RIVOWRITER

QEYTARIEH

2012-02-02T19:58:00.005+11:00

The following is an excerpt from early drafts of David Morisset's novel set in 1970s Iran at the time of the Islamic Revolution.

Ben was inclined to sleep in and takethings easy on Fridays. However,on this particular Friday, he had decided to do some research on thedistinctive characteristics of Shi'ite Islam. Just as he was starting to think about lunch, the telephonerang.

“Salaam,Bijan. Halit khub-eh?”

“Mersi,bad nistam. How come you cancall today?” He assumed everyoneelse in her family must be out and Manijeh had found herself at home alone.

“Can I come to see you?”

“Of course. When?”

“Can you pick me up in half an hour onOld Shemiran Road … you know, where you used to meet me?”

“See you in half an hour. By the way, what are you wearing, soI’ll recognize you?” He hoped thatshe got the joke.

“I am wearing blue jeans … but I have cutthe feet off.”

“You mean you have cut the legs off don’tyou?”

“Nemidonam. Abe naderi.” She mocked her own bad English bypronouncing the Farsi words for ‘I don’t know and it doesn’t matter’ with herapproximation of an Australian accent. Ben was delighted to hear the flirty tone back in her voice but he couldnot help feeling that the laughter that accompanied her words was a littleforced.

When he picked her up he feigneddisappointment. He told her he waslooking forward to the short, cut-off jeans. Manijeh had changed into a demure cotton dress – the whiteone with the broken black and purple stripes – that Ben remembered from lastsummer. Again, Ben was struck byhow much shorter her hair was and that she was looking thinner. Nevertheless, she looked happy to seehim and her make-up suggested that she had made an effort to look her best forhim (even by her lofty standards).

“Ben, we cannot go to your house. Can we find somewhere like a park totalk? It is important.”

He knew now that he was right about herforced joviality. Something waswrong

“How about Qeytarieh? It’s only a few minutes away.”

Qeytarieh was not as lush as theparklands of Niavaran near the Shah’s palace. It was, however, closer to Ben’s house just in case Manijehchanged her mind.

He parked the car and then they strolledonly a few metres before Manijeh stopped. She seemed to be making sure that the road was still visible – as if sheneeded to keep Ben’s yellow Fiat in view for some reason.

“Ben, something has happened that I musttell you about. My father has saidI can see you this one last time butI must be home by three o’clock. It is only because something has happened and only because I said Iwould only agree to something if I could see you one more time.”

Looking at his watch - it was alreadywell after one o’clock - Ben realized they did not have much time beforeManijeh would have to commence her journey back downtown. Then he noticed the tears starting toform in her lovely eyes.

“Ben … I have to tell you something …Ahmad has again asked me to marry him and I have said yes.”

“Why?” Ben realized that he was also in danger of giving way totears. At this moment though, itwas anger that overtook him. Theday promised a new beginning and instead it was delivering a bitter end.

“It is best for me … and best for myfamily. It is the right thing forme to do.”

“Is it the best thing for me too?”

“Do not say that … but it probably is the best thing for you. You can get on with your life when youleave Iran and you will not have to worry about any of us any more.”

“I thought you loved me.”

“Ben, I am used to Ahmad. I am not used to you.”

PARS AVENUE

2012-01-29T18:03:00.000+11:00

The following is an excerpt from early drafts of David Morisset's novel set in 1970s Iran at the time of the Islamic Revolution.

The dwelling was at the very end of aquite cul de sac – or kuche – that ranoff Pars Avenue in quaint Chizar, which was an old village in the northernsuburbs of Tehran adjacent to Shemiran. It was a solidly middle class to wealthy neighborhood, which snuggled upto the foothills of the Alborz mountains, not far from Niavaran, Farmanieh andother locales favored by senior diplomats and prominent business people.

Chizar’s village origins meant that itwas not blessed with the broad avenues of the newer districts that had engulfedit as Tehran sprawled northwards towards the mountains. Reckless traffic swirled through the blindcurves of its narrow streets as if the probability of encountering a vehicletravelling in the opposite direction was nil. Minor traffic accidents were all part of a typical day. Despite the exhaust fumes, some of themajor intersections were busy shopping zones typically containing generalstores and taxi hire firms (presumably for those drivers whose cars were beingrepaired after the latest smash).

The old villages in the north of Tehranhad become popular with wealthy Iranians and with foreign residents becausethey had the benefit of an additional 500 metres or so in altitude comparedwith the central and southern parts of the city. That meant slightly cooler summers and somewhat clearer air.

Ben’s two storey house was chosen byBen’s predecessor in close consultation with a now departed administrationattaché (who had made sure that it complied with the relevant Public ServiceBoard standards for Australian diplomats posted abroad). It was a fairly typical localconstruction – bricks, cement and iron camouflaged by marble facing – and itsat behind a high wall and a rather bare front yard of patchy grass. The top rooms at the front overlooked asmall market garden in the property to the right – one of the few remaining inthis part of northern Tehran.

The kuchewas lined by similarly styled houses and they too were well hidden behind highwalls covered with the ubiquitous marble facing. Some had swimming pools. About one hundred and fifty metres from Ben’s house, the kuche opened into a barely wide enoughthrough road that somehow coped with heavy streams of carelessly drivenvehicles of all shapes and sizes. Here, the residences were older but they were still rather up-market bythe standards of the poorer suburbs in the southern reaches of the city.

Apart from its lack of a swimming pool,Ben’s house was more than ample for his needs. All the inside walls and ceilings were painted withconservative creams and whites. The floors throughout were marble decked in subtle shades of pale greenand light beige. Persian carpetsof various shapes, sizes and types were strategically placed in everyroom. At first the carpets hadpresented Ben with such a visually demanding combination of patterns that hehad longed for the modernist furnishings of 1970s Australia.

The lower storey had a big sitting room,which included a formal dining suite and opened out on to a large verandah forentertaining. There was also aslightly cramped area where Ben had positioned a tiny rented television and anold sofa so he could get his fix of news from the rest of the world courtesy ofthe US armed forces network. Allthe downstairs living areas were dominated by the plate glass perimeter of anindoor garden with its heavy greenery, including a tall umbrella tree that evenimposed itself on the main bedroom upstairs.

A roomy kitchen was at the rear of thehouse. The fittings were all metaland, with the wide expanse of marble floor, the overall impression was one ofhardness. Behind the kitchen therewas a cement courtyard where a makeshift clothes line was strung from onecorner to another.

Every window at the back of the house hada view full of the huge mountains of the Alborz ranges that provided the finalbarrier to Tehran’s northern march. The best vantage points were from the upper rooms and the flat bitumenroof.

Upstairs there were two bedrooms and twobathrooms, with another room for the housemaid to use as a resting place. The landing at the top of the stairswas large enough for Ben to set it up as his home office. Someone at the embassy – probably alocally engaged member of the administration team - had chosen Frenchprovincial – a popular Iranian preference of the time - as a decorating andfurniture theme. It was far fromcozy but Ben barely noticed its elaborate formality.

RUMI: "Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment"

2012-01-22T20:17:00.000+11:00

BLAGGARD AVENUE WITH AN "E"

2012-01-18T19:51:00.001+11:00

An ebook version of "Blaggard Avenue" is now available. The ebook includes a prologue that was not part of the printed edition.

For Kindle, simply go to Amazon.com and search for books by David Morisset. The printed edition is also available via Amazon (as well as CreateSpace).

For users of other ebook platforms, including people with iPads, "Blaggard Avenue" is available at Smashwords.com in several formats. Again, a search for books by David Morisset will find it. Make sure that Smashwords' "Adult Filter" is "deactivated" when you search.

SERPENT

2012-01-17T21:20:00.001+11:00

The following paragraphs are from the early pages of the e-book version of "Blaggard Avenue".

He had the head of a serpent. His expression was one of haughtycondescension – an attitude totally out of step with his left of centreideology and his ‘love they neighbour’ posturing. He smiled like all politicians – with a quality thatsuggested practice rather than sincerity. His voice was mid-pitched and not unattractive. It was, of course, seasoned with theaccent of suburban family life and laced with evidence of a distinguishedhigher education. He was, theysaid, a man with a great future. Even his wife was lauded - for her loyalty and support and for her ownunspecified achievements (in that order).

The room was full of the good and worthy ofthe superannuation industry – those growing fat on the complex regulationsgoverning the compulsory savings of every working Australian. All of them were convinced that theywere doing something vital and that they were doing it better than the rest ofthe people of in the room. Few ofthem had ever met a single member of the massive pension funds they dependedupon for their bloated incomes and lavish entitlements – and they were happy toleave it that way.

Polite applause and a shuffling back of chairsfrom white table cloths greeted the politician as he strode to the podium. Napkins were folded or scrunched andflung forgetfully on half-finished plates of steak and seafood. Refills of wine were demanded. As the waiters filled crystal glasses,the opulent ballroom filled with the harsh sound of an arrogant legislatorclearing his throat as he looked towards the spotlights with an artificialsquint that made him look all the more like a snake.

‘Australia’s retirement incomes system is theenvy of the world. Even the mostenlightened foreign governments look to Australia for ideas in their eagernessto imitate our success. Thatsuccess is not only a vindication of the farsighted policies of the Governmentin which I am proud to serve as a minister of state, but also of the diligenceand dedication of every person in this room.

‘Unlike our political opponents, we do notfavour one type of superannuation provider over another. We want a level playing field. Our opponents would tilt the field infavour of the for-profit funds of the retail sector and take steps to renderindustry funds unsustainable. Theopposition likes nothing better than to divide and conquer. We govern for all Australia and for allAustralians!’

He paused and waited for the mandatoryapplause. When it came it came insections - polite baby-claps from the representatives of big banks and insurancecompanies versus raucous slapping of the table from industry fund officials andtheir union sponsors.

There was also a chorus of mumbling grumblerswho called the speaker ‘a bloody liar’ (or expressed slight variations on thatsentiment) at such a subdued volume than only their nearest neighbour picked upthe remark.

And so the speech went on … and on … until itwas obviously nearing an end.

‘As a final point, I want to make one thingperfectly clear. As I have statedmany times, Australia also has the safest and most secure superannuation systemin the world. Safety and securityare underpinned by the hard work and expertise of our regulators – theAustralian Prudential Regulation Authority and the Australian Securities andInvestments Commission.

‘APRA and ASIC work hand-in-hand to guaranteethe integrity of the investment funds and the efficiency of the markets thatAustralia’s working families rely upon to generate returns that will, in turn,provide them with generous incomes in their retirement. The high standards of governancedemanded by our rigorous regulatory framework mean that the Australiansuperannuation industry is immune to fraud and provides no openings for thecriminal elements that are usually drawn to the opportunity to get their handson vast amounts of other people’s money.

‘Maintaining our regulatory vigilance isvital. Should anyone in theindustry seek – whether wittingly or unwittingly – to adopt practices that makethe retirement incomes of Australian working families vulnerable, they will bedealt with in the most decisive and severe fashion. But I say this in confidence that our deterrence regime isso strong that I could be accused of overstating the potential for malfeasance.

‘And finally … I really mean finally this time...’

Several minutes later the minister stoppedtalking, refused to take questions, retired to his place at the top table, andmade a call on his mobile phone. The room buzzed with conversations fuelled by fine wines and premiumbeers. It had been a long speechand few had listened with much interest. One possible exception was a small Chinese man who had taken copiousnotes in a mixture of extravagant Cantonese characters and a delicately formedEnglish script that featured exaggerated tails.

BARREL OF CLARET

2012-01-16T21:19:00.000+11:00

The following paragraphs are excerpts from the early pages of the e-book version of "Blaggard Avenue".

All the lovers had gone home, ifthey were ever there. It was hisimpression that everyone seemed to do it in the comfort of a bed in theseaffluent days. So, he thought, wherewere the suicidal misfits who were supposed to be the main clients of The Gapin the darkest hours of the night? Then it dawned on. That waswhy they had brought him here. Within seconds he was airborne.

For a moment it seemed likeflying. He was propelled so faraway from the edge that there was no way he could reach for an outcrop of rockor vegetation that might save him. So he stopped flying and started to descend. He made no sound. Perhaps, he thought, his recent diet of sleeping pills and anti-depressantshad actually made him calm about his own death.

No-one except the two burly men onthe edge of the precipice heard the thud as the man they had kidnapped hit therocks and rolled half a turn towards the frothy salt water of an inquisitive sea.

***

He had completed the swim so manytimes that he sometimes wondered whether he needed a change in his exerciseregime. The cool water and thegentle surge of the waves were usually so soothing though, that he could notreally imagine doing without the therapy of this simple activity. He was only metres from the rock ledgesthat defined the end of his course when he felt the first tug.

His initial thought was that awayward octopus had made a grab for his lower left leg. He swam on. Another grab – this time more purposeful – and his thoughtsswitched to the possibility of a shark. He dismissed it. No sharkwould visit this shallow end of the beach with its craggy rock shelves and sandbars that encouraged waves to break with crashes so loud they kept the richresidents of the privileged place awake at night.

The third grab was decisive andits author was obviously human – covered in a black wet suit, to be sure, butclearly human. A second manembraced his torso as the first one tore at his leg so hard that he felt a ripin his groin that burned like a sting from bluebottle. He was too small to resist and his wirybody was easily put into a position for the administration of a wrestling holdthat would smother him. There wasno opportunity to protest as his breath disappeared. The wet-suited assassinswedged the corpse into a crevice in the rocks below the water-level, expectingthat it would be visible at high tide and that the fickle media would haveanother drowning to report.

***

Her shouts of distress eventuallywoke him from a sleep induced by scotch and complacency. They had burst through the locked doorand immediately relieved the woman of the kitchen knife she had reached for indesperation. While two of themheld her, one of the others was removing items of her clothing with rapier-likeswishes of what looked like a short sword that belonged in a museum. Expressing approval of her lusciousbody, he pressed the point of the weapon hard against her naked neck and toldher to shut up.

Three of them found him just wherethey had expected to find him – hiding under the king-size bed. One blow to the back of the head withthe blunt side of a hatchet rendered him almost senseless. They dragged him across the plushcarpet and down to the kitchen. Pushing him to the floor, so that he was on his knees, one of the thugs heldhis aching head back so that he could observe the pitiful state of the woman.

She was, by now, hysterical; buther panic prevented any sound coming out of her wretchedly dry mouth. It took one stroke to slice open herthroat. They let him watch herbleed for a few seconds and then repeated the process on his neck. The scene they left might havesuggested to a depraved observer that the couple had emptied a barrel of claretand decided to take a swim in the friendly fluid.

TRIPLE KILL

2012-01-15T17:28:00.001+11:00

The following paragraphs are excerpts from the opening pages of the e-book version of "Blaggard Avenue", which is currently in production.

The body was carved up as if it was a prop ina religious ritual. But somehowthe sword strokes failed to effect dismemberment. The blood-soaked pieces stayed stubbornly stuck together asif held tight by random adhesives in the glutinous crimson liquid.

At the onset of the attack a vicious blow tothe head, delivered from behind, had stunned him. He was barely conscious after that and died in a state ofnear-oblivion. It was a busystreet in Wanchai and the bar he had just left had been crowded and noisy. The popular pub and its immediatesurrounds were not places where one usually felt a compelling need to be onguard.

His limp body was quickly manoeuvred into theanonymous darkness of a stinking rubbish-strewn alley. Rats scattered like mangy cockroaches,sending eerie rustles through the crumpled paper and the rotting food scrapsthat defined the boundaries of this foul killing yard.

The assailants emptied three plastic garbagebags to encase the body. Then theycarried it away to fulfil the next stage of their plan. The cargo fitted neatly into the emptyboot of a cream Mercedes. Theyslammed it shut.

***

The look of surprise on the young man’s faceevolved into an expression of terror before anyone could speak. The visitors were vaguely familiar butthe weapons they brandished brazenly were their only recognisablecredentials. They surrounded himand two of them soon had him in a martial arts hold. The pressure on the nerves in his neck and shoulders led tosuch pain in his left arm that he wondered whether he was having a heartattack. But he realised that, athis young age, it was unlikely. Terrified, his thoughts raced to the conclusion that death by coronaryfailure might be better than what he was about to experience and he cursedhimself for his clarity.

They dragged him kicking but not screaming toa small balcony that was attached like an architect’s careless afterthought tothe dark side of the apartment block. Twenty floors below were the streets of Central. But it was not just concrete andasphalt that awaited him. A brickfence enclosed a small moat of sparse grass that surrounded the building. Above the bricks were prongs of wroughtiron shaped into fashionable replicas of medieval spearheads – perfect prongsfor killing, especially when a body falling from a great height encounteredthem. And fall he did – after hewas pushed – and then, finally, he screamed. The screams stopped as soon as the metal pierced hispounding chest.

***

He knew straight away what was about tohappen. It was his turn now. They, he assumed, were repeating awell-tried method. A blow to theback of the head, a quick retreat into a putrid Kowloon alley, several strokesadministered by hands wielding razor-sharp blades, and removal of the remains toanother place – possibly a place for easy discovery so it would serve as ablunt warning to others. It wasdifferent this time only in that it was him– it would be his corpse.

He was a little drunk and he was verytired. His nerves had been on edgefor weeks and he was so sick of that feeling that he felt death might offer arelease. He was still consciousbut the pain at the back of his bleeding head was intense. As they dragged him into the blackness,he realised he could not feel anything below his waist. His legs hung limp and the jaggedtarmac scuffed the toes of his trekking shoes. Perhaps he was paralysed. That fearful conjecture was his last thought.

SKY TONIGHT

2012-01-11T19:30:00.002+11:00

I caught the sky tonight
Just before it went on sale.
Anyone could see it;
But nobody was looking.

It was almost about
To reach its use-by date.
So it was splendid;
But nobody was looking.

It'll be there tomorrow -
Early and expectant.
Yearning after yesterday -
When nobody was looking.

DAGGER

2012-01-09T22:39:00.002+11:00

Red no more describes

The blood of a man

Than orange can define

The shades of asunset.

Skin ripped open

Has a garish

Delight that excites

The lethal spirit.

But the real impact

Goes to the heart;

Not to the ficklesenses,

And so saps theclimax.

Yet the dead are gone

And the author haswon,

But souls live on

In the mind of theknife.

"YER CAN SLACK OFF A BIT"

2012-01-01T14:19:00.001+11:00

The following paragraphs are taken from early drafts of David Morisset's novel set in the western districts of Sydney during the 1960s.

Patches of powder blue had finally started to peakthrough the graphite clouds that covered the sky that day. Horrie was tired. When he looked up, he saw the sky wasbrightening. It had no impact onhim. Fatigue had overtaken himseveral hours ago.

Another flood had swept through the small town andmade a mess of the Redgate meatworks. Like many of the workers, from labourers up to managers, Horrie hadpitched in to help. Some of theyounger men had wandered away during the early afternoon to find consolation inthe main bar of the Coro. Olderworkers shook their heads and continued to work until their lower legs andupper arms were wracked with cramps. Eventually some of them gave up and went home via the pub or the bowlingclub.

