people who took them out of the game. Well, at least those who are weighed down by a conscious such as myself. And in these moments I would say to him, mate I wasn't the one who did this to you and he'd say something like, you are part of the team cunt. And besides, you're all I got. And so there I was, having imaginary conversations with this asshole while I drove back and forth to the farm. And at night, I could see his dead body, the exact movement he tumbled down into the darkness, that last fleeting illusion of life as his limbs flopped around, as he went down into the hole. And there was no way I could know that in a decade's time, a pair of hikers would stumble across his skeleton, which had slowly become unearthed by the elements and soil erosion, the dome of his skull growing out of the ground, white and dirty, crowning the dirt.

Harvest time

I cut the plants down and hauled them all down to the shed to be hung and dried and then, a week later, I broke each plant down, separating bud from stem from leaf, before weighing and bagging kilogram bricks for transportation, the start of the process as the crop moved from the soil to the consumer, through the arteries, veins and then capillaries of the distribution process, working its way out into the greater Sydney area, each step of the process creating a proportionately higher profit margin as the quantities become smaller. I hired a truck and loaded up the weed before cleaning up the farm, covering all traces that I'd been there, and then finally I headed off, driving back to Sydney, a little numb with the realisation that my luck is still holding out, even as I passed a motorway cops waiting for speeders. If I was pulled over it would probably all over because of the smell, even through the double plastic wrapping. But the thing is I don't. I just keep going, sticking to the speed limit the whole way, taking it easy, even after I grind into Sydney traffic, getting stuck in the red brake light molasse of evening gridlock.

Delivery method

As arranged, the rental truck is driven to an area near the airport. An area surrounded by parking structures and newly build apartment blocks waiting for foreign investment. And I sat there behind the wheel, planes taking off every eight minutes or so, and I waited and then a guy appears at the driver's side window, making me nearly jump out of my skin. We swap places, him sliding behind the wheel, neither of us saying a word, and that's it. He drives off, leaving me to find my way home, following my little the dot on my phone map, through the back streets of Mascot until I hit a major road. And a few days later my phone rings and its Jason saying, where are you? And when we met up, for a beer down at the pub in Bondi, I walk in and Jason is already there, a beer sitting on the table going flat. Jason says, just touching base with you mate. And I say, cool. And he says, alright, let's get this over with....this is just a reminder. I want you to think into the future, down the track so to speak. At this moment you are walking around with some information in your head. Some information that could be potentially harmful to me and some of the people I know. So like I say, this is a reminder because you never know what life is gonna throw your way, do you? If something happens to you and for whatever reason you find yourself in position when it might seem like a good idea to use this information....legally or otherwise......don't. Okay? Because in the long run, it won't benefit you. It will only hurt you. If I unexpectedly end up in a legal situation, someone is coming for you, mate. Understand? I nodded my head and said, yeah, got it. And Jason stood up and left, the full beer on the table untouched.

Life goes on

My life resumed its normal rhythms. I worked extra shifts at the restaurant and paid off the debt and I made sure I kept clear of any situations which might see me start gambling again, walking past TAB's and ignoring various races of significance and tips and old associates who wondering if I'd like in on this or that poker game, to which I'd say no, no thanks. I redirected most of my pay to Jason via cash payments picked up in different places by the same guy, the same one who'd originally given me the money in the casino all those weeks ago, and sure this caused disruptions in my relationship with my daughter because I just didn't have the money to spend on her anymore and it made me realise something: ever since the divorce, I'd been overcompensating, buying crap and chucking money away in place of us just spending quality time together and admittedly, it was my fault. I'd tell her we were going to do the Bondi to Clovelly walk, no eight dollar health drinks, no brainless over priced 3D movies, no credit card for apps and music. Just father and daughter time together and I insisted that we leave the cell phones in the car, which would mean a whole hour and a half without facebook, horror of horrors. She didn't like it at first but eventually she stopped sulking and we had a reasonable time. We walked the sun-drenched cliffs, going up and down stairs carved into the rock, and after that, I bought us some fish and chips as we sat looking out at the water, seagulls wheeling for stray chips. Anyway, for a time my relationship with my daughter and everything else in my life seemed to move forward in a productive, hopeful way, and eventually, I paid Jason off. And that day, when the guy with grey hair turned up for the last payment, after he took the envelope off me like all the other times, not saying a word, just walking away, I felt this great jolt of relief and happiness because in that moment I knew I had gotten my life back. And strangely, not only did I feel relief but also a sense of melancholy because truth be known, there was a thrill in the risk. It felt good to change the predictable routine. Anyway, I handed that envelope over and that was it. I was debt free, and, in a private gesture of celebration, I deleted Jason's number from my contacts, put my phone away and finished off my coffee, and not long after that, the first orders began coming in and I got my staff moving by calling 'Order in'. And then, I was expediting orders through the service hatch.