Horrie stuck it out until sunset. He really put in an effort. In his mind, somehow, it seemed theright thing to do. The looks onthe faces of the older men, who had seen it all many times before, just madeHorrie more determined to do his best.

At first, Horrie had helped moved some of thepenned sheep to higher ground. Later he had carried heavy wet fleeces from the flooded lower floor ofthe skin shed. He had hung them todry along the barbed wire fences near the railway line, creating an effect thathad train passengers staring but not understanding.

Eventually, Horrie decided it was time to gohome. It was getting darkquickly. The sun had already litup the clouds as it slowly retired behind the Blue Mountains. Grey turned to orange and then tocrimson. Horrie watched the lastof the weak sun for the day. Soonhe was distracted by streaky red shimmers dancing on the dirty water thatcovered the paddocks between the meatworks and Kookaburra Creek. Once the performance was over, otheraspects of the view caught Horrie’s attention. The meatworks houses near the creek were three quartershidden by water that made patterns just below the eaves. Most of the houses on Butcher’s Rowwere, for once, spared. Waterfilled gardens and covered the lawns; but inside the houses were dry. Elsie would be relieved.

It was the same at the Coronation Hotel. The flood had stopped just short of therear of the grand building. Someof the run-off had seeped into the beer cellar but there was no realdamage. The stench of the floodfailed to douse the smell of stale ale that seemed to be part of the fabric ofthe ancient vault and its wooden barrels of amber fluids.

Horrie walked around the long way instead oftaking his chances with the mud and slush on the western side of the railwayline. He walked through therailway gates on Albert Road and stopped, as if he was considering a momentousdecision. Thirst made up his mindfor him

Entering the main bar to cheers from some of theother meatworkers, Horrie bought himself a schooner of Reschs. He sipped it at first so he could feelthe cool ointment of the frothy head on his parched lips. Then he took a little of the bubbly aleinto his mouth and let it bring his taste buds to life. Finally, he downed a series of bigmouthfuls. The first one hit his emptystomach like a flaming torch. Itburned and almost caused him to grimace. But then the magic liquid lulled his stomach into relaxation and hesmiled in gratitude at the tingles. He had almost emptied the glass when he heard a familiar voice.

“Come over ‘ere, Fatrat, me mate! It’s Waffle’s shout. ‘E’ll buy yer anothery!” Bunger was smiling from ear to ear. He was dressed in grey shorts andwellington boots. The affablefootball coach might have looked like the man in the King Gee commercialsexcept that he was splashed with putrid yellow mud from the waist down. His burly body was covered by an oldRegdate jersey. It must have beenone from the fifties. The gold veewas absent and the plain maroon was faded almost to mauve. A torn plastic seven hung on grimly tothe front of the guernsey. Themaroon dye in the rest of the garment had turned the originally white numberalmost pink one washing day.

“Ere yar Fatrat.” Waffle had returned with six schooners precariously lodgedbetween his bare brown arms and his hard stomach. He thrust his tummy forward and each of his mates carefullyextracted a glass each. They wereexperts. Not a drop of beer waslost. “Were yer tryin’ to win amedal? Most of us ‘ve been ‘ereover an hour. Any way well donemate! Must ‘ve been all thatfightin’ in Vietnam that made yer so responsible all of a sudden. Don’t worry. Yer can slack off a bit. We won’t be sendin’ yer back overseas. Someone’s gotta keep the scrumstable. Ain’t that right Bunger?”

After four more schooners, Horrie started to walkhome along Butcher’s Row. Theground was so damp that his gum boots left deep footprints. No stars were visible in the sky. More rain soon despite the redsunset? As he walked pastSharlene’s old house, a small tear ran down his cheek. Then the rain started and washed thesalty liquid away.

HAPPY NEW YEAR !!!

2011-12-31T11:44:00.002+11:00

SCHOOL DAYS

2011-12-29T12:25:00.002+11:00

The following paragraphs are taken from early drafts of David Morisset's novel set in the western districts of Sydney in the 1960s.

Late October always brought the jacaranda treesinto flower and 1969 was typical. Discarded blossoms littered most of the streets of Redgate on thenorthern side of the town. Afterthe purple petals had finished their extravagant show, the real heat of summerkicked in, and Christmas holidays beckoned. Except this year there would be no extended holiday period forHorrie. With school finishedit was time to earn his keep. Timeto ‘go on the gate' at the Redgate meatworks and pick up as much casual work aspossible.

Horrie’s chances were better than most. His father was a clerical worker in thesmallgoods department. He occupieda position of evident prominence but limited authority. That combination meant that suitablycompetent and naturally genial Clarence faced little risk of finding himself onthe wrong side of any disputes with anyone of any note, including the men whomade the hiring calls ‘on the gate’. Horrie was called on day one to work as a labourer on the killing yardfloor of the Beef House.

In the meantime Horrie’s father was making surethat there would be a permanent position for his son at the Redgatemeatworks. If Horrie’s HigherSchool Certificate results were acceptable, it was likely that a clerical jobwas his for the asking.

Horrie had completed the HSC for reasons thatultimately had nothing to do with his limited professional ambitions. To be sure, he had enjoyed playing propin the Firsts and staying on at school had meant seeing more of Sharlene, whohad been eager to go on to university and become a teacher. However, had it not been for theencouragement of a teacher in Redgate High’s English Department, Horrie mighthave left school after the School Certificate, just like the majority of hisyear. The crucial conversation took place during the first week of the final term of 1967.

“Maybe I c’n be a bush poet! So I’d better not get too mucheducation. Could ruin everythink,yer know! Reddo’s nearly the bush,ain’t it sir?”

Horrie spoke these words with the blunt accents ofSydney’s western fringe, modified by the addition of various terms borrowedfrom sixties rock. Although he wasonly sixteen, he towered over the earnest middle-aged school teacher as they stooddrenched by mid-afternoon sunlight on the exposed side of the main quadrangle.

“Youhave got potential, Horrie. Whydon’t you stay on and complete the Higher School Certificate? Then you could be more than useful atthe meatworks if that’s still what you wish to do. But I think you have other, better options. What about teaching?”

Mr Scafidi looked over his spectacles and raisedhis eyebrows so far that they seemed to push his receding hairline well beyondthe point of no return. He hadgained his qualifications in one of England’s better red-brick universitiesafter his family had moved from the dry dusty streets of postwar Athens to therolling green hills of Surrey. Proud of his academic pedigree, he was frustrated with Regdate HighSchool’s philistine ways but generally happy in Australia’s more congenialclimate. He also had to admit thathe was slowly warming to the country’s rough edges.

The relationship between Horrie and his would-bementor had started badly. Horrie sometimesfancied himself as a comedian and the poetry of John Donne and Gerard ManleyHopkins gave him ample scope for creative wit. When the English Advanced class moved on to DH Lawrence heoverstepped the mark.

“What themes are there in this poem – apart fromthe writer’s interest in human relationships?” Mr Scafidi looked towards the girls’ section of the roomwhere the most constructive answers were most likely to be found. However, Horrie shouted from the otherside.

“Well, there’s obviously a religious theme,sir.” Horrie’s observation hadseveral male pupils and a few of the girls in near hysterics. So far as they knew from their exposureto Donne and Hopkins it was a safe bet that every poem had at least onereligious theme whether or not it was evident at first reading.

“There is nodiscernible religious theme.” Scafidi looked towards the ceiling, his eyelids fluttering slightly asthe whites of his eyes dominated his round olive-skinned face. “Hold him up to the light, not a brainin sight.” These disparaging wordswere almost whispered but Horrie heard them clearly enough. “See me after class please, Horrie.”

Gradually, after that particular episode, thingsimproved. Lawrence’s earthy poetryeventually spoke to Horrie. Whenthe class moved on to twentieth century novels and he started to read ‘Sons andLovers’, Horrie knew that he was smitten. Lawrence’s descriptions of gritty industrial landscapes and leisurelyrural wanderings reminded him of life in Redgate.

“Maybe yer right, sir. I could stay on. Mr O’Rourke wants me to play in the firsts next year. I’m already the biggest prop in school,sir.” He smiled at the thought ofthe next rugby league season. “Doyer think I could write poems about football, sir?”

“Perhaps, but I doubt it. Cricket certainly haspossibilities.” Scafidi scratchedhis wrinkled forehead and sighed without any hint of irony. He truly preferred the games ofgentlemen. “Why are you boys sovicious when you play rugby?”

“Rugby? Yer funny when yer wanna be sir. Rugby’s what they play at the posh schools. For us it’s kill or be killed! Gotta give Zilla and Waffle a chance to run right through‘em, sir.” Horrie realised thatthe teacher found rugby league a bit distasteful but he was ready to forgivehim. “Anyway, sir, I’ve got cricketpractice now.”

“Do you bat or bowl?”

“I used to be wicky but I got too big andslow. So I’m battin’ at numberfive now in case the upper order get out cheaply. Sometimes I roll down a few slow-mediums if the quicks can’tscare ‘em out with pace, sir.”

“Away you go then.” Scafidi shook his head and laughed to himself. He recognised a lot of good qualitiesin Horrie. There was a genuinenessabout him – an honesty that was becoming much more rare as the world got morecomplicate and seemed to be spinning faster and faster. Unfortunately, Scafidi considered,Horrie seemed perfectly happy with his lot and that resulted in a blind spotwhen it came to ambition.

As Scafidi ruminated, he watched the vast bulk ofHorrie – wrapped in grey serge trousers and a blue terylene shirt adorned witha flapping tie of scarlet and navy stripes – disappear down the stairs that ledto the playing fields, accompanied only by the sound of worn leather soles bouncingoff bare concrete.

MEAT-EATERS

2011-12-20T21:30:00.000+11:00

The following paragraphs are taken from early drafts of David Morisset's novel about life in Sydney's western districts during the middle of the twentieth century.

There were periods in the second half when thematch was just a blur of colour as fatigue took over and players went ahead oninstinct. Redgate’s maroon jerseyswith their gold stripes easily withstood the encroachment of the dust of battlebut Wakeville’s predominantly white scheme soon turned dirty brown. By the end of the game Horrie was surethat Redgate’s under thirteens had scored a victory but he also knew that hisown role had been a minor one.

On the other hand, Zilla had scored threetries. The mercurial five-eighthwas surprisingly strong despite his small stature. He could accelerate to top speed in an instant, his blondehair flying in an air stream of his own creation, and his proud Polish fathercheering from the western sideline of Redgate’s main sports ground. His football feats were so legendary bythe latter years of primary school that some of the boys had begun calling himby the nickname ‘God’. Suchblasphemy drew a sharp rebuke from teachers, parents and coaches. Then Horrie started calling histeam-mate ‘Godzilla’. The epithetwas quickly shortened to ‘Zilla’ and it stuck.

Another Pole, Waffle, had managed two threepointers from his position on the right wing. He was even faster than Zilla and unstoppable once he had anoverlap. Waffle was tall, withskin approaching the colour of milk chocolate, jet black hair and piercing brown eyes. His appearance earned him his nickname– a reference to the Pollywaffle chocolate bars of the era. Unlike Zilla, Waffle could take orleave rugby league, preferring instead the gentler pace of cricket.

Horrie considered himself lucky to be in a teamwith such lethal strike power. Inaddition to Zilla and Waffle, there were some impressive forwards – againmostly boys from migrant families. Horrie felt a bit like a spare wheel packing down in the second row butthe others had made him welcome when he arrived to try out at the beginning ofthe autumn of 1964. As undertwelves his team-mates had been premiers. They were expected to repeat the performance in the coming seasons.

Redgate’s rugby league history was a proud one andits maroon and gold colours were feared throughout the western outskirts ofSydney. Vocal supporters cheeredtheir heroes on with cries of ‘go Reddo’ or ‘go you Reds’ or ‘c’mon you meateaters’ or ‘up the butchers’. Aspecial cabinet at the local bowling club was full of trophies, photographs andother reminders of the great teams of the past. The labour force of the meatworks provided most of thesenior players in the early days and, in more recent years, their children hadflocked to training in order to win a place in various junior age teams. Horrie’s father had never played –thanks to his stint of army service in World War II – but Clarrie had encouragedboth his boys to become competent footballers. Fortunately for Horrie, Cliff was a solid player and hisreputation for toughness and durability helped Horrie gain a starting spot.

However, Horrie had never felt comfortable inthose early season matches. He haddisplaced a smaller boy who happened to be the best mate of the team’sscrum-half – a feisty, vindictive scrapper known as Docker. No-one knew the origins of his curiousnickname, which might have made more sense in a harbourside setting. Horrie missed many tackles because hewent in too high and regularly spilled the ball because he would not run hardenough. With each mishap hisconfidence slipped and Docker was always the first to remind him of hisshortcomings.

Still, the team was undefeated after six roundsand everyone was confident going into the clash with arch-rivals Chiddington attheir home ground nestled in the foothills of the Blue Mountains.

The first half was a blood bath. Chiddington’s forwards were huge – eachone a formidable man-child with no qualms about throwing his ample weightaround. Redgate’s only hope was totire them out, to run them off their feet, by getting the ball out to the backsso Zilla and Waffle could run around their slower opponents. But it was proving to be hardwork. Then the injuries came. Four of Redgate’s forwards had facialwounds as a result of head-high tackles – although the discomfort did not stopthem. Docker had blood streamingfrom a broken nose.

Horrie was unhurt and, indeed, he may as well havebeen a spectator. He assisted in acouple of tackles – arriving far too late to make an impression on the ballcarrier – and then went missing when it was time to take the ball up into thecentre of the Chiddington pack. Nevertheless, on one occasion, the ball found its way from a panickingdummy-half to a flat-footed Horrie who immediately shovelled it back toDocker. The half-back took thehospital pass and was immediately crash-tackled. It was at this point that Docker sustained his broken nose.

Just before half-time one of the Chiddingtonbehemoths forced his way into the Redgate in-goal area and planted the ballbefore a desperate Zilla could prevent the try – three nil to Chiddington athalf-time. It was unfamiliarterritory for Redgate and it was a completely new experience for Horrie. In primary school he had played forwining teams in weight divisions against boys who were of average height andslimly built like him. Now he wasfaced with a team of so-called boys of gigantic proportions who had reachedpuberty and experienced associated growth spurts at an extremely early stage oflife. Horrie had to admit tohimself that he was terrified of them.

During the half-time break the battered boys ofRedgate sat in a small circle at the southern end of the ground and sucked onoranges in an effort to quench their burning thirsts and obtain some muchneeded energy for the rest of the match. The coach, Rex, a no-nonsense meatworks slaughterman, pulled no puncheswith his half-time tirade.

“For Christ’s sake tackle – go in low – they’rebig but they can’t f***in’ run without bloody legs!” Despite the cool day, sweat dotted Rex’s small forehead anddrenched the underarms of his sloppy joe, while white foam gathered at thecorners of his shouting mouth.

“And some of you are f***in’ bludgin’! Horrie, what the hell’s wrong withyou? You’re playin’ like a bloodyold woman! Get in there and tackleor you’re out next week! And whenyou get the f***in’ ball, run it up hard! Or give to someonewho bloody well can!”

“He’s f***in’ scared! That’s the f***in’ truth of it!” Docker’s intervention stung Horrie like a redback spiderbite. The half-back’s nose wasstill issuing blood and it was Horrie’s fault.

Trudging back on to the field, Horrie realisedsomething. Being scared wasterrible – but there was something much worse. It was worse when everyone else knew you were so afraid thatthey could not trust you – could not rely on you in a stressful situation –could not turn to you for help in a crisis. Moreover, it was clearly worse than any conceivable physicalinjury.

So Horrie gradually got himself into the game inthe second half. He made two solotackles in clutch situations and took the ball up with surprisingdetermination. By the end of thegame he was hurting but his team-mates were now keenly acknowledging hiscommitment. It helped that Zillascored a late try near the posts, Waffle slotted the conversion, and Redgatewon five points to three.

CORONATION HOTEL

2011-12-17T19:38:00.002+11:00

The following paragraphs are excerpts from early drafts of David Morisset's novel set on the northwestern fringe of Sydney in the 1960s. The inspiration for the Coronation Hotel was the Royal Hotel in Riverstone which is shown here in a photograph that was "borrowed" from one of the Riverstone Historical Society's publications.

It was a short walk from Horrie’s house to the Coronation Hotel inRedgate. It was a splendid exampleof the public houses of its time and known to all with affection as ‘theCoro’. Its two storeys made it aprominent landmark in the town’s rural setting. Apart from the Regent Theatre, the only other tall buildingswere in the immediate surrounds of the Coro and at the top of a hill some twohundred metres away on the other side of the railway line.

Next to the hotel was an ugly box-like full brick terrace housing fourvery basic apartments. When Horriewas ten years old, the terrace had been gutted and refurbished in an attempt tomake good the damage wrought by a series of floods that had occurred withalarming frequency thanks to the limited capacity of Western Creek and thevulnerability of flat paddocks of rich alluvial soil. Horrie and Alan had spent many hours playing in the rubbleinside the terraces, oblivious to serious hazards including rusty upturnednails, treacherous remnants of rotting floor boards, and several species ofpoisonous spiders. On one occasion they had spotted the crimson red belly of ablack snake disappearing into a wide crevice in an untidy pile of discardedbricks.

“Look at that! Let’s getoutta ‘here.” Horrie was ready tobolt.

“Nah. I wanna to lookthrough the junk piled up over there. Never know. Might findsomethink good.” Alan thusencouraged Horrie to explore some old furniture at the other end of theirmakeshift playground. The timidsnake was happy to remain hidden.

The building at the top of the hill was almost salubrious and it always caughtHorrie’s eye as he walked home from school. It had a wide verandah running the full length of itsfrontage and brightly painted doors opening onto well-kept gardens that facedAlbert Road. There were fiveapartments, one of which was above a real estate office. This terrace was almost as old as thetown itself and such an incongruous sight in the predominantly rural surroundsof the 1950s and 1960s that Horrie had once asked his mother about its history.

“Why do you ask, dear?”

“It looks outta place. Itbelongs in the city, or in the suburbs we see from the train to Central.”

“Well, according to my father, it was built way back in thenineteenth century. Apparently the government planners in Wakeville expected Redgate to become a big place after the railway station was built. Seems like they got it wrong though, eh?”

“I’m glad. It’s much nicerlike it is. I like ordinary ‘ouseswith big yards so yer can ‘ave dogs and play football.”

The mother laughed softly and put her arm around the boy’s shoulder,squeezing his upper arm gently.

Across Albert Road from the Coro was a shop with an apartment on thefirst floor. Initially a butchershop, the retail floor had recently been converted to a modern hairdressingsalon for men, complete with red and white striped timber struts supporting theenclosed balcony of the first floor residence.

“Short back 'n' sides please,” Horrie would say each time he sat in thesmooth leather chair and stared out the window at the Coro. The hairdresser would then steer hisface towards the mirror with a firm hand so that the haircut could begin.

“'ow’s school goin’ young ‘Orrie.”

“Good thanks.”

The barber would then turn to the adult customers for furtherconversational endeavour.

“Reckon Reddo will beat Wenty this season? They’ve got a whole new team and our boys are getting older 'n' slower by the minute.” Conjecture aboutrugby league was a staple subject in Redgate discussions over a beer, a haircutor at any other gathering of two or more men. While they talked, Horrie would daydream about footballgames and the day’s events at school.

As Horrie entered his teenage years, his hairdressing demands becamemore fashion-conscious.

“A square cut please. Nottoo short on top thanks and please leave the front long.” Beatlemania had reached Redgate andHorrie had a fringe just like Paul’s.

“You young blokes look like girls ya’ know. Bloody ridiculous. Youse’ll be wearin’ dresses next! Does yer father know that’s ‘ow ya wanna wear it?” The testy barber’s protests made noimpression on Horrie.

Meatworks employees usually received favoured treatment. They would drop in for a haircut afterwork and, if there was a long wait, they would simply reserve their place andretire to the pub for a beer. Eventually someone would dawdle over from the barber shop to call themback.

From the time he was twelve years old, one of Horrie’s recurringmissions was to call his own father, Clarrie, back from the Coro when hismother was tired of waiting and in despair at the state of Clarrie’s dinner,which, regardless of its original ingredients, was steadily transforming itselfinto a dry stew in the wood-fired oven of Elsie’s ancient kitchen.

“Time to get your ol' man, dear. Make it quick or the dinner’ll be rooned again.”

Horrie would run off down Butcher’s Row, burst unnoticed through one ofthe turquoise blue doors of the Coro, locate his father, and respectfullyremind him it was time to go home.

“G’day Dad. Mum says yerdinner’s ready and it’s time to come ‘ome or it'll be rooned again.”

Clarrie always interpreted Horrie’s reminder as a first call, just as hehad done in years past when the duty had been undertaken by Cliff, Horrie’solder brother. Greeting the boywith a smile, he would take a huge swig from his schooner of Reschs, leavingone or two mouthfuls in the bottom of the glass.

“Top that up with lemonade will ya mate and gimme another schooner. The boy likes a shandy – just like hismother!” Clarrie gave Horrie awink and handed him the cold glass with its frothy head running down the sides.

Horrie would then retreat to sit on a step in one the hotel doorways andenjoy the wonderful sensation of sweet lemonade mixed with sour ale, growing alittle light-headed in the process. Over time the shandies became stronger and by the time of his fourteenthbirthday, Horrie was drinking a schooner of neat draught beer almost every day.

SIXTY IN SYDNEY

2011-12-16T14:39:00.003+11:00

I became a stranger here

Before I knew it for sure.

I speak in a language forgotten

And I remember a history forsaken.

My eyes see ghosts in every doorway

And my ears hear words of the dead;

But my own voice must have been discarded,

When my body got shrivelled and shed.

Acquiescence is met with indifference.

Any protest draws sneering black scorn.

And it's best to expect more of nothing,

While praying that nothing will come of it.

Merchants and state see me as revenue

But they no longer value my labour.
At times I'm their temple's scapegoat,
Cruelly bled white for sins of my neighbour.

Mostly it seems sleep is my only true friend

So I visit ghastly winters in Elsinore:

Perhaps it's merely the dreaded endless nightmare

That has me choose heartbreak instead of the horror.

BADAM*

2011-12-15T20:09:00.003+11:00

You stand straight up like a statue,
So I expect a state like stone;
But I touch texture unworldly -
Precious as if it were only on loan.

You speak with a sparkle,
Rippling with rhythms so strange;
My ears can hear your soft songs
And I revel in reading your range.

You veer into my vision
And I see your beauty so clearly;
Yet my feeble old eyes must blink
To take in your splendour so nearly.

You come to me so fragrant
With a perfume like pleasant patchouli;
And I swoon to its enchantment
Lost in a lair so wild and unruly.

You always draw my famished mouth
To a precocious point where I can savour
Luxurious lips and petal-scaped skin
Rewarding my love, my lust and favour.

* badam is the Persian word for almond

SHOEBOTTOM TOWERS

2011-12-11T17:34:00.004+11:00

The following paragraphs are taken from early drafts of David Morisset's novel set in Iran in the late 1970s. They describe a "typical" evening for young expatriate workers in Tehran's cosmopolitan northern suburbs.

Rather than driving over to the modern supermarket on Avenue Sultanatabad, Ben decided to buy something to cook for dinner at the local shop on the corner at the end of the kuche. It was not a good plan. Most of the stock was unrecognisable and Ben’s Farsi failed him. He had to point and rely on the shopkeeper’s sense of direction and goodwill.

When it came time to pay, a female voice with an Irish accent that came from just behind Ben in the crowded shop, intervened. The speaker was a pretty woman with a command of Farsi that Ben could only envy.

“Do you mind, sweety? Excuse me.” She took a few coins out of Ben’s hand and gave them to the shopkeeper. “He was charging you the foreign prices! That should be more than enough.”

The shopkeeper clicked his tongue against the back of his front teeth and lifted his head with a gesture of dismissal. Ben had seen it before. It was, it seemed, part of the nation’s body language that everyone used at one time or another – even Manijeh.

“Thanks. Your Farsi is great.”

“It’s good enough. If you wait just a minute I’ll walk with you. I’m Natalie. We live just near you. How about coming down to dinner tonight? I’d love to see more of you.”

A couple of hours later Ben wandered down the kuche with a bottle of Australian shiraz in hand. He pushed the button of the intercom by the front gate and was allowed into a large garden flanked by green bushes that highlighted an impressive swimming pool. A tall man with greying hair and the distinct beginnings of a beer belly came to meet him.

“Welcome Ben. I’m Rodney Shoebottom. I know you Aussies think I have a naff name but I am willing to forgive you.”

The two men shook hands and, as Ben eased his grip, he was approached by white spots on a green bikini that just managed to contain a lively woman. It was Natalie with her curly brown hair, hazel eyes and some faint freckles across her nose. Her breasts looked ready to jump right out of her bikini bra and the bottom of her bathing costume also seemed to be in a perpetual state of struggle.

“Welcome to Shoebottom Towers,” she said with the music of Dublin in her accent. She then kissed Ben on both cheeks in true Tehran style and ushered her guest to a round wrought iron and glass table on a large verandah between the pool and the French doors providing access to the living areas of the house. There was a stunning woman already seated and smoking an imported cigarette.

“This is Chelsea. She’s just like you – all alone in the world. That is unless you’re hiding a gorgeous girl or two up there at the end of the kuche.” Natalie winked at Chelsea while Ben blushed and then remembered his manners.

“Hi. I’m Ben. Nice to meet you, Chelsea.”

“Me too. Oh, I love the Australian accent. Say something else.” Chelsea turned out to be an accomplished flirt ...

It was an enjoyable evening. Chelsea and the Shoebottoms knew much more about life in Tehran than Ben had managed to find out so far. Rodney’s off-beat and, at times, smutty sense of humor made for frequent laughs. By around eleven o’clock, Ben decided he should retire. He had work tomorrow and the car would be calling at 6:45 am.

As Rodney showed Ben to the front gate, the two women appeared a few yards away on the edge of the pool, which was shimmering under the bright lights emanating from the house. Both stripped to their almost non-existent underwear and dived into the water.

“Too bad you’ve got to go!” Rodney patted Ben on the back and almost pushed him through the open gate. “It’s a bugger of a place isn’t it? All these Muslim rules – no booze, no naked women, no fornicating! See ya, mate.” The Englishman did his best to fake an Australian accent and closed the gate, leaving Ben outside in the kuche.

“Ben … oh Ben … come back and see what I’ve got for you.” Natalie’s giggling voice called out but Ben was determined to get a reasonable night’s sleep. As he walked towards his house, Ben heard the sound of a huge splash, followed by feminine squeals.

1978 - GUY FAWKES DAY

2011-12-01T12:31:00.008+11:00

The following passage is an excerpt from drafts of David Morisset's novel set in Iran at the time of the Islamic Revolution. These paragraphs present a fictionalised account of the actual invasion of the UK embassy in Tehran by Iranian activists on 5 November 1978. Eyewitness accounts of the events of that day were consulted as part of the author's research into the circumstances of the Revolution. The above photograph of yesterday's storming of the same embassy compound comes from Payvand News' extensive coverage.

Clarence Carrington peered through the dust-ridden gauze curtains of his office in the British Embassy’s chancery building. Ferdowsi Avenue was the scene of yet another impressive demonstration. A few days ago, he had watched more than two hundred thousand women, shrouded in their full-length black chadors, marching solemnly past the compound gates. They had carried pictures of Ayatollah Khomeini and chanted “Death to the Shah’ in rhythmic Farsi.

Today’s protest looked like it was an all-male affair. The columns were arranged in an orderly fashion behind large white banners that stretched the width of the multi-laned avenue. Autumn’s winds had already had their way with the deciduous trees that lined Ferdowsi and only a few shrivelled brown leaves remained on their spindly branches. Thus Carrington could see that the numbers involved in the latest manifestation of dissent were beyond counting.

“So much for bloody martial law,” he muttered through gritted teeth that held a meerschaum pipe in need of a refill. Noticing that some of the activists were carrying fiery torches fuelled by petrol – or something similar – his eyes followed the heat waves into the air. It was only then that he became aware of plumes of black smoke on the eastern horizon.

As he walked back to his desk to open his tobacco tin, he remembered that today – 5 November – was Guy Fawkes Day. Then he heard a roar from the crowd. Hundreds had charged the front gates of the compound and penetrated its shoddy defences with ease. Iranian security guards retreated without a contest. Within seconds, there were masked men carrying torches - and others with gas canisters - in the ground floor reception area. Two gunmen were holding small automatic rifles and ordering the Embassy staff to clear the building. Shaheen stepped forward from the ranks of protesters to provide an English translation.

Carrington knew that this was no time for heroics. He persuaded the British staff to go to their houses and suggested that they pack a small bag of essentials in preparation for evacuation to the Embassy’s other compound on Old Shemiran Road. Those who actually lived in Qolhak also left the foyer.

The resultant movement of people distracted the mob long enough to allow the political staff to secure shutters that closed off the rooms containing classified documents and critical communications equipment. As the diplomats left the building, activists pushed past them. The accessible parts of the chancery were soon alight.

Smug leaders surveyed their work with an apparent degree of satisfaction but seemed to be intent on doing more damage. They called for Shaheen and directed him to tell Carrington – who, it seemed to them, was in effective command – to arrange for all the Britain-based staff and their families to assemble on a grassy patch in the middle of the compound, well out of the way of the worst of the fumes from the burning offices.

It was a slow process and the mob was losing patience. The leaders – keen to stamp their authority over the rabble - talked about how they might go about setting fire to the residences. Even the British diplomats with only a rudimentary knowledge of Farsi soon unravelled the meaning of the discussion.

Carrington was worried. It was clear from the gathering on the lawn that some of the wives had decided to hide in their dwellings along with their pre-school children.

His pipe gripped so tightly between his teeth that his head was beginning to ache, Carrington made his concern known to the Head of Chancery, within earshot of Shaheen, who was becoming increasingly uneasy about the whole situation. Setting fire to the empty offices was one thing but burning women and toddlers alive in their homes was another.

Shaheen decided to make an attempt to convince the ringleaders to move on to bigger targets. He began by reminding them they had very little gas left. As this sunk in, Shaheen added that their original objective had been to attack the Bank Melli building a short distance further down Ferdowsi Avenue.

Before the leaders could agree, the attentive mob was already moving off in the direction of the bank. In the rush for the gate, one of the demonstrators swung his gas bottle around and dislodged a leather brief case from under the arm of one of the Embassy’s middle-aged political officers. The bag snapped open as it dropped. Three bottles of Beefeater gin smashed on to the concrete path, their fall cushioned only by two recent issues of Mayfair magazine, a carton of Dunhill cigarettes, and a neatly folded white shirt.

Carrington looked at Shaheen and signaled a frail expression of gratitude with a wave of his right hand.

“No worries. I think we’ve caused you enough trouble for one day.” Shaheen stopped short of an apology but he truly felt sorry for these people in general and for Carrington in particular. He jogged off to rejoin his comrades.

“Can you believe that?” Carrington was addressing a relieved Head of Chancery. “I could swear that thug had an Australian accent.”

THE DAY TEHRAN BURNED

2011-11-13T13:34:00.004+11:00

The following is an excerpt from early drafts of David Morisset's novel set in Iran during the last days of the Shah.

After the violence of September, October 1978 brought a series of strikes in vital industries, including some that were nationwide in scale. The Iranian economy wobbled but Manijeh’s wedding was celebrated in customary style. The young couple drove away to enjoy a honeymoon on the Caspian shore.

Strikes meant that the road over the mountains to Chalus was almost deserted and also obliged Ahmad to take a supply of petrol with them. They stayed in Ramsar’s prestigious Grand Hotel. It was an extravagant structure set in splendid gardens decorating vast terraces. From the window of their suite they could see a coastline of deep green foliage studded with swaying palm trees, grey sands speckled with driftwood, and rippled blue waters reflecting yellow sunlight by day and silvery moonbeams by night.

Manijeh barely noticed the view. She had reached that age where love and sex had become as necessary to her life as food, water and shelter. But something seemed wrong.

Ahmad was attentive and caring at first. Soon though, he became more and more sullen and remote. He would spend long hours staring into the distance, even when the rain swept in from the sea and took away the pretty colours of the Caspian scenery. Ahmad believed that his masculine pride was under attack. It was, he thought, as if he had taken possession of Manijeh’s body only to find it lifeless and full of some sort of mysterious regret. He concluded that his manhood had failed to excite her.

As for Manijeh, she tried not to let her private thoughts meander to memories of Ben and his gentle lovemaking. But she could not help herself. Ben even visited her in delightful dreams. And yet, at first, she hung on grimly to a hope that she could become a devoted wife to Ahmad and, later, a good mother to his children. Then, her old feelings about Ben would rise up in her again.

Gradually, Ahmad found himself increasingly preoccupied with the painful events of the summer of 1977. Nevertheless, he was at times so dazzled by his bride’s naked beauty that sheer desire would override his reservations about her. Slowly, however, Ahmad’s misgivings about Manijeh’s past took over and spilled into their sexual union. He became cold. Then a pattern of cruelty started to infect his expressions of affection. Every act of intercourse became an opportunity to extract pitiless revenge and, sometimes, a way of forcing Manijeh into humiliating acts of submission to his intensifying sense of inadequacy. By the end of the fortnight they were behaving more like dogs than lovers.

If there was a precise moment in time when Manijeh became sure that their state of togetherness had decayed and died, it had come as they approached Tehran on the drive down the southern side of the Alborz mountains. It was late afternoon on 5 November 1978 and the light was failing into dusk. The sky above the still distant city was a deformed mixture of reflected orange light and what looked like swirling spirals of black smoke. As they got closer they saw that much of the capital was in flames. Manijeh gripped Ahmad’s right bicep in terror but he shook his arm free.

VOZARA AVENUE

2011-11-08T20:44:00.005+11:00

The following is an excerpt from a draft of David Morisset's novel about Iran in the last days of the Shah's rule.

At seven o’clock on Sunday morning Ben parked his car on Vozara Avenue about fifty metres from the third street. He walked down Vozara, hardly noticing the crisp air and the sunny sky, and stood on the corner of the third street. It occurred to him that Manijeh could approach her office from the other end of the street so he chose a spot where he could see the entire roadway.

Just before 7:30 am a young woman came into view. She was in a hurry. Ben recognized her immediately even though she was a hundred metres or more away. He ran to catch her before she could disappear into one of the buildings.

As Ben accelerated in a sort of panic, Manijeh saw him and gasped in a combination of surprise, terror and, to be sure, delight. She looked as beautiful as ever but Ben thought her hair was very much shorter than the last time they were together and she seemed a little thinner. Nevertheless, she was a vision in her dark grey suit, which hugged her body, the skirt showing off the curve of her hips. Her heels clicked on the concrete pavement and she slowed so that Ben could reach her without attempting a world record sprint.

His first instinct was to hold her but she put up her hand in protest.

“Ben … I told you not to try to see me … what are you doing here?” She was looking around, in all directions.

“I had to come. I can’t live without seeing you.”

“If anyone sees us ….” She glanced up and down the narrow street again and Ben could see that there was real fear in her eyes. “Please go … I will call you later and we can talk.”

“OK. I’ll go. But Mani, seeing you only proves that I can’t live without you. And I can see from your reaction that there is a part of you that is glad I am here.”

She smiled at him as if he was a naughty little boy. Despite her fears, she was prepared to forgive him almost anything.

“Please … go …I don’t want anything to happen”. When she said this, he turned his mouth into a big frown by moving his hand in a downward motion over his face. All her defences were down. She gently kissed his lips in consolation.

“You are going to be fat,” she said, prodding two or three buttons of his waist coat in a playful way.

“No I won’t. But you’ll have to look after me well to make sure.”

They were sharing the same thought – growing old together and staying in love forever. He put his right hand under her chin and drew her mouth towards his lips as she stood up on tip-toes. He kissed her – several small touches and then a longer but still tender kiss that neither of them wanted to end. They gradually moved closer together as if they were magnetized. Then their bodies just touched. Reluctantly, she pulled away. This was not the sort of behavior that was acceptable on a busy street even for couples that had the blessing of their families.

“Please … please go … I will call you … I promise.”

Turning on her stilettos, Manijeh started back up the street towards her office. She had walked well beyond it when she saw him running.

Flushed and deeply happy, Manijeh sat down at her desk hoping that her colleagues would not notice her excited state. Seeing Ben had proved to her that she could not risk being alone with him. Her body wanted him almost as much as her heart needed him.

MOVEMBER AGAIN

2011-10-28T20:28:00.013+11:00

The magnificent jacaranda trees are blooming all over Sydney and its suburbs. That means it’s nearly Movember. So, I’m donating my face to the cause by growing a moustache for the entire month of November. It's likely that my Mo will spark conversations (and possibly lead to my arrest). But it's all in the name of raising funds to combat the modern plagues of prostate cancer and male depression. The extent of depression-driven male suicide in Australia - particularly in farming regions - is absolutely shocking. Governments won't do anything, so it's up to private charities like Movember.

If, by chance, you're in a state of fiscal surplus (and even if you're not), please consider supporting my Movember campaign by making a donation by either:
*Donating online at: http://mobro.co/DavidMorisset OR
*Writing a cheque payable to ‘Movember,’ referencing my Registration ID: 1668206 and mailing it to: Movember, PO Box 60, East Melbourne, VIC, 8002

Funds raised will help make a tangible difference to the lives of others. Through the Movember Foundation and its men’s health partners - the Prostate Cancer Foundation of Australia and beyondblue (the national depression initiative) - funding will go to world class research, and also educational and support programs.

If you’d like to find out more about the type of work you’d be helping to fund by supporting Movember, take a look at the "Programs We Fund" section on the Movember website:http://au.movember.com/about

Thank you in advance for supporting my efforts to change the face of men’s health. All donations over $2 are tax deductible (in Australia anyway).

If you can, please donate at: http://mobro.co/DavidMorisset

ABOUT BLAGGARD AVENUE

2011-10-26T21:47:00.006+11:00

The following is the author's note which prefaces David Morisset's new novel.

When I was an economist I was always making forecasts. I was seldom sure about them. One prediction I can make with reasonable certainty is that there will be some people who will conclude that this novel is an account of the plight of Trio Capital Limited. That conclusion might be regarded as understandable; but it will still be wrong.

The first draft of this work was completed in the early months of 2010. It was inspired by a comment made by a financial journalist about the shady origins of some of the people associated with the Trio case. Taking the reporter’s lead, my story was based on a simple premise of explaining the murder of an unscrupulous fund manager. My first draft was finished well before any of the criminal realities underlying the Trio affair became known to me or to any other member of the general public.

In turning my first draft into a more coherent story over the past year or so, I tried at all times to ignore the facts that emerged as the extent of the Trio fraud was gradually exposed in the courts. My aim was to run with the story I had invented in my own mind. In my view, I succeeded.

For the sake of the investors and others who suffered because of that fraud, I hope that the whole truth about Trio will one day emerge. At this time much of it still remains a mystery to all of its victims, including me.

So this novel is fiction – nothing more but, of course, nothing less. Likewise the characters are my own creations and they live only in the pages of ‘Blaggard Avenue’.

BLAGGARD AVENUE

2011-10-26T21:36:00.006+11:00

David Morisset's new novel, "Blaggard Avenue", can now be obtained via CreateSpace at https://www.createspace.com/3671233 and is also available through Amazon.

"Blaggard Avenue" is a simple yarn set against the complex backdrop of Australia's huge funds management industry and the country's ambitions to become Asia's premier financial hub. The plot pits the naive, the gullible and the opportunistic against the ruthless, the efficient and the powerful. Fund managers, commercial lawyers, financial regulators and criminal gangs match wits in a contest that will produce more losers than winners. The author draws on his first-hand knowledge of the financial services sector to create a fictional world where risk and return take on extreme dimensions.

MANIJEH

2011-10-22T12:43:00.004+11:00

The following is an excerpt from drafts of David Morisset's novel set in 1970s Iran.

The final weeks of the Tehran autumn of 1976 saw the city exposed to the cold winds from the freezing north. Early in October, when the weather was still summery, Ben Jamison had driven four hundred kilometres to the old Median capital of Hamadan through countryside that looked like desert to a young Australian used to stately eucalypts and sweeping pastures. There were patches of cultivated land in some areas but the real highlights were the jagged mountains that rose unexpectedly out of the dusty plains.

Back in Tehran, Ben’s work at the Australian Embassy had some compensations despite the routine nature of much of it. He had a comfortable office with large windows looking north over Soraya Avenue and beyond the city towards the Alborz ranges. On a day almost free of haze he could see the snowy tops.

Already the majesty of the mountains had worked its magic on Ben. For a twenty-four year old Australian, overseas for the first time, such dramatic peaks were a novelty. All the serrated towers of the Alborz soared above Tehran’s stunted cityscape but Ben’s favorite, Damavand, was the highest. Unfortunately, it was invisible for most of the smog-smeared year.

Today the recent upland snow had cleaned enough dirt out of the air for Damavand to make a conspicuous appearance in the blurry distance. On days like this tourists were not the only ones staring at its volcanic coned summit and its cape of gleaming white. The most blasé of cosmopolitan Tehran’s populace could not help but turn to the north to see Damavand’s splendor.

However, for Ben, a young human resident of old Tehran had surpassed Damavand for sheer radiance. Her name was Manijeh Mehranzadeh. When Ben saw her for the first time she was sitting on the edge of a desk that was in the process of being moved from one side of the consular reception area to the other. The Embassy drivers who had volunteered to move Manijeh’s desk had stopped for a rest and a flirt with its owner.

Manijeh produced her bright smile and flashed her dark eyes with practised precision as she answered their inane questions. She was a picture of professional chic in a grey pin-stripe skirt that came to just below her knees but failed to hide the curves of her hips. Her white blouse was stretched tight around her midriff and emphasized her bust.

Ben could not understand the rapid Farsi repartee but Manijeh clearly maintained an easy advantage over the leering drivers who hung on her every word. The most articulate in his responses was Kambiz with his alert black eyes signaling that he clearly enjoyed the mental exercise. The other three drivers behaved as if they were hypnotized.

When Kambiz saw Ben, he made sure that they sprang into action and lifted the desk. Manijeh reacted quickly enough to plant her feet firmly on the floor by the time the desk became airborne; but she did not acknowledge Ben. Of course, she knew he was there, she knew he was looking at her, and she knew that there was something about him that was faintly appealing.

THE GOLDEN VEIL

2011-10-13T20:27:00.001+11:00

Trailer for Bahman Nassiri's film - an independent release - see YouTube for more about this remarkable piece of cinematic art.

MANAGING CROOKED MONEY

2011-10-11T20:03:00.004+11:00

The following is a brief excerpt from an early draft David Morisset's new novel (currently in the final stages of production).

The reason for Hawker’s nerves went beyond his worries about the financial engineering problem that HDC Securities was facing. At Happy Valley a couple of months ago he had shared a drink with Stan Watkins, a financial journalist, who was considering writing a story on the meteoric rise of HDC.

Hawker had given Watkins a thorough briefing that painted a consistently rosy picture. He could never be as convincing as Dimalanta on the technical aspects. But the Englishman was always able to turn on the charm in a ways that created an aura of credibility. The journalist had been just about to close his notebook when he had raised what seemed to be a closing question.

‘Oh, one more minor thing. How well do you know George Tsai?’

‘What do you mean old chap?’

‘No-one’s ever proved anything of course. But we all think that Tsai’s tied up with a Triad. Supposed to be quite high up in the food chain.’ Watkins watched the blood drain from Hawker’s face.

‘Blimey! Are you all right? S**t! You’re not managing money for that b******d are you?’ The laughter lines had by now completely gone from Watkins’ features.

Hawker could not bring himself to speak. Instead he took a large mouthful of his gin and tonic. He seemed to be trying to chew it in order to avoid conversation.

‘Be very bloody careful Gerald. Those gangs are not nice. They’re not people like you and me. They’re animals. Oh my God! Be very bloody careful.’

HAPPY MEMORIES

2011-10-05T20:07:00.003+11:00

One of the great songs of the sixties.

Was the Spooky Tooth version better than the original by the Band?

NAHAL*

2011-10-03T16:35:00.009+11:00

"Eat, friends, drink, and be drunk with love."
(Song of Solomon 5:2b ESV)

When all the poets are dead
And none can write of love,
Then the crows in black robes
Will have their victory.

But no man can stop the
The sun from shining
Nor can they stop its children,
The flowers, from blooming.

More poets will spring up
From the dust of the earth
To sing and dance and laugh.
Couples will always fall in love
And know that it is good -
As God intended it to be.

* Payvand News of Iran recently reported that Nahal Sahabi had died at her own hands not long after her lover, Benham Ganji, had also committed suicide. Both had been arrested in July 2011 and treated harshly in Tehran's Evin prison. Nahal was a kindergarten teacher and an accomplished poet. Her only crime - apart from touching upon political themes in some of her poetry - was that she was a friend of Kooyahr Goudarzi, a political activist accused of being a member of the Iranian Mojahedin (MEK). Mr Goudarzi is still in prison, apparently in solitary confinement. Just before her death, Nahal wrote on her blog: ‘So it’s Thursday again ... come, Behnam ... let’s dance together on Thursday once more.’ Iran's regime frowns on dancing. Nahal's name means 'a young plant'.

BONING ROOM

2011-10-03T14:29:00.005+11:00

An excerpt from an early draft of my novel set in 1960s western Sydney.

Climbing several flights of metal stairs that were pinned to the outside of a two storey building clad with a hap-hazard mixture of brick and galvanised iron (with the corrugations in vertical array), Fletcher opened the door to the cannery. It was hot and the workers, many of whom were middle-aged women, looked weary as they frequently wiped away drops of perspiration from their foreheads before salty drips could sting their eyes.

“No good sorts in 'ere mate. They’re all in the bonin' room. Come and I’ll show yer.” Fletcher pushed open a door and instead of moving towards the boning room office, turned the other way, opened another door, and ushered Horrie into the cool air of the boning room itself. From the noise, it seemed that they had chanced upon some sort of workers’ revolt.

“Cool down ya Danish dimwit or I’ll be 'avin’ a go at ya! And, as for you, Sticky, why can’t ya learn to keep yer big fat mouth shut?”

A burly foreman was standing between two boners, his arms separating them in the manner of referee in a boxing match, while several other workers tried to pull them away from each other. One of the boners was well over six feet tall, with clear skin and flaming eyes.

Horrie noticed that several of the meat packers, all young women, were gathering on the other side of the work floor. They all had their eyes glued to the lanky boner. Horrie recognised one of them. Valerie had been in his year at school but had left as soon as she turned fifteen years old. Since then she had had a baby boy and was now separated from her husband, an oafish slob from Wakeville with a drinking problem. Valerie’s eyes alternated between the Dane’s eyes and an area just below his leather belt as the well built boner strained to break free from his handlers, kicking his legs out in the effort.

Sticky was a well-known character around the works. He was a stumpy Englishman with a quick wit and a nasty turn of phrase when he was riled. At just over five feet tall, he would have been no match for the Dane but that was never going to stop him. A trickle of blood ran from a gash on the bridge of his nose but otherwise he appeared to have come through the uneven tussle unscathed. The foreman’s intervention seemed to have stopped things really getting out of hand.

Three Maltese labourers with big smiles and muscular arms took the opportunity of the lull in proceedings to lift a dislodged hindquarter of beef off the floor and back onto the rails above Sticky’s boning table.

“Ya can’t do that ya’ silly wogs,” the foreman bellowed. “Get an inspector to look at it. It’s probably all right but this is an export run for the US so it’s gotta be perfect. As for youse two, I want both of youse to go home for the day and cool off. Youse’re the two best boners on this shift so it’s a f***in’ nuisance. I’m dockin’ both of youse and calling in Handy and Puller to cover yer quotas – if I can get ‘em outta the pub. Strike me pink Gunnar, I had ya in line for a foreman’s job. Why can’t ya control that rotten temper?”

“It’s not me. It’s that Pommie bag of rats. He keeps callin’ me German,” the big Dane protested.

“Can’t even speak proper English,” Sticky responded. “Youse‘re all the same. Krauts, Scandies, Daegoes, Ities and the rest of the wogs. All on the wrong bloody side when the guns start going off!’

“Jesus Christ Sticky!” the foreman said with a shake of his head. “The war’s been over for twenty f***in’ years – more than that. There’s been others since then ya’ know. One on right now if ya’ haven’t noticed. Take ‘im in that direction and ‘im in that direction. I don’t wanna to see ‘em again till tomorrow morning.”

Horrie chose that moment to glance around the room. He soon spotted his friend, Alan, perched on a high stool where a conveyor belt laden with cartons disappeared into the freezers through a tiny hatch. Alan was working as a tally clerk, his longish hair wrapped in a white net just like the ones worn by the rest of the boning room workers. With a wide smile, he gave Horrie a wave. Then Alan clenched his fists and held them under his chin in the manner of a prize fighter.

A few seconds later Horrie sensed another pair of eyes were on him. They belonged to Valerie. He had always fancied her a little so he sneaked a bashful smile. Valerie grinned back and winked, as if to raise the stakes. Then she put on a false frown when Horrie started to walk towards the exit door behind a retreating Fletcher.

RIVO CURRIED SAUSAGES

2011-09-29T20:15:00.002+10:00

Just for a change ... a recipe for those cold rainy nights ...

2 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon of dried oregano
1 tablespoon of dried basil
1 tablespoon of dried coriander
2 tablespoons of curry powder
1 teaspoon of cayenne pepper (optional)
1 dollop of tomato sauce*
1 tablespoon of worcestershire sauce
1 cup of water
500 grams of cooked penne pasta
500 grams of cooked sausages (pork or beef or both) sliced
1 can (800 grams) of chopped tomatoes in juice
2 large red onions coarsely chopped
1 large green capsicum chopped
2 green chilli peppers sliced and diced (optional)

Pour oil into deep 13 inch frypan on high heat.
Reduce heat slightly and add onions, chilli peppers, capsicum, oregano, basil and coriander.
Cook with pyrex lid on frypan, stirring occasionally, until onions and capsicum start to become tender (about 5 minutes).
Add the sausages and continue cooking the mixture with lid on for another 5 minutes or so, stirring occasionally.
Add the curry and cayenne pepper and stir into the mixture with water.
Add the tomatoes (with their juice), worcestershire sauce and tomato sauce and stir into the mixture.
Heat the mixture until it is just boiling.
Immediately turn down heat and let the mixture simmer gently with lid on for about 5 minutes.
Stir the mixture and lay the pasta on top of the mix.
Simmer gently with lid on for another 5 minutes.
Stir in the pasta and continue to simmer gently with lid on until the excess liquid has evaporated.
Keep warm until you're ready to serve it (tastes even better reheated the next day after a night in the refrigerator!).

Generous servings for 2 to 4 people depending on the appetites involved!

* "for sweetness and that extra tang" (to quote Paul Kelly's 'How to Make Gravy')

A MEETING OF GREAT MINDS

2011-09-25T18:20:00.003+10:00

The following is an excerpt from an early draft of a new novel.

It was mid-afternoon, when the Directors were ushered into a glass encased meeting room high above the smaller office towers and tourist destinations of Circular Quay. They were soon joined by Duncan Lennox and two of his colleagues.

All of the lawyers were dressed impeccably compared to the Kamelan contingent, although Fleming was well attired in a smart navy blue business suit and a caramel coloured cashmere pashmina. Lennox introduced the others in turn.

Edward Mackey was a litigation lawyer with a seemingly permanent sneer and an air of superciliousness that appeared impregnable. He took his seat without greeting anyone else in the room and proceeded to peruse a huge pile of paper he had brought with him.

Dominique Templin was an acknowledged expert in legal structures related to overseas hedge funds. As she smiled and shook hands with each Director, she seemed determined to prove that she was rather more approachable than the demonstrably pugnacious Mackey.

‘Gentlemen, and Ms Fleming, and, of course, Ms Templin, you have probably already worked out that the regulators think that money might have been stolen from your superannuation funds.’ Lennox made the statement as if he was beginning a sermon in a fundamentalist church. All he needed was a pulpit to lean on while he looked around the room and waited for any reactions.

‘Well that’s simply ridiculous. Mitch, surely the custodians in Australia and Hong Kong can confirm the existence of the assets. Have you contacted them?’ McAdam was still convinced that this was a compliance problem that could be solved with the right paperwork.

‘Australia’s OK. The Hong Kong custodians say it’s none of the Australian regulators’ business.’ King looked as if he had not slept for at least two days. His long blond hair was greasy and he had dark circles under both bloodshot eyes.

‘You’re kidding! Aren’t we the client here? Don’t we pay the custodian to serve us and our investors?’ McAdam was frustrated with King’s apparent lack of interest in answering him. The lawyers filled the gap caused by King’s silence.

‘We think the best thing to do is sit down with the key people at APRA and talk it through – find it what’s really troubling them. We’ve set up a meeting for 3 pm tomorrow and we need all Directors there. They’ve agreed to meet on the basis of complete confidentiality.’ Lennox had sat down but he was still intent on dictating the course of the discussion.

‘Obviously the content of the meeting with APRA is confidential and I have no problems with that. But is the fact that we’re having a meeting confidential?’ McAdam’s question was a genuine request for clarification. It was also a gentle reminder that this was his Board, it usually met under his chairmanship, and the lawyers were mere guests invited to provide advice.

‘Who do you want to tell about the meeting and why do you want to tell them?’ Mackey asked his question with disdain bubbling from a caustic tone.

‘I’m merely seeking clarification. I have no plans to tell anybody about anything.’ McAdam glared at Mackey, who further exaggerated his scornful expression in response. Both men looked over their reading glasses as if daring the other to blink.

A BIT OF A WIDE BOY

2011-09-21T22:31:00.005+10:00

The following is an excerpt from early drafts of a new novel .

‘So far we’ve found out enough to make us very curious.’ Bennet went on in all seriousness now. ‘It seems that Dimalanta was a bit of a wide boy – very talented but not exactly orthodox. Liked to take risks with other people’s money and skim the cream. There’s even a suggestion that he and Hawker were lovers. There’s also evidence that he was bonking Hawker’s Filipina maid-cum-bedmate-cum-procurer – a former prossie apparently.’

Fleming reached for the bottle of scotch but Mackey did the honours. Bennet kept talking.

‘Hawker got involved with a Chinese gangster and pitched to manage some of his money. Our man believes that the boys were so naïve they’d never heard of Triads. Anyway, they were probably so eager to grow their business that they mightn’t have cared much anyway. At the same time, the funds set up by Dimalanta and Collins – believe me, Collins did a lot of the grunt work – amounted to little more than a Ponzi scheme. Large amounts of money were siphoned into tax havens via companies owned by our terrible trio. So, we’ve got an interesting scenario already. Ponzi scheme plus gangster money plus fraud plus theft. But, as it happens, it got worse.’

Fleming nudged her glass so that Mackey would get the message and refill it. This time she refused the offer of ice. Bennet took a large mouthful from his own glass before he resumed his narrative.

‘Dimalanta decided to try some market timing with the gangster money. Collins did the deals but Dimalanta called the shots. They skimmed the winnings and all three moved up in life. New apartments, wine, women and song. At some point there seems to have been a falling out between Hawker and Dimalanta. No more happy threesomes with Hawker’s obliging housemaid – in fact, she scarpered and rejoined her family in Manila with a bag full of money from somewhere.’

‘How can you be sure of all this?’ Fleming’s almond eyes were almost round with amazement.

‘Our man’s very good – very thorough.’ Bennet winked at Yuko.

‘Very f****’ expensive too!’ Mackey regretted his slurred exclamation as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

‘Be that as it may. Eventually, the gangsters wanted their money back. Our three heroes panicked of course. They had to unwind positions on the local stock exchange at just the wrong time. Money had to be repatriated from the Caribbean. Banks had to be persuaded to move quickly. It was all very distressing for Collins, who did most of the work. Hawker took it very badly. Dimalanta, however, seems to have been oblivious to the danger. But, as we now know, he was wrong.’

Fleming stood and started to walk around the room. Her head was spinning.

‘With all the delays and flimsy excuses the gangsters figured it out. Our man actually thinks they might have known from the beginning. But the next bit is a bit of a surprise. Dimalanta does a deal with a man called George Tsai. Tsai buys the funds management business and – indirectly – funds the boys’ escape to the greener pastures of Australia. Then something goes wrong.’

Fleming shook her head and sat down again. Her legs were feeling weak.

‘You see, Mr Tsai is none other than the gangster – the Triad leader – who’s been their best customer all these months. It's conceivable that he made the investments with the intention of buying our boys out when they stuffed up. You have to admit that it’s a very clever play if that’s what happened. Dimalanta walked straight into a trap. But, inexplicably – sh**, that’s hard to say after so much scotch. Inexplicably, Hawker takes the view that the deal does not suit him. He goes to Tsai’s people and complains. They’re very annoyed and not inclined to renegotiate.’

Mackey was watching Fleming closely. Her dress had ridden up to her waist on one side as she sat awkwardly on her seat with one leg tucked underneath her.

‘When things started to get nasty, Hawker decided to offer up Dimalanta and put all the blame on him. Perhaps he thought he could cut Dimalanta out of the deal. The gangsters cut off one of Hawker’s fingers for his trouble. The next bit is a bit blurry but the upshot is that Dimalanta finishes up dead – strapped to the bow of a ferry after he had bled to death. Collins inherits Dimalanta’s money and Hawker is so scared that he accepts his rather diminished lot. Which brings us to where we are today.' Bennet stopped talking and reached for his drink.

Mackey looked at his watch and then spent a few seconds fiddling with his mobile phone. Fleming’s head was still spinning but it was full of questions. Before she could turn any of them into coherent phrases, there was a quiet knock on the door.

SENSES AND SEASONS

2011-09-18T22:36:00.006+10:00

We saw under the sun

And looked through the dusk.

We watched in the dark

And made our own sight.

We woke to birds’ cries

And heard as leaves browned.

We listened in the rain

And recorded all the sounds.

We treasured scents of summer

And enjoyed them in autumn.

We played in winter’s perfume

And saved it as our pleasure.

We touched in searing heat

And caressed its fresh sequel.

We made love in cold air

And warmed its chill with us.

We tasted sweet sun’s skin

And savoured it in shadows.

We coiled in coldest night

And cuddled in crisp light.

MUSIC AS A CURE FOR DEPRESSION

2011-09-17T11:20:00.002+10:00

Proof that music is a great cure for depression ... although the video's a bit weird.

"WE'D NEVER LET THE BLOODY GOVERNMENT GET CONTROL OF EVERYTHING"

2011-09-13T20:46:00.007+10:00

The following is a short excerpt from early drafts of David Morisset's novel set in the 1960s.

“What’s communism when it’s at ‘ome?” The private spoke in a barely audible whine.

“What d’ yer mean yer silly bugger? It’s at ‘ome ‘here. Quieten down!" The patrol leader was edgy.

“What is it then? I’ve no bloody idea! I know I’m fightin’ it. Well, I’m fightin’ those bastards in black pyjamas. So, it must be bad, by Jesus! But what is it?”

“It’s when government controls all yer life.”

“Like bein’ in the army?”

“Christ, you’re stupid!”

“Listen yer ….”

Several other men pulled the nasho back before he could finish his expletive and lunge at the patrol leader. They spent several seconds readjusting their battle gear before they felt secure again.

“All of my life? All of it? You’re pullin’ my leg you dopey bastard. The other one whistles, you know?”

“S**t! Yeah, yer dimwit! All of it! Taxes yer to death. Tells yer where to go and what to do. Even makes sure that yer don’t r**t the missus until yer got permission.”

“Ain’t got a missus!”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Listen, yer f***in’ know-it-all! Do yer think I came down in the last shower?”

The patrol leader sighed and tried to think of a suitable response as he surveyed the horizon with steely blue eyes that were trained to see even the invisible. Nothing stirred. None of the trees were big enough to hide much and the grassland was like a shallow sea before the afternoon chop blew white horses across its turquoise ripples and drove families off the sandy beach and home to their barbecues and quite beers. But there was something not quite right. Then he realised there was a familiar whiff of something sulphurous mixed in with the other acrid odours of the Vietnamese countryside.

“Don’t worry about him! He’s bonkers!” Horrie had chimed in with his opinion and quickly decided to say no more. He looked out over the grassland, his hands shaking as if the next moment that would reveal his cowardice was seconds away.

“I might be bonkers but I’m right!”

“Right about what?” The patrol leader said the words but barely heard them himself. To his left – at eleven o’clock – there was now the slightest of movements. He saw the smoke rise before he heard the shots and signalled everyone to hit the ground.

Fire and its accompaniments burst through the evening light. The sound was deafening but, when it subsided after only a few seconds, the political debate resumed in a hoarse whisper.

“Right about Australia. We’d never let the bloody government get control of everything. We’re here to fight for freedom against these brainwashed commie c***s." Inexplicably the garrulous private stood up to make his next point. “It’s a cause worth dyin’ for if the next generation of kids gets to grow up free.”

The patrol leader reached to pull the standing speaker back to the ground. Another series of cracks split the air. The senior soldier groaned and tried to deal with the claret running down his shattered left arm. The outspoken private moved swiftly to help him and said no more about politics.

"GOT DUST ON MY SHOES"

2011-09-05T20:43:00.001+10:00

Springsteen says it like nobody else. Is it really ten years since 9/11?

FATRAT, BUNGER AND WAFFLE

2011-08-31T18:40:00.002+10:00

The following is an excerpt from David Morisset's novel set in western Sydney at the time of the Vietnam War.

Patches of powder blue had finally started to peak through the graphite clouds that covered the sky that day. Horrie was tired. When he looked up, he saw the sky was brightening. It had no impact on him. Fatigue had overtaken him several hours ago.

Another flood had swept through the small town and made a mess of the Redgate meatworks. Like many of the workers, from labourers up to managers, Horrie had pitched in to help. Some of the younger men had wandered away during the early afternoon to find consolation in the main bar of the Coro. Older workers shook their heads and continued to work until their lower legs and upper arms were wracked with cramps. Eventually some of them gave up and went home via the pub or the bowling club.

Horrie stuck it out until sunset. He really put in an effort. In his mind, somehow, it seemed the right thing to do. The looks on the faces of the older men, who had seen it all many times before, just made Horrie more determined to do his best.

At first, Horrie had helped moved some of the penned sheep to higher ground. Later he had carried heavy wet fleeces from the flooded lower floor of the skin shed. He had hung them to dry along the barbed wire fences near the railway line, creating an effect that had train passengers staring but not understanding.

Eventually, Horrie decided it was time to go home. It was getting dark quickly. The sun had already lit up the clouds as it slowly retired behind the Blue Mountains. Grey turned to orange and then to crimson. Horrie watched the last of the weak sun for the day. Soon he was distracted by streaky red shimmers dancing on the dirty water that covered the paddocks between the meatworks and Kookaburra Creek. Once the performance was over, other aspects of the view caught Horrie’s attention. The meatworks houses near the creek were three quarters hidden by water that made patterns just below the eaves. Most of the houses on Butcher’s Row were, for once, spared. Water filled gardens and covered the lawns; but inside the houses were dry. Elsie would be relieved.

It was the same at the Coronation Hotel. The flood had stopped just short of the rear of the grand building. Some of the run-off had seeped into the beer cellar but there was no real damage. The stench of the flood failed to douse the smell of stale ale that seemed to be part of the fabric of the ancient vault and its wooden barrels of amber fluids.

Horrie walked around the long way instead of taking his chances with the mud and slush on the western side of the railway line. He walked through the railway gates on Albert Road and stopped, as if he was considering a momentous decision. Thirst and hunger made up his mind for him

Entering the main bar to cheers from some of the other meatworkers, Horrie bought himself a schooner of Reschs. He sipped it at first so he could feel the cool ointment of the frothy head on his parched lips. Then he took a little of the bubbly ale into his mouth and let it bring his taste buds to life. Finally, he downed a series of big mouthfuls. The first one hit his empty stomach like a flaming torch. It burned and almost caused him to grimace. But then the magic liquid lulled his stomach into relaxation and he smiled in gratitude at the tingles. He had almost emptied the glass when he heard a familiar voice.

“Come over ‘ere, Fatrat, me mate! It’s Waffle’s round. ‘E’ll buy yer anothery!” Bunger was smiling from ear to ear. He was dressed in grey shorts and wellington boots. The affable football coach might have looked like the man in the King Gee commercials except that he was splashed with putrid yellow mud from the waist down. His burly body was covered by an old Regdate jersey. It must have been one from the fifties. The gold vee was absent and the plain maroon was faded almost to mauve. A torn plastic seven hung on grimly to the front of the guernsey. The maroon dye in the rest of the garment had turned the originally white number almost pink one washing day.

“Ere yar Fatrat.” Waffle had returned with six schooners precariously lodged between his bare brown arms and his hard stomach. He thrust his tummy forward and each of his mates carefully extracted a glass each. They were experts. Not a drop of beer was lost. “Were yer tryin’ to win a medal? Most of us ‘ve been ‘ere over an hour. Any way well done mate! Must ‘ve been all that fightin’ in Vietnam that made yer so responsible all of a sudden. Don’t worry. Yer can slack off a bit. We won’t be sendin’ yer back overseas. Someone’s gotta keep the scrum stable. Ain’t that right Bunger?”

After four more schooners, Horrie started to walk home along Butcher’s Row. The ground was so damp that his gum boots left deep footprints. No stars were visible in the sky. More rain soon despite the red sunset? As he walked past Sharlene’s old house, a small tear ran down his cheek. Then the rain started and washed the salty liquid away.

RUMI'S FIELD

2011-08-24T19:49:00.015+10:00

"Out beyond ideas of right and wrong there is a field. I will meet you there."

Rumi

There's no time left to take a chance again

We wandered and left our moment behind.

At first our choice was separate paths we took -

'Til there was no way back that we could find.

You sauntered and drove yourself to wreckage,

I climbed and I tried and went much too far.
Your end was tragic and much too early,
My fall was slow but led me to our scar.

Somewhere there is time we'll spend together -

In Rumi's field where there's no right nor wrong.
And those who see us will be like we are:
Glad to be one amidst a misjudged throng.

SONGS FROM THE SECOND CIRCLE

2011-08-13T12:34:00.009+10:00

David Morisset's second book of poems is now available via Amazon.

It can also be purchased at CreateSpace (please see https://www.createspace.com/3659254).

The collection explores themes ranging from the romantic to the overtly political. David also endeavours to describe some of the pleasures we can know in today's messy, but still beautiful, world. Despite the shotgun-like diversity of his poetry, it is distinguished by an habitual return to the promises of new beginnings arising from failure and, at times, tragedy.

AN APPARENTLY CAPRICIOUS GOD

2011-08-11T20:11:00.007+10:00

The following is a short excerpt from an early draft of David Morisset's novel about life in western Sydney at the time of the Vietnam War.

It was just like any other village in the contested areas. There were children and old people, and a couple of younger, pregnant woman. The men and the unencumbered females were either in the fields or in the tunnels – assuming there were tunnels (and usually there were several). Nobody seemed surprised to see an Australian patrol and most averted their eyes – except for the youngest groups of children, who studied the white monsters as if they were expecting to see acts of magic or something much worse.

The soldiers moved slowly, their round alert eyes taking in as much as possible each time they scanned the village and its surrounds, trying to distinguish between their own noise and anything moving in the scrub and trees on all sides. Some were distracted by the fear-ridden attention of the children. What did the youngsters expect to see? What lies had their fertile minds been filled with?

A sharp crack split the quietness and one of the new lance-corporals stepped backwards and fell, his left hand instinctively trying to staunch the blood flow coming from his gashed groin. It was a good two seconds before he grunted a cry of pain – long after the older women in the village had screamed in rough harmony and had begun to gather the children and shield them with their own aged bodies.

Horrie could not remember the new lance-corporal’s name – just another regular soldier who had signed up either out of a family tradition or a conviction about the war. He had shown little regard for the nashos but that might change now that two of them were giving him first aid and another was initiating a radio conversation to request a chopper for a man who was in danger of bleeding to death. Despite the sweaty heat, the other soldiers shivered in relief and turned their minds to silent prayers, thanking an apparently capricious god for sparing them until next time.

THAT WAS YEARS AGO

2011-08-11T20:04:00.000+10:00

CANNIBALISM IN EARLIER TIMES

2011-07-23T11:43:00.005+10:00

Weddings Parties Anything in full flight, reminding us that trusting others is apparently a strategy for fools.

HEARTBREAKING

2011-07-04T22:01:00.000+10:00

Iranian Woman's Testimony of Rape and Torture from IntlCampforHRinIran on Vimeo.

CULTURE SHOCK

2011-06-30T16:27:00.009+10:00

Nobody looks remotely like me
But the ladies' dark eyes are lovely,
And tresses so sleek and skin so smooth -

Gold ranging through to black-like blue.

And I can't understand a word
In the cascade of conversations -
Foreign face to face, almond eye to eye -
And loudmouth tones on smart mobile phones.

Signs slide by in swirling scripts
I cannot decipher at all;
And alien blurs flash by foggy glass,
Waiting just to ride like those of us inside.

But then a voice breaks into my state,
Steered by static and strange accent,
And yet still clear enough to give the gist
That guides expectation: 'Strathfield next station'.

NEDA ... STILL I'M SAD

2011-06-16T18:30:00.004+10:00

With acknowledgements to the talented Airborne Toxic Event, a truly underrated American band.

WHITE SWAN

2011-06-10T23:08:00.004+10:00

You sailed into the creek

Of my muddy life

Like a sweet white swan

Looking for a lake of lavender

That was serene enough

To bear your beauty

And secure enough

To greet your gracefulness.

But I knew all the time

That you would paddle onwards –

Another body of turquoise water

Was always beckoning you.

Its conceit made me seem sickly,

Bereft of cerulean sparkles,

And deadly dank with rank remains

Of ruined possibilities.

So I am left at a loss

As if I’d been dredged dry;

But the remnants of ripples

And gentle wet waves

Of your perfect presence

Are still lingering -

They will finally splash one day

On a shocked shore of rock and rubble.

FLOODS (PART 2)

2011-06-09T20:27:00.005+10:00

The following is an excerpt from early drafts of David Morisset's novel about life on the western fringe of Sydney in the 1960s.

Horrie was still a deep sleeper in his first term of high school. The growing pains and other strains of puberty were yet to disrupt his ability to snooze for eight to ten hours at a time without the slightest possibility of a wakeful disturbance. So he was still asleep and dreaming when Elsie shook his shoulder and encouraged him to rise and leave his warm bed. As his bare feet touched the cold linoleum floor his mother’s voice finally registered in his waxy ears.

“Hop up, pet, and get dressed. The creek’s overflowed again – bugger it – and yer father’s gotta put yer mattress in the ceilin’ cavity. ‘E’ll need yer to ‘elp ‘im put yer bed base and dressin’ table up on a few bricks. Yer brother’s worn out – ‘e and yer father ‘ave been shiftin’ things since just after midnight. C’mon now. Wakey, wakey!” Elsie pushed Horrie’s fringe back and kissed his forehead, trying all the time to conceal her agitation.

Horrie had gulped down a bowl of Kellogg’s corn flakes soaked in creamy milk, and flavoured with a heaped desert spoon’s load of sugar, before he was aware of Clarrrie’s frantic activity. His father’s voice soon boomed through the back door’s flimsy fly screen.

“C’mon son! Out the back and bring in some bricks. I”ve gotta get ‘em under the lounge chairs and the china cabinet. The tele’s already up in the roof – bloody ‘eavy bastard too!” Clarrie’s face was flushed to a deep red and his bloodshot eyes made him look a little mad.

Saying nothing, Horrie took his empty bowl to the soapstone sink, opened up the back door (which was jammed tight because the house’s foundations had moved with the swelling of the clay soil around them), and ran down the back steps, missing every second one. At first he avoided the spongy wet ground by keeping to the narrow concrete path. He paid a quick visit to the outside toilet and then tip-toed over the sodden grass all the way to the back fence, where a stack of red house bricks waited for him. The wooden grey fence palings were soaked and the brown flood water was seeping through at ground level. By the time Horrie returned for his fourth armful of bricks, the water had risen to such an extent that his bare feet were all but covered. When he picked up the last of the bricks just over half an hour later, the water was lapping at his knees. As he helped Clarrie lift the furniture, the flood kept rising. And it kept on rising as lunchtime approached.

Autumn had begun with a series of downpours that disrupted the football season and filled the dams, rivers and creeks to bursting point. Then there was a week of those wonderful pre-Winter days that Sydney and its rich hinterland take for granted – a bracing chill in the morning air, clear blue skies with only the tiniest fluffy clouds at midday, and brilliant orange sunsets as the cool night took hold. But soon the downpours started again and they persisted mightily for two full weeks. The Hawkesbury River backed up and Kookaburra Creek was on the way to a peak well above the level of its rough banks and the adjacent clover of the meatworks paddocks.

“They say it’s not gonna peak ‘til six o’clock tonight.”

“’Oo says?”

“The radio – 2GB.”

“”Bugger!”

“They say the flood situation’s deterioratin’.”

“Doesn’t that mean its gettin’ better?”

“Clarrie!”

Elsie did not know whether to laugh or cry but it was evident from the look on his face that Clarrie was exhausted and he was not trying to be funny. She gave a quick but affectionate cuddle and set off towards their bedroom to pack a suitcase with dry clothes.

The rain kept falling and the flood kept advancing across the paddocks until the houses at the lower end of Butcher’s Row had water up to their window sills. The Sherwood house was on a small mound but the projected peak for the creek was still five hours away. So the family crossed the railway line carrying two suitcases and a few precious keepsakes. By six that evening there was four feet of water through their house – well above the level of the bricks holding up the heavy items of furniture. The flood had already set new records.

While Elsie could no longer hold back her tears – and she was not inclined to see any value in remaining stoic – she knew there were many much worse off than her. At the low end of Butcher’s Row only the peaked tin rooves of the waterlogged houses were visible – even the belongings consigned to the ceiling cavities would be ruined in those dwellings. Elsie cried as much for them – the women she had worked with during the War when many of the men were away fighting the Japanese - as she did for herself.

Horrie was finding it all a bit of an adventure despite the dreary chores and heavy lifting. Yet, by nightfall, he was beginning to regret the reality of the day and he realised he had nowhere to watch his favourite television shows, nowhere to eat a hot dinner, nowhere to sleep, and, to be sure, nowhere to wake up in the morning. Eventually, he was ushered into the main hall of the Bowling Club and offered a prime spot in a warm corner reserved by his alert mother.

The Coro had been out of bounds since early afternoon and many of the townspeople retired to the RSL Club between regular inspections of how far the water had risen. Around midday the brown water had poured into the pub’s old cellar and it quickly rose to well above the level of the bar in the saloon section. The publican and some of his best patrons had worked industriously through the morning to move as many items as possible to the upper storey and then waited helplessly for the rain and water to do their worst – listless arms leaning on the slippery railings of the lace-flanked verandah that wrapped itself around the hotel’s first floor rooms.

Meanwhile, meatworkers moved livestock to higher ground as a first priority and then tried to empty the main office, the store, the smallgoods, the skin shed, and the rest of the low level facilities of their contents before the water arrived. They toiled hard and they were remarkably successful. But they were almost oblivious to the damage being done to some of their absent co-workers homes.

The most appalling stage of a flood is the part when the waters have receded. Horrie helped his father and his brother carry out the ruined furniture. Then he carted bricks back down to the back fence – his bare feet making squelching sounds in the soaked ground and, occasionally, mud or something worse would fill the gaps between his toes. After that there was the endless scrubbing of walls stained with muck and sludge that had once been sticky but had now hardened. But the smell – the atrocious stink – was seemingly impossible to remove. Horrie wondered if it would ever go away.

“I know it’s not really our place. But I’ve been ‘ere so long – it’s really my ‘ouse – the bloody works doesn’t look after it. I do. Horrie, pet, your father and I’ve worked so ‘ard to get this little ‘ouse just right. Now we’ve gotta start again.” Tears dribbled down Elsie’s cheeks as she spoke and Horrie watched her wet eyes, his nostrils still irritated by the foul flood’s stench.

PRANCING GRAVEDIGGERS

2011-06-08T20:14:00.008+10:00

It’s impossible to make meaning of it
When you’re reduced to the lowly status
Of untrustworthy collateral damage
And the old joys of life slip into sick hiatus.

The glee of the gravediggers seems objectionably obscene
And a gross distortion of the heartbreak of accidental death.
While the decisions of state make nothing like sense
And greedy perpetrators barely stop for breath.

There were friendships lost and good names spoiled,
All because of a hijack that careened into a crash,
Leaving more wounds than anyone will ever want to treat -
Various victims were violated, compacted like tins of trash.

So the months become years as dull despair destroys rare resolve,
Until there are no lingering leftovers of life on which to advance –
All because the bad and ugly chose to loot and steal and lie and cheat.
But why, pray tell, did the self-righteous good opt to pose and preen and prance?

CYRUS

2011-06-07T20:21:00.002+10:00

Born to a king and Mandana,
Bright shining like sunlight he rode
Conquered and then set free captives,
Justice and love freely bestowed.

False kings all fell to great Kourosh;
He saved, rebuilt and truly reigned,
Gave rights to all who sought his peace –
Persia’s empire of freedoms gained.

People across the ancient world
Called him “Father”, and called him “great”;
Cassandana called him beloved –
To his glory he fought vain hate.

But now the beard of great Kourosh
Must be drenched hot by each scorched tear,
He sees his wisdom cast aside -
His homeland wrecked, riddled with fear.

FLOODS

2011-05-27T16:56:00.004+10:00

The following is an excerpt from early drafts of David Morisset's novel about life on the western outskirts of Sydney during the 1960s.

When Kookaburra Creek backed up and its excess water washed over the flat alluvial plain that made up the fertile southern and western flanks of Redgate, the resultant floods caused so much damage that there was only one strategy to deal with it. The town’s residents rallied to accommodate those displaced in temporary lodgings and then waded through the stinking brown water to begin the back-breaking restoration work that would go on for weeks. Eventually the water receded, although for months it seemed to linger in various forms - a foul stench that filled pockets of the town’s air, a series of watermarks that scarred buildings and demanded to be scrubbed away, and muddy moisture that seeped to the surface every time a foot was placed on the sodden ground.

So frequent were the floods that they took on mythic proportions. The old timers told tales of the flood of an unspecified year in the middle of the nineteenth century – a time when even the most senior of the town’s current citizenry were not yet children and, so, they could never have seen the scenes they described so vividly.

“The ‘ole of the area on this side of the train line was like a lake – no, more like an inland sea.” The voice of Tosser Smithers bounced off the hard walls of the Coro. Tosser was always inclined to exaggeration but his nickname came from his younger days when he was no-balled out of three cricket matches in a row before he slowed his delivery to a medium-paced in-swinger that rarely threatened anyone but the meekest of tail-enders. Only his dogged middle-order batting kept him in the Hotel’s side for the annual match against the Bowling Club’s team.

“So ‘ow’d that affect the trains, Tosser? Were passengers issued with oars or outboard motors?” Clarrie could not resist the temptation to goad Tosser into further embellishment. Everyone else within earshot laughed at Clarrie’s irreverence, sipped their Reschs, leaned against the bar, and waited for Tosser’s response to his tormentor. They knew from past form that Tosser would never disappoint them. The mammoth flood that none of them – not even Tosser – were old enough to have seen – was a fountainhead of new stories that would never run dry until Tosser was rotting in the grounds of the cemetery by Kookaburra Creek.

“There were no trains then, yer silly bugger. What’d they teach youse lot at school? Yer wouldn’t know what day it is Sherwood! And yer somethink important down at the works. Bugger me. It’s amazin' that the place still makes a quid!”

Tosser’s tirade gave him enough time to gather his thoughts and call on his memories. For they were indeed real memories – not of what he had seen, but of what he had heard – authentic memories of the way his father had described the great flood of the 1840s or the 1850s or whenever it had actually occurred. In truth, not even Tosser’s father had seen the flood. He had learned of it from his father, an emancipated convict who had settled on a farm by the Hawkesbury River and often earned a few extra shillings by droving cattle, regularly crossing the Redgate floodplain on the way to market.

“Sorry Tosser. ‘Ave another schooner and p’raps the trains’ll come early for a change!” Clarrie signalled the barman and dropped a coin on to the mirror polished hardwood of the counter top.

“There were waves just like at bloody Manly beach. Huge ones. But they were brown and smelled like ... like the dunny in ‘ere after yer’ve been in it Sherwood!” Tosser was now in the ascendancy and Clarrie was content to give way to his elder.

“’Ere yer go. Cheers ol’ mate.” Clarrie pushed the frothy topped schooner of bubbly brown ale towards Tosser and winked at him.

“Problem was everyone was too poor to have boats. But some of the farmers from down on the Hawkesbury River rowed up. But they couldn’t ‘elp anyone much. It was all water from Redgate to Kurrajong! They were lookin' for a dry place to sleep and somethink to eat. But everyone went ‘ungry. Those bloody silvertails in Sydney did bugger all to ‘elp. No Labour Party in them days. Half the town packed up and went to the gold fields. Most came back poorer than they were when they left.” And so Tosser went on and his audience was gradually drawn into the narrative and began to believe in the great flood of the 1840s or the 1850s or whenever.

The problem was that there were no official records of such a flood. Once the effects of beer wore off, the images of curling brown waves with beige foaming crests were dismissed as mere legend – something to wonder at but not a matter to be seriously considered. In fact, the official records showed the floods of the twentieth century were much more serious.

Typically, a Redgate flood was caused by nothing more extreme than a lot of rain in the western reaches of the Sydney Basin. The Nepean River catchment was so efficient that the Nepean and Hawkesbury Rivers swelled and spilled over their banks depositing the rich black soil that made the sprawling flats the prize farmlands of Macquarie’s governorship and beyond. On some occasions the rivers and their alluvial fields could not cope in the normal way. The creeks flowing into the Hawkesbury-Nepean waterway would simply back up and cover their own floodplains with a new layer of silt. Kookaburra Creek was one of the first affected.

The Redgate floods varied in their seriousness. Some caused only minor damage. Most of the best houses on the western side of Kookaburra Creek were high enough to be safe from the water’s whims. From elevated positions, the picture was one of several houses on a patch of higher land surrounded by a stream of water that found its way into the cemetery and across the dirt roads of the locale. Bigger floods engulfed Albert Road and cut the entire town of Redgate off from its neighbours to the west. Several severed the rail link and stopped all work at the meatworks for weeks as the inevitable clean-up work was undertaken.

In the 1950s an enlightened New South Wales Government announced that the people of northwestern Sydney had endured the last flood caused by the natural characteristics of the Nepean-Hawkesbury catchments. Building Warragamba Dam was indeed the work of visionaries. However, even this grand structure could not withstand a determined rain god with a sardonic view of human endeavour. The incessant rains of 1961 brought forth the greatest Regdate flood on record.

Warragamba was filled to the brim. The dam’s massive floodgates were opened and could not be closed because of the forces involved. Kookaburra Creek backed up like never before and half of Redgate disappeared under a brown inland sea that seemed to prove Tosser’s memories were based on fact after all. Even the sacred rooms of the Coro were soaked and ruined by the time the waters reached their peak.

Tosser observed the 1961 flood with a mixture of satisfaction and sadness. His father’s stories were obviously true after all but the damage the new flood wrought was so grave that few people of the town emerged unscathed. The houses down by Kookaburra Creek were the most acutely affected. Several would never be occupied again. One of those destroyed was Tosser’s father’s home – the place where he had spent much of his childhood. It was also the place where he had listened to his father relay the tales first told by his ex-convict grandfather.

Just before he became Tosser’s father, Wally Smithers moved away from the Hawkesbury Valley to Plumpton so that he could learn to be a butcher. His father had died with no fortune to leave his children and his mother had passed away soon after. Like her husband, she was also an emancipated convict who had made so many adjustments to life in the colony that she was soon no longer sure of her identity. A religious woman of Presbyterian background, she had prayed that Wally and his siblings would have enough faith in God, and belief in this strange new land, to make Australia a precious part of Christendom. She had also prayed that Wally would find a wife with an endowment of faith at least equal to her own. His marriage to a lass schooled in the Church of England was a minor but real disappointment that had worried her until she went to be with Jesus. As it turned out, she need not have been troubled.

Wally was a good tradesman but he was not paid well. News came to him of the new meatworks at Redgate and its need for competent butchers to work as slaughtermen. The money was impressive but the conditions were hard – and, for Wally, they were harder than for most of the new workers. He had to make a daily journey by foot through the fifteen kilometres of bush and scrub that led to the floodplains of Redgate and the new meatworks. Moreover, in the absence of refrigeration, all the killing and dressing of beasts was done by night when the weather was cool enough for the meat to retain its freshness. Then the produce was loaded on to rail cars for a trip to Sydney through the dark hours of the early morning. As the trains clanged eastwards, Wally would commence his long walk home where his wife, Millie, was waiting with a hot breakfast and a sympathetic manner.

The Smithers soon had enough money to move closer to the Redgate meatworks. A developer was opening up new residential blocks in an estate on the banks of Kookaburra Creek adjacent to the cemetery. Wally and Millie bought a block large enough to keep an old horse capable of pulling the second hand cart they had acquired from a well-to-do neighbour in Plumpton. The grey mare was a docile animal and even dainty Millie could handle her with confidence.

Then the first of the floods came. Time after time, Wally and Millie watched the water rise. Sometimes they were high enough to be spared its ravages – but not every time. Still, life was good, and the walk to work was so much shorter that Wally had enough spare time to engage in carpentry and home improvement. Millie, persuaded by the beauty of her children that her mother-in-law’s faith was worthy of imitation, saw Wally’s pastime as a sign of his compatibility with Jesus.

The floods reminded Wally of the stories his father had told him of the floods of earlier years and, most particularly, the big one that had seen Redgate covered by a body of water more like an inland sea than the wayward water of a bursting creek. On rainy days the family would watch the drops hit the muddy ground and Wally would find himself creating for his fascinated children compelling versions of his father’s tales of the great flood that had occurred before any of them were born. Tosser – John to his mother and father – was always the best listener.

A heart attack took Wally while he was still strong and his wife and children were inconsolable. Millie, on the other hand lived on for many years and, to the dismay of her surviving family, all of whom wanted to spoil her with ceaseless attention, was fiercely independent in apparent defiance of the familial providence of her God. She was a familiar figure in the town and twice weekly drove her horse-drawn cart proudly along Albert Road in the direction of Redgate’s shops. When the cinema opened she became an avid fan, despite the frantic misgivings of her church. However, leaving the grey mare unattended on Albert Road for the duration of a Hollywood spectacular was never an option. So, Millie would stroll to the Regent and amble back home again, with her head full of the pictures she had seen in the darkness of the theatre.

One evening, as she sat in the back stalls of the Regent, Millie was startled by a crack of thunder and a flash of light coming through the curtains that camouflaged the high windows of the chamber. It happened again and again until finally the hard tin roof of the building resounded like a percussion band battling the continual clash of heavy raindrops. Like everyone else, Millie mustered the discipline to ignore the storm. Within a few seconds, she was back in the world of the silent movie that frolicked its way across the back and white screen in front of her.

Leaving the Regent that night Millie was in high spirits. The storm was still fierce but the thunder and lightening seemed far away now so she had no qualms about walking home. As she crossed the wet flats leading past the meatworks to Kookaburra Creek, the sound of rushing water made her realise how much rain had fallen while she was watching Valentino and thinking of the passion she once had for her late husband.

Finally, she reached the banks of the noisy creek and took hold of the slack rope that would assist her as she crossed a rickety wooden bridge without mishap (as she had done so many times in weather much worse than the conditions of this night). At the precise moment she reached the depressed middle of the swaying bridge and the slippery rope was at its most useless and well above her shoulders, a deafening peal of thunder and a blinding flash of lightening beckoned her to heaven with a performance that recalled not so much the stormy fury of Yahweh as the glorious trumpet and brilliant lights of the second coming.

When they found Millie floating facedown in Kookaburra Creek in the midday heat of the next humid day, her purse was missing. There was no suggestion of foul play in the minds of the detectives from district homicide. It was raining again as the local police sergeant sipped a glass of tawny port and completed his sketchy report while the sun retreated unseen behind the Blue Mountains. The rain set in and another wet night drenched Redgate.

WEAK SLEEP

2011-05-24T23:00:00.003+10:00

When you cry instead of sleep,
They will say you are weak;
But maybe it is your strength
That got you to the edge of slumber.

As the world's judgements
Smash you to little bits
And you collapse into your bed,
The act of lying down,
Determined to rest,
To fight another day,
Is surely victory enough.

So, if tears caress your cheeks
In the absence of any other sympathy,
Who can criticise you?
For now ... no-one.
Tomorrow ... everyone.

CARRINGTON

2011-05-24T20:40:00.002+10:00

The following is an excerpt from "Conquest of the Persian Garden", David Morisset's first novel.

Carrington seemed to have aged a decade in the six months since Ben had last seen him. He looked well enough fed. His tummy strained as if it wanted to escape from his fitted white shirt and his tie seemed ten centimetres too short. However, his baby face sported new wrinkles below his blue eyes and there were deep creases at the corners of his small mouth. Ben speculated that they were perhaps a result of his ready smile rather than a by-product of the strains of living through a violent revolution.

The Englishman was wary at first. There was something about Shaheen that was familiar. Also, Ben’s story about coming back to Tehran to retrieve some misplaced personal effects did not ring true. Nevertheless, the offer of petrol was irresistible and it seemed to have no strings attached. As they talked, however, he gradually remembered when he had encountered Shaheen.

“I think we have met before.” Carrington took his meerschaum pipe from its resting place wedged between his yellowing upper row of teeth and his thin lower lip before he went on talking.

“Because I believe you helped me on that day – Guy Fawkes’ Day as I remember it – and, to be frank, I need a reliable source of petrol - I am ready to take a risk for you. I suspect you want to travel with me to make it easier for you – or someone you know – to get of Iran. But let me warn you. Don’t expect me to help if things get nasty. Nothing personal you understand.”

Shaheen nodded. He decided that anything more than silent acquiescence might be misunderstood.

The discussion moved to practical matters. An hour later, Ben and Shaheen left the embassy and went back to the safe house.

Ben sat through a long planning session with Shaheen, who made sure that the Australian understood all aspects of the arrangements for Manijeh’s deliverance. Then, almost exhausted, he returned to Manijeh.

Flagging, he stayed awake because he wanted to spend as much time as possible with her. Drinking tea in a crowded safe house with its backdrop of black mountain slopes, the couple made sketchy plans for their life together in Australia, sneaking the occasional kiss and daring to embrace until frequent footsteps interrupted them.

STILL I'M SAD ...

2011-05-24T20:19:00.002+10:00

INCOMPARABLE

2011-05-15T15:08:00.000+10:00

MATERIAL OMISSIONS

2011-05-07T14:53:00.001+10:00

Love is never ever anyone’s principal focus -
Always we see mostly the material world
Through tinted water-marked man-made lens,
Showing us we should never take a loss of any kind:
Diversified across the spare parts spectrum -
Not even half a hope and no chance of gain or glee -
Ever driven but never going anywhere much,
As the lights flash red and green and stick on pause.

Thus set, we briefly soar in short blank bursts until we flop,
And a chosen few acquire by cunning all of our dreams and plans,
While our children climb towards the same dreadful heights;
Until the wobbly world shifts and we turn back to love too late.

EXTREMISTS

2011-04-28T19:25:00.004+10:00

How can I sleep? My heart’s so full of you:
Bright smiles, dark eyes, smooth skin, sweet voice, kind touch –
Set stark against blue backdrops where we walked
As I wooed you and you gave me so much.

There were dolphins diving, sea birds swooping;
Low sun streaked lean in its autumnal guise,
And you walked wise and took my seeking hand.
We watched wet stars that burst to drench our eyes.

Each day was new: coming so clear and crisp.
Your warm, perfect body curled up near me –
Guarded by night’s garments and not much more –
Teeming moments - extreme in ecstasy.

PRAYERS ARE ALWAYS ANSWERED ... SOMEHOW

2011-03-20T22:22:00.001+11:00

TOO MUCH SUN WILL BURN

2011-03-20T00:57:00.001+11:00

The rain tonight
Is like bleeding in my thumping heart.
It pounds down so hard and fast
Reminding me that we are so far apart.

The sky tonight
Is grey like every yesterday’s defeat.
It reflects nothing of any value
But it somehow makes my solitude complete.

The air tonight
Is rank with moisture and hints of sweat.
It feels as though I have died
With only glimpses of your charms to regret.

The sounds tonight
Are washed white with watery cascades
Crashing on concrete receptacles
That throw drenched drops back up in spades.

The smell of tonight
Is fresh with the rain it freely dispenses.
But my nostrils are not distracted in any way,
Because the scent of you lingers in my senses.

The taste of tonight
Is rich with expensive ways of dulling pretences –
Spirits and froth fill me up with numbness –
Anything to take my mind off your stubborn defences.

But back to my old heart,
Which you have made young enough to flutter anew.
You know my quest has not changed and it never will –
Tonight’s sweet rain is as wet as my love for you is true.

PERSIAN PRINCESS (FINAL)

2011-03-13T21:56:00.002+11:00

As I waited alone
I was aware of a low late summer sun
Pushing shapeless shadows
Towards the shifting shoreline;
And the waves shunted
Watery white foam in response,
Crashing and withdrawing
With a faultless sense of rhythm.

There were shrills
From shouting children
In the shimmering surf
And seagulls called and glided,
Gorged on cheery chips
And beery batter.
An endless stream of cars
Rolled drunkenly
Through the roundabout
And glasses of diners and drinkers
Stood frosty and dripping wet
On clammy cardboard coasters.

A figure
Made from the softest, smoothest clay
God had reserved for women
Came into my view
And smiled behind a shield
Of designer Dior shade;
With hips swinging and swathed
In scrubbed blue denim stretched taut,
And breasts swaying just a little
As if flirtingly free
Of any unnecessary restraint.

So I grinned too
And advanced my shaking hand
In grateful greeting,
While my heart leaped
And found a fast backbeat
To the cymbals of surging surf.
Then we kissed –
Or, rather I kissed both your silky cheeks,
In my fumbling way –
And I was sure
That Persia’s kind kisses of friendship
Would never be enough.

When the sunglasses were thrown back
Above your fringed forehead,
The spell of sparkling eyes
Burst irresistible
And wholly sweet for me –
Dark and dancing –
I was bewitched, charmed, and terrorised
All in one efficient swoop –
And so it began,
And so it goes on
And on.

DIVINE WISDOM

2011-03-06T22:50:00.004+11:00

In His wisdom
God has made us men of clay
In such a way
That we divine a thrill of sorts
From each new woman
Whom we encounter.

Whether it be sourced
In dark, come hither eyes,
Or a rounded pout
That emits a laughing voice,
Or locks of many colors
Caressing a beguiling face,
Or curves and shapes
That bounce and flounce,
Or wit that moves us
To wonder about our world.
All these marvels
Can call that thrill
To come and make us
Slaves to wants and needs.

And yet it seems so odd
That, once in a while,
One woman comes along
Who presents us with
That pleasing prod
And puzzling power
That makes more thrills
Than we can handle.
One woman – not perfect –
But lit by her own bright candle
And holding the keys –
Not to paradise –
But to a garden
Just beside its gates.
And, as we revel in its shade,
Then rest in its soft cool breeze,
We come to know
That God is truly wise.

ALMOND-SHAPED EYES

2011-03-05T23:08:00.005+11:00

The following paragraphs are excerpts from an early draft of David Morisset's novel "Conquest of the Persian Garden", now available via Amazon and CreateSpace.

The vehicle moved off to the north. No-one spoke until there was a rapid exchange between the tall man and the driver as they sped past the British Embassy compound on Old Shemiran Road.

“Bebakhshid agha”. The tall man was now addressing Ben. At that point a blindfold was looped around the Australian’s head. When it was fastened, Ben was pushed forward so that he was invisible to other motorists. He felt uncomfortable and was soon worried that he would experience some sort of car sickness but only a few minutes later the car stopped.

Ben heard the sound of a metal gate opening and felt the front wheels of the car rise as if they were ascending a driveway. The gate clanged closed behind them and Ben was helped out of his seat. The tall man removed the blindfold and pointed to the front door of house at the top of a leafy garden.

As Ben approached the door opened. Two almond-shaped eyes smiled out at him and then filled with tears. He ran.

“Mani, I have received!”

Manijeh’s wet eyes danced to the rhythmic beat of a treasured memory.

The couple embraced as the door clicked shut. For a few seconds, they were back in Ben’s house in Chizar at that precise moment when another door closed to grant them private space and time. She said nothing, smothering his face with little kisses so that his stubble was soon wet from the combined impact of her lips and her tears.

Eager to look at her, Ben pushed Manijeh’s face away slowly and tenderly. Their eyes met again. He traced the scars above her left eye with his right index finger. Then he kissed them, as if to impart some sort of magical healing. He repeated the process on the bridge of her nose, as if to apply a similar spell. Lips brushed together in the most intimate of kisses and then bodies almost melted into one single entity bound by four arms that might never again let go.

A female voice reminded them they were not alone. Manijeh looked up at her lover, placed her right hand on his heart, and clicked her tongue in mock reproof. He smiled like he had never smiled before. She led him to a sitting room with a gentleness he had almost forgotten.

GONE, BUT NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN

2011-02-27T12:35:00.000+11:00

ANOTHER COUNTRY

2011-02-19T20:15:00.003+11:00

The past might well be another country
But the future has no map.
All we have to unravel its righteous riddle
Are answers to questions we once asked
In some previous steady state of mind
That has long become mere mist and dismal drizzle.

Still we set our faces to some Jerusalem
And travel on towards its wailing wall
Where we expect our sea of reeds to part.
We push on as if we were immortal
Eyes straight ahead and blinkered blind
To betrayals that can truly break our heart.

At some point the end rises up to claim
All of our friendly facts and fond imaginings
Before we can mend what has splintered disjoint.
By then we have only echoes of past epochs left –
In a flooded foreign land where we majored in mistakes -
Wet with watery memories that disperse and disappoint.

PERSIAN PRINCESS (PART 5)

2011-02-02T23:44:00.006+11:00

And so you flashed up from far away,
Stinging my tear-seared eyes,
Flinging an implicit promise
I might never ever inherit.

Then you flirted so fabulously
Like a champion of the chase -
Almost like her with her hunger -
But so different in your sweet way.

And so we proceeded -
Smiling all the while -
Never really knowing,
And never pausing to understand.

Just when it all seemed wrong,
A mutual tease of ego
Ignited a fiery glow -
So we connected in a fancy future.

And I experienced all the old thrills
While I stayed here stunned,
Wondering how to aspire to new peaks,
Worried about becoming a fool again.

And yet your face filled my dreams:
Those eyes danced dark
Across a floor of fractured fantasy,
As your lips moistened my mouth.

And I knew I might never ever see
What was in your pretty mind,
Because you seemed to belong to another:
Your heart clasped in complicated claws.

Yet knowing your warmth and kindness
Is a great reward for one like me -
Could I ever have glimpsed any part of you
But for those few brief words we chanced to channel?

And so I will sleep again tonight
With your face projected on my dreamy screen,
So that my moments of waking in hot harsh light
Surely will be briefly happy beyond explaining.

PERSIAN PRINCESS (PART 4)

2011-01-28T00:24:00.013+11:00

I’m doing it again.
I don’t have you,
So I’m seeking others
And they will never be you.

Last time it was easier
I was young and so were they.
But now it seems too late
To admit mistakes and move on.

Now I am sure I have wronged you –
We will never ever be one again.
I should have been stronger for longer -
I should have stuck to our crooked path.

Your dismal destiny is down to me –
Careless as I was and ever wasteful –
You were left to cope with the leftovers
That drove you to scornful rebellion and more.

If I had known they were destroying you,
Would I have rescued you?
With nothing left to lose now
I carry my cowardice like a scar.

How can I expect you to forgive me from the grave?
I feel like Heathcliff - determined to join you.
But what if you rose and rejected me as I dug:
Would we spend eternity as enemies?

PERSIAN PRINCESS (PART 3)

2011-01-26T01:12:00.003+11:00

Tonight I finally had the heart
To cry for you like I did
On the night you were first taken from me.

Tonight I knew you were really gone
And I would never see your eyes again –
Except in a flash of an old memory.

Tonight I lost my hope of love
Because it was locked in you –
Pent up over decades and never spent.

Tonight I saw you in visions
That rose from flickering candles –
Beauty that I never valued enough to save.

Tonight I could hear you in lyrics
And new wave rhythms that jangled –
Making me swoon with longing.

Tonight I drank you in draughts –
Sweet malted swigs of caramel –
Like the exquisite taste of your mouth.

Tonight I could smell the musk
Of your soft body and my hard lust –
And I remembered our love language.

Tonight I could feel the silkiness
Of your downy skin with its beads of sweat –
And I delighted in our desire.

Tonight I could do nothing
Except regress into regret
At a loss beyond losing.

Tonight I had no other urge
But to kneel by your grave
And weep enough tears to stir the ground.

Tonight I resolved to journey
Halfway across the world that killed you
So I could be by your side again.

Tonight I decided that you
Had been everything I ever really wanted -
But I failed to realise how much.

Tonight I understood at last
That all my other failures were nothing –
Much, much less than nothing.

Tonight I deleted the rest of it
As so much meaningless dross
So I might visit you untrammelled.

Tonight I wanted to drive you home –
Along Kourosh-e-Kabir and left at Khiabaneh Pars –
To a place we two still inhabit as one.

DEDICATED TO SOMEONE I SHOULD HAVE DRIVEN HOME

2011-01-22T18:13:00.001+11:00

PERSIAN PRINCESS (PART 2)

2011-01-08T00:08:00.006+11:00

The news

Of your death

Shredded me

Like random shrapnel

From a roadside bomb.

Jagged thorns

Tore ragged holes

In my old heart

And left it ridden

With shabby scars.

But I am so lucky

Because I knew you.

I saw you –

Watched you from a distance

At first,

And then

Looked into your eyes.

I touched you –

Sensed your warmth,

And knew I was

So close to heaven.

I talked with you –

Heard the symphonies

That sprang from your voice –

The songs in your Persian phrasing.

I walked with you –

Kept you by my side

So others knew

We were together

And you

Had chosen me.

I laughed with you –

And you were so funny

As you teased me

And told me things

I never would have known.

I worked with you –

Solved problems –

And found solutions,

As we discovered

Each other.

I loved you –

Brief moments –

Stolen and stored away,

Before we wept,

Separated and bereft.

I wondered about you –

Long years of other

As we grew old

And walked our paths.

I sought you –

Too late it seems –

And long after

Your pain was gone.

I am left

With holes

In my heart

And scars

Set forever.

Sometimes I dream of you

And some of the smallest

Holes in my heart

Are filled for a moment.

Sometimes I talk to you

And I hear you answer

In your sing-song voice

That pleases my ears.

Sometimes I pray for you

And God tells me

Not to worry –

For He has rescued you.

Sometimes I lust for you –

The hardest cut of all.

Your beauty rises up

And falls against me, softly.

Sometimes I simply love you

And my heart’s scars

Are salved so sweetly

With the joy of privilege.

You were special.

You were unique.

You were too much

For a man like me.

And yet,

After decades,

I still see your face

As it was then –

Nothing compares

And nothing ever will.

PERSIAN PRINCESS (PART 1)

2010-12-12T14:17:00.003+11:00

“Everybody knows that you and I, from that trembling branch picked the apple.”

Forough Farrokhzad, Conquest of the Garden (translation: Maryam Dilmaghani)

We were both so raw back then.
I still have our photos
And they look
Almost primeval.
You were sharply cut
And I was chiseled.
You were like a goddess
From a fifties movie.
I was more like the hero
Of a forties western –
Grim greys and watery whites -
Ashen against your deep shades
And your eyes’ glossy lights.
But we found something
There in each other;
And, with loving hands,
We sculpted two into one,
One day – one wonderful day -
In the ancient Near East
(As diplomats used to say).

Once you were so close
That I could smell your perfume.
Every now and then
A wisp of your hair
Tickled my cheek.
You seemed so gentle
And you looked at ease
Even though
You were so close to me.
I longed to kiss you
And pull you closer;
But I could not do it.
And yet you looked at me –
Your flashing eyes
Said you wanted me to react.
But I could not do it.

The next time we were so close,
I was just grateful
For a second chance.
So we kissed
And I held you so tight
You should have swooned
But we stayed upright.

And so it began – you and me.
Your body squeezed so hard against me
That we regretted only our clothes.

INSOMANIAC

2010-12-06T12:54:00.003+11:00

There’s noise in naked night
That Shakespeare never heard;
Rumbling rubber on roads,
Whirling wheels on straight steels,
Shrieks from the late late show,
Buzzes, bells and muzhak,
Din from domestic discs,
Air conditioned exhaust.

Those among us who can soundly sleep
Never hear these constant crass squalls,
Ever drifting much more inwards,
Content in dozing detachment.
Others endure all the static,
Seeking to unravel meaning,
Before sliding to slack slumber
And dreams that end halfway to hope.

CONQUEST OF THE PERSIAN GARDEN

2010-10-08T15:42:00.009+11:00

David Morisset's first novel is now available for purchase through Amazon and also via CreateSpace. To buy it at Amazon simply go to www.amazon.com and search for books by David Morisset. Alternatively, for CreateSpace, visit https://www.createspace.com/3479805 and follow the simple instructions.

Inspired partly by 'Bijan and Manijeh', Ferdowsi's epic romance, 'Conquest of the Persian Garden' is the story of two people from vastly different cultures who fall in love despite established loyalties and the chaos of Iran's Islamic Revolution. David Morriset brings to life the vibrant city of Tehran as it was during the last days of the Shah and traces the fortunes of vulnerable individuals as Iran's new rulers begin eliminating potential opponents.

WHAT'S THE KILL?

2010-10-01T18:19:00.004+10:00

The following is an excerpt from an early draft of David Morisset's novel set in western Sydney during the 1960s.

Farrer walked with singular purpose and was only barely aware of Horrie trying to follow him, hampered by the awkward expanding file. They crossed the expanse of asphalt that led from the main office, passed the railway gates and the pay office, and moved towards the cattle yards and the beef house. The smell of cattle dung reminded Horrie to be careful about what he stepped in, so he kept his eyes on the ground, which was already becoming spongy with the impact of the hot summer sun.

“What’s the kill, mate? What’s the kill?” A labourer who was just finishing a sly smoke caught Farrer’s attention with a nasal yell.

The office boy took a handwritten sheet of numbers from the file under Horrie’s arm and held it up so the labourer could read it. The meatworker spat out his spent cigarette, mashed it dead with his right foot, grunted, and walked off towards the other labourers in the yard to tell them the news.

“They always wanna know the kill so they know how hard they’re gunna have to work. Some of them also want to know if there’s a chance of a doubler.” Farrer spoke to Horrie without looking at him.

“I know. I worked here a few times. Got picked up on the gate for the morning shift. It was good money if you got to do a double shift. I actually preferred the afternoon shift. Once the sun went down it was cooler. But it meant getting home after eleven and the pub was shut.” Horrie stopped talking when he realised Farrer was not listening.

By now the smell of trampled manure had been replaced by the distinctive odour of the beef house. It was hard to describe but it had a steamy character not unlike the air in the southeast Asian cities that Horrie was destined to visit later in his life. As Farrer reached into the appropriate file pocket, withdrew several documents, and dropped them into an ‘in’ tray on a grey metal desk in a tiny office, Horrie’s eyes scanned the view and adjusted to the change in light. Off in the near distance there were already several newly killed animals hanging upside down from the clanging chain. Blood was draining out of carcasses that, Horrie knew from firsthand experience, gave out a surprising amount of stinking body heat.

Horrie’s first job when he had worked in the beef house had been to sweep floors. It had certainly not been glamorous but it was better than the next task he had been given – to wash down the blood-filled ‘stick hole’ with strong, foul-smelling acid. On other occasions he had operated the winch. This brief visit with the day’s mail brought back many memories of this unique workplace.

Working with the beef butchers – the slaughtermen – had been, in many ways, unforgettable. These artisans were very close to the top of the meatworks’ hierarchy – a sort of rough and ready aristocracy – many of them big men with brawny arms and barrel shaped torsos. Most had started out as little more than boys, sweeping floors and working as chain labourers. They were taught knife skills by the older butchers and, if they were good enough, graduated to the prestigious role of slaughterman.

Distracted from the mail run by the noise of the beef house, Horrie watched. He knew that the animals were led into the yards by a bull referred to as the ‘leader’. Once his traitorous job was done, the leader would be sent back to bring another lot for slaughter. In the yards, the animals were divided – steers, bullocks, cows – and herded up a race into the beef house. The building was an imposing brown brick structure in such a prominent position that it was clearly visible to passengers in passing trains. Huge chimneys rose up from its corrugated iron roof.

As it negotiated the race, the herd was controlled by the use of a ‘jigger’ – an electric prodder that shocked any wayward beasts into compliance. Once an animal reached the top of the race, a gate was closed behind it, isolating the doomed beast in the ‘crush’ (also known, rather more accurately, as the ‘knocking down box’). A sledgehammer blow to the head killed the animal – a process requiring considerable strength and skill, especially if the subject was a large bull. Meatworks folklore had it that a bull’s head was as much as ten times harder than the skull of a cow. The dead beast was tipped out of the side of the crush, connected to a chain by its back legs, and winched up to be moved along.

When it reached the stick hole, its throat was cut so that the animal could be bled. At the same time, its head was removed. The beast was moved on again and dropped to the floor so slaughtermen could skin its belly, as well as its sides and rumps, taking care not to nick the precious hide. Then it was pulled back up so butchers could ‘neck it off’.

The hide was discarded for treatment elsewhere in the meatworks and the stripped beast was moved on to the ‘fronting out table’ so all of its insides could be removed. The stomach was cleaned with a strong acid to eventually become tripe, while the intestines were sent off to become the raw material for tennis racquet strings. Other bits and pieces went to casings or smallgoods.

All of this happened under the watchful eyes of the meat inspectors, who studied glands and major organs for any signs of disease. If the inspector condemned an animal, it was cut into four quarters to be processed into blood and bone in the dry rendering department.

Healthy carcasses were sawn in half in the band saw room and the spinal cord was removed. The two halves were thoroughly washed, weighed, graded, and sent to the chillers. Some of the beasts weighed as much as 1400 pounds dressed.

“C’mon mate! What’re yer dreamin’ about?” Farrer led Horrie off in the direction of the meat inspectors’ rooms. “Jeez, I hate the beef house. It’s got the smell of death about it even when they’re not workin’.”

THE WORKS

2010-09-29T18:51:00.004+10:00

The following is an excerpt from an early draft of David Morisset's novel set in western Sydney in the 1960s.

“I’m here to see Mr Adams, please.” Horrie was not particularly nervous even though he had never been in the main office of the Regdate meatworks before and the atmosphere was decidedly different from the rest of the site. A matronly telephonist overlooked the fact that he was interrupting her concentration on reacting to the demands of the huge switchboard and pointed Horrie in the direction of another middle-aged woman dressed primly in a flowery summer skirt and a starched white blouse with short sleeves.

“I’ll tell Mr Adams you’re here. You’re Clarence’s boy aren’t you. You look more like your mother. How is Elsie?” As she spoke, Mr Adams’ secretary glanced at a sheet of paper in her manual typewriter, frowned, and reached for a bottle of white-out, which she shook vigorously.

“My mother is very well thank you.”

“I’m Mrs Kenny. Say hello to your mum for me. Please wait a moment.” She patched her typing error with white-out, blew gently on the mark left by the correction fluid, and repeated the process on each of the carbon copies. Then, with a barely audible sigh of resignation, she typed a single letter, inspected the outcome, smiled a half-smile of near enough is good enough, removed the papers from the typewriter, slipped the blue carbon paper from the pack, and arranged the original for Mr Adams’ signature and the file copies for his initials. She knocked on the glass door behind her, waited for her boss’s mumbled invitation, entered the office, directed him to sign and initial the documents, and told him about Horrie. Mr Adams looked up from his paperwork and motioned for Horrie to come in and take one of the seats opposite the manager’s desk. All of this action was clearly visible to Horrie – the walls of the manager’s office were half glass and half plywood, with thick wooden struts dividing the panes.

Roger Adams was a quiet friendly man who had been manager of the meatworks’ main office for almost five years. Twenty years ago he had started work as a trainee and, like all trainees even to this day, his first role was that of office boy in the main office. He then worked in a series of clerical positions around the operational divisions of the meatworks before taking up the prominent role he now performed. He had jet black hair that swept back from a high forehead with the aid of Brylcream (or something similar). His clean-shaven face was slightly tanned from his brief summer holiday by a central coast beach. The collar of his crisp white shirt seemed a size too tight for his neck and a blue and gold striped tie hung all the way to the edge of his desk and beyond (indeed, it might have gone all the way to the floor for all Horrie knew).

Horrie sat on a chair that immediately creaked with his weight. He had dressed up for his first day of work and, in many ways, he looked like a younger and bigger version of Adams. Horrie was conscious that he was perspiring and there were arcs of wetness under his arms following a brisk walk to work in the warm weather of mid-January. Other than that though, he felt relaxed despite the novel atmosphere of the main office. His interview for the job had taken place over lunch in the local bowling club with his father and the general manager of the meatworks, Mr Beecroft.

“It’s good to have you with us Horrie. I know your father well, and your mother is a friend of my wife’s. I think you also know my daughter Bronwyn from school.”

Horrie grinned and nodded agreement.

“Now, we’ll start you off like every other clerical trainee. First, you’ll spend a few months as office boy in this building. That way you’ll get to know about all the works. Then we’ll let you loose in some of the production areas – might even let you check up on your old man in the smallgoods! Now, we’re expecting you to settle in quickly. After all you must be a bright boy – one of the first people in the state to complete the new Higher School Certificate course. That means you spent twice as many years at high school than most of us here. Pretty soon you’ll be running the place and Mr Beecroft will have to look out or lose his job!”

Assuming that Mr Adams was joking, Horrie laughed in the hesitant manner of the uncertain.

“Come on then. I’ll introduce you to Russell Harris. He’s been office boy for six months now, so he’ll be able to show you the ropes for a week and then we’re moving him to the boning room.”

Adams led Horrie across the main floor of the office building. It was more like a big house than an office. Besides the fish bowl room occupied by Adams, there was another, larger, fully enclosed office for Beecroft. Most of the clerks and secretaries were in an open area dominated by three large desks. Each worker seemed to have marked out their own space with enough room for either a typewriter or a FACIT machine and a few piles of dog-eared papers. Ash trays were scattered everywhere and the room had a smell of stale tobacco smoke that reminded Horrie of the smoking carriages on the train to Parramatta. All the clerks were men; all the secretaries were woman; all three telephonists were also female. The switchboard fascinated Horrie. It was on a slightly raised patch of floor and the ladies were required to manually connect calls using large plugs on the end of stretchy cords. Over coming weeks Horrie would marvel at the dexterity of the telephonists and their ability to avoid becoming tangled up in the ever changing maze of links.

The office boy’s domain was in what looked like a sunroom off to the east of the open area. From the outside, this lean-to addition to the bungalow-like structure of the office building gave it a domesticated look. Indeed, the red bricks and pitched green corrugated iron roof of the structure disguised its commercial utility rather well. It might have been mistaken for a stately home of the type Horrie would see from the windows of the train to Sydney as it steamed past the residential streets of Strathfield or Burwood.

Apart from the office boy’s desk and couple of metal filing cabinets, the lean-to housed a large room full of files and a heavy safe. In the other direction was a kitchen with a chrome urn full of bubbling hot water used by staff to make tea and coffee. As a result, the office boy had to work in a major thoroughfare used by wayward bodies looking for either the sustenance of the kitchen or the information resources of the file room. The ceiling was a low one and, on this summer morning, the heat was already stifling as the sun streamed through the divisions between the lowered and drawn venetian blinds. Every few minutes a train would rumble by the windows, casting a welcome shadow and, if it was a goods train bringing cattle and sheep for slaughter, sounds of braking wheels and apprehensive animals would interrupt the near silence.

“Russell, this is Horrie. Horrie, Russell. Show him the ropes like a good chap and then we’ll get you out of this heat into the cool climate of the boning room. I’m sorry it’s so hot in here Horrie. It’s better in the afternoon. In the winter, of course, it’s freezing. When I was the office boy I used to wear my pyjamas under my work clothes to keep warm! It’s true!” It was a story that Adams liked to tell the new workers and, once the heavy frosts of winter mornings actually arrived, they believed him.

Russell Harris was a tall thin young man with blazing blue eyes and freckles ranging across the wide expanse of cheeks that flanked his aquiline nose. He wore fashionable navy blue trousers that flared below the knee and a pale blue shirt with short sleeves. His shoes were shiny and new. Horrie vaguely remembered Harris from the year ahead of him at school and knew that he lived on the high northern reaches of the town at the top of a steep hill that ran up from the railway line. There was something about him that Horrie did not trust – perhaps it was Harris’s reputation for bullying at school - but he cast such thoughts aside.

“Well, young Horrie, first item for the day – sort the mail and deliver it. It’s already sorted. I’ll show you how to do that tomorrow. Here grab this coat.” Harris took two grey cotton coats from a hook on the wall near the filing room, handed one to Horrie, and started to slip into the other one.

“I’ve already done the mail for the main office. Then I do a run around the rest of the works. If something urgent has to go out later in the day I might go out again. But usually that’s not needed. Here, take this.” Harris pointed to a large beige concertina file bulging with letters and sheets of paper. Each pocket was clearly labelled in bright blue or red – cattle yards, meat inspectors, textiles, store, dispatch, maintenance, tallow, margarine, cannery, boning room, freezers, mutton board, skin shed, fellmongery, smallgoods, pay office.

“The trick is to remember where each port of call is and get around as quickly as possible. Then you can bludge for the rest of the morning! C’mon mate. What’re ya waitin’ for?” Harris was already striding past the telephonists as Horrie struggled to control the expanding file and its unruly contents.

BUTTERFIELD EIGHT

2010-09-22T14:05:00.014+10:00

The following is an excerpt from an early draft of David Morisset's novel set in 1960s western Sydney.

“Dear, I think you should change that skirt.”

Sharlene’s mother spoke quietly but firmly. Her father took his eyes off the black and white television screen with its news of today’s sports results, glanced under the kitchen table at Sharlene’s bare legs and gave the matter all of one second’s deliberation.

“I’ll say yer bloody well should! Yer not goin’ out dressed like that – even if Prince Charles is comin’ to fetch ya.” Satisfied that his verdict would not be questioned, the patriarch resumed his quest for the deep detail of the day’s races at Rose Hill.

Sharlene knew it was impossible to argue with her father so her eyes were on her mother. The young girl was perched on the edge of her cream vinyl and chipped chrome chair, which was already pushed well back from the table topped with yellow laminex, as if she was about to make a hasty exit as soon as Horrie knocked on the frosted glass of the front door (which was indeed her plan).

Forgetting pretences such as ladylike manners - which was her habit in the company of her parents and younger brother – she shovelled a huge forkload of corned beef and white sauce into her mouth, chewed it with an urgency fully consistent with her state of mind, swallowed it with a gulp, and then replaced it with a mound of mashed potato and pumpkin (which, of course, required only the most cursory attempt at chewing).

“Slow down dear. You’ll get indigestion. Why don’t you wear your white jeans? They go nicely with that top. Remember, there’s fleas at the pictures. You don’t want your legs covered in bites. They nearly ate me alive the last time your father took me there.”

The mother’s unsubtle dig was lost on Sharlene’s father, who was now doing some mental calculations of the outcome of his day’s wagers. However, the threat of fleas – no matter how improbable at this time of year - made an impression on Sharlene. Considering her purple cotton top – sleeveless to show off her slender upper arms – she came to the conclusion that her white jeans would work with the outfit. She would also have to replace her sandals with sneakers and socks though if the fleas were really that bad.

The problem was that her skirt was more flattering than her jeans, which were tight around her upper thighs and buttocks. Like most sixteen year old girls who had become preoccupied with her studies, she had found she was putting on weight and, in her imagination if not in reality, much of it was finding its way to parts of her body below the waist.

Finishing the plate of food in a mad scramble that put her blouse at risk from errant scraps of white sauce, Sharlene weaved her way through the house’s cramped living area and into the tiny bedroom she shared with her brother. She slammed the door – immediately regretting its noisy retort and wincing as she got the usual response from her father.

“Don’t slam the bloody door Shazza! How many times do I have to tell ya’!” His agitation was reinforced by a sure thing running a valiant but worthless fourth in the seventh and final race of the day.

The jeans and new footwear were in place just before Horrie banged at the front door, choosing a firm piece of the peeling fibro near the jam, thinking that perhaps the frosted glass would prove to be too fragile.

“Come in Horrie. I’m sure Sharlene’s ready. Shaz! Horrie’s here. What are you going to see tonight love?”

“Good evening Mrs Williams. It’s ‘Butterfield Eight’ plus a western.” Horrie was always happy to talk with Sharlene’s mother. On the other hand, he found her father rather frightening.

“Oh, that sounds good. Elizabeth Taylor! When it comes around again we should go and see it Tom.”

The father was still deep in his analysis of events at Rose Hill.

Sharlene emerged from the direction of her bedroom flushed and eager to leave the house. Horrie’s reaction to her outfit was predictable and a self-conscious Sharlene watched his eyes scan her curves as if he was assessing their possibilities.

They walked to the Regent Theatre hand in hand and talked of the day’s happenings. Sharlene had been doing some schoolwork but Horrie had played cricket for most of the day. Even though it was only Spring, the afternoon sun had burnt his face, especially his nose, so he felt self-conscious about his shiny red complexion. His forearms were similarly scorched and added to his discomfort in the warmth of early evening.

As a cricketer, Horrie was a very good rugby league player. Having spent three hours in the field at either extra cover or deep midwicket, he was out second ball – stumped by a cheeky wicketkeeper - off a fluke of a googly that seemed to take most of its direction from a wrinkle in the old mat covering the concrete pitch. Sharlene pretended to understand his frustration and offered sincere words of sympathy.

She wondered whether they would ever be so relaxed in each other’s company that she would have the nerve to ask him to explain the concept of a googly and enlighten her about the plethora of other baffling terms that seemed to define the game of cricket. Rugby league she understood – she was a Redgate girl after all. But cricket was a mystery. One day, she thought, one day, when other more crucial mysteries had been cracked.

The Regent was always busy on a Saturday night but there was seldom any need to book seats. Movies were usually at least three to four years old by the time they made it to Redgate. Anyone who was really keen to see a first release film had had plenty of opportunities to make the short train trip to either the Roxy or the Astra at Parramatta or, perhaps, to take the longer journey to any of the dozens of picture houses in Sydney. The bonus at the Regent was that most sessions were double features – although the first movie was generally old and more likely to be gently diverting than entertaining. That never bothered the town’s young lovers who would find their way to the back seats of the dress circle and seldom watched either show in its entirety.

This was the first time Horrie had taken Sharlene to an evening session. He had saved his pocket money for the dress circle seats – a stiff fifty cents each in the newly introduced decimal currency (five bob in real money). Another twenty cents bought a box of Fantales to munch, the chocolate coating already sticky and gooey under the greaseproof wrappers and the caramel centre so soft that chewing was optional.

In his younger days, Horrie had spent a shilling on a front stalls seat for the Saturday matinee session and sixpence on either a packet of Smiths chips or a box of Rowntrees liquorice cigarettes. All around him, happy young faces ‘smoked’ the hollow stumps of liquorice and crunched on the salty potato crisps, their fingers primed to smudge anything they touched. On several occasions Horrie had seen Sharlene there, wearing little girl dresses and smiling with her pretty mouth blackened by liquorice.

For most of the children of Regdate, Horrie included, the Regent was a wonderland. When the plush red velvet curtains parted, swaying like a team of menacing ghosts and swishing their golden fringes along the Regent’s raised stage floor, the screen was so close that Horrie felt part of the action. Each session opened with trailers of forthcoming attractions. Horrie tried without success to work out the precise code underpinning phrases like ‘coming soon’. It was much clearer when a simple ‘next week’ was adopted.

When the trailers were over there was a serial. The hero had invariably spent the week since last Saturday suspended in mid-air as he went over the edge of a steep cliff, or trapped under a speeding train, or locked in the boot of a flaming car, and, therefore, destined for a terrible death. Without failure, on closer inspection, the same hero had in fact miraculously avoided the peril of last week’s episode – he had jumped from the now unlocked boot of the car before it burst into flame, or he had rolled off the railway lines just in time (losing his shoe which remained wedged between two sleepers), or he had clung to a previously invisible tree instead of falling into the ominous abyss. Perhaps the greatest miracle was that the children in the front stalls never stopped believing that the hero was in genuine danger. They kept coming back week after week, their eyes wide open as the new episode began in glorious black and white.

The Regent’s dress circle was more like a mezzanine floor with only four rows of seats in front of the projector room. Horrie guided Sharlene up a short staircase that led to a landing and handed their tickets to a surly usher who watched them walk away, his eyes studying Sharlene’s shapely bottom. It was common for people to claim positions close to the stairs for ease of entry and exit. Tonight, Horrie was intent on having some privacy, so he led Sharlene past the projector room and to the very back row of a section of the circle that was tucked into the far corner of the building. When the lights went down it was pitch black. Only the bright stream from the projector pierced the darkness, drawing insects and hitherto invisible specks of dust into its path.

The dress circle smelled so different to the front stalls. Downstairs there was an array of odours linked to childhood carelessness. Lollies that had been smashed and trodden into the bare floorboards gave off a pleasing sweet aroma while certain bodily functions produced emissions that were less agreeable. The sounds were different too. The children shuffled and squirmed and read credits out loud (if they could read). Packets of sweets and chips crackled. The inevitable stray Jaffa rolled across the floor before a fast hand could snatch it.

Upstairs, it was cheap perfume that most stimulated the nose. On this particular night Horrie could not identify the scent that Sharlene had chosen but he liked its flowery impact. He thought that it went nicely with the fresh smell of shampoo in her newly washed brown hair. Then there was the ambient musty aroma rising from the old carpet runners with their faded mock Persian design and, in summer, the sickly sweet smell of melting chocolate competed with the sugary fragrance of fruit-flavoured ice blocks and strawberry ice cream. It was, however, much quieter in the more expensive seats – especially at night when the front stalls were all but empty of the youthful matinee clientele. To be sure, muffled voices occasionally explained complex turns in a difficult plot or directed nervous lovers towards more comfortable attempts at physical affection. But any persistent loud talking was greeted by a burst of the usher’s torch – an instrument of terror that almost always found its embarrassed target and reduced him or her to shamed silence.

The western that Horrie and Sharlene tried to watch that night was not riveting enough to engage their full attention. Rory Calhoun, whom Horrie had seen once on television, was battling savage Indians in ‘Apache Territory’ and making heavy weather of it. To ease the boredom, Horrie made sure that his fingers were free of any remnants of his last Fantale, faked a stretch, placed his arm around Sharlene’s shoulders, and, gently gripped her bare upper arm. She snuggled closer to him and, apprehensive about the next step, gave the impression that she was particularly interested in the current phase of the latest attack by those persistent Apache warriors.

After ten minutes or so, Horrie’s hand was going numb. He had to move his arm. As he did so, his fingertips brushed Sharlene’s breast. Horrie truly felt nothing but the glancing blow went through Sharlene’s body like electricity. It was a feeling that was new to her – completely unexpected but also irresistible. She turned to Horrie and looked into his eyes – barely discernible in the darkness of the dress circle’s back row.

Her unspoken pleading for a kiss was enough for Horrie. He kissed her on the mouth – long and lingering – and shots of electricity now went through him, energizing all his extremities, including his wayward hand. Realising that his fingertips were just a fraction of an inch from Sharlene’s breast, he shifted his arm just enough to make contact. Sharlene put her tongue in his mouth and the resultant new waves of electric shocks almost jolted them into next week. She then withdrew, just far enough so that she could look into his eyes again.

“I love you.”

Horrie considered Sharlene’s words for a few seconds and wondered at the impact of their minor act of physical intimacy before he responded. His first instinct was to make sure Sharlene realised she was not the only one in love.

“I love you.” With that cursory, albeit sincere, confirmation uttered, Horrie’s thoughts turned towards dealing with certain almost irresistible urgings that were causing him real, but rather pleasurable, discomfort.

He then turned towards her and placed his free hand on her upper thigh and moved his head to kiss her again. Sharlene pushed his hand away, crossed her legs, but was careful not to dislodge the hand on her breast. She yielded to his kisses and his fingertips stroking the curve of her bosom, but she did not feel ready for any advances below the waist, thankful, as things had turned out, that she had not worn her short skirt. Meanwhile, Apache horsemen were gathering on the horizon as Mr Calhoun comforted two petrified white women.

‘Butterfield Eight’ was not the sort of movie that could readily be understood by two distracted teenagers with more immediate concerns on their minds and their hands and their lips.

“Did you think Elizabeth Taylor was pretty?" Sharlene gripped Horrie’s upper arm in both hands as they walked down Albert Road towards the railway crossing.

“Not really. Too old for me. She might’ve been pretty when she was younger. But she wore too much make-up.”

Horrie stopped as the old railway gates were pulled to the closed position by a sleepy station attendant. The last train from Parramatta rolled slowly towards the picturesque old station platforms, gesturing hands and animated faces framed by almost every window in the two-carriaged rattler.

“I think the make-up was to show how cheap she was. You know, running after men and all that. She certainly slept around a lot. But they only wanted her for one thing.” As she spoke, Sharelene watched happy couples alight from the dirty red motor rail train. “But the clothes were beautiful. Even the men’s suits. I’d really like to see you in a suit.”

They walked on and, just beyond the fall of brightness from the street light on the corner of Butcher’s Row and Albert Road, they stopped to kiss and cuddle. Sharlene was happy she had Horrie as her boyfriend and she was glad to be his girlfriend. He might not have been as handsome as Eddie Fisher and or as suave as Laurence Harvey but he was hers and he was here, in Redgate.

.........................

HANNAH BANNISTER

2010-07-18T19:17:00.007+10:00

The following is an excerpt from an early draft of David Morisset's novel set in 1960s western Sydney.

The memorial service before Mrs Bannister’s burial was quiet and understated – a bit like her life really. She had lived next door to Horrie as long as he could remember. At first he had thought she was so strange that she must have been some kind of witch but his mother had scolded him for being so silly. She was, Elsie assured her son, just a lonely widow whose husband had been killed in a meatworks fire just after Mrs Bannister gave birth to Hannah, her only child. The meatworks’ management had graciously allowed the two of them to stay in their Butcher’s Row house.

From time to time, Horrie had earned small amounts of pocket money by doing odd jobs for Mrs Bannister, sometimes, but rarely, at the disinterested direction of Hannah who was almost thirty when her mother died. So Elsie and Horrie had walked up Albert Road to the Presbyterian Church to attend the unfortunate woman’s funeral. The austere fittings of the weatherboard hall were a minor surprise to Horrie. He was more familiar with the stained glass windows and shining brass crosses of the Church of England’s full brick structure a couple of blocks away. The entrance to the Anglican sanctuary was dominated by a larger than life representation of a risen Christ dressed in the style of his apocalyptic appearances in Revelation. He seemed, to Horrie’s relief, absent from the quaintly named Church of Scotland’s plain foyer.

Perhaps it was Mrs Bannister’s evident love for her cats that had made a young Horrie conclude that she was a witch. Several of his schoolmates had shared his opinion without giving the woman another thought. However, her death had made the teenage Horrie contemplate mortality for the first time. It was as if a part of the scenery of his life had been torn down and replaced with memories that he only partly understood.

Mrs Bannister’s solitude was, in Horrie’s view, simply weird. Her curtains were almost always drawn. In his imagination he saw