The dead

This bullshit happens on my day off. And if I'm being honest, and there is no reason not to be, I had been looking at the names of horses on the racing page, speculating, waiting for something to leap out at me, a hunch, a feeling, while I drank a cup of coffee and waited for the washing machine to run through its cycle. There was someone at the door and I assumed it was the polish woman down the hall who had been testing my patience recent, taking liberties with my time, asking could I help with some of her 'little jobs' she really should have hired a handyman or a career for, or maybe found herself a husband. I usually ended up putting my annoyance aside and helped her out. I assumed it was her because I live in a security building. My apartment is nestled in a warren of corridors lined with identical doors so my visitors are always predictable and prearranged. I walked to the front door, vaguely aware of the washing machine clicking  over into the spin cycle, the noise like a distance aircraft taking off, and didn't bother to look through the security peephole, expecting in a few minutes time to find myself sidelined on some task by my cloying neighbour, perhaps lifting something heavy out of her car or fixing a broken shelf in her cat piss smelling apartment but no, when I opened the door there was just a man wearing a baseball cap and dressed in a tracksuit jacket, his hands stuffed into both pockets. All I could see was his jaw and his mouth which was set. My brain was still geared up for the inevitable irritations of dealing with Mrs Warzsawcowski. This man, who was shorter than me but broader in the shoulders, removed his hand from his tracksuit pocket and I noticed that there was something attached to that hand, moulded into his fist and fitted around his fingers, and he extended his arm through the doorway, and I saw the black object for a split second, not that there was time enough to think about what it was, only that it looked quite heavy, quite solid, and I thought he was trying to give me something. And in a way he was. The bullet travelled across the threshold and entered my check a few inches beneath my left eye, causing my head to snap back, before it continued, burrowing deeper into the delicate cockpit of my skull, turning part of my brain into a pink milkshake that sprayed out the back  of my head in a fine mist. Free now, the bullet continued down the hall until it becomes embedded the kitchen wall. All this while my hand was still gripping the door handle. I went down, folding up in jerky stages, slumping to the carpet, as my damaged-beyond-repair brain fired off it's last involuntary SOS's through my nervous system, and this guy, this man who had so rudely interrupted me in the middle of my day off, looked left and right, up and down the corridor, saw nothing, then stepped inside my apartment, without an invitation mind you, stood over me and put two more bullets into my head, one going straight through the orbital bone, the other smashing my nose in, both going out the back again, embedding themselves in the concrete while promoting the flow of blood which the carpet greedily began to soak up. The man left, locking the front door behind him, with me splayed out in the corridor, staring up at the light fixture. The recovered some CCTV footage of this man, walking purposefully through the parking garage, and out on the street, his hands in pockets, his head held down and his face still concealed beneath the bill of the sports cap. I lay there. The spin cycle finished and then there was silence. Two days later my daughter left a message on my phone. Then work called when I didn't show up. The police came through the front door five days later, splintering the lock because of the smell. The two cops squatted over me, one clearly distressed even though he was trying not to look like he was. Then two plain clothes cops appeared and did the same. Evidence was gathered, I was photographed with my dead vacant dead person expression and things were bagged. They took me out in a bad as well. The flames were a relief after the tedium of cold storage. The door slammed shut and I was reduced down to ashes and then later released into bright sunlight and the ocean while a small group of people I knew made their way back from the edge of the cliff to the waiting cars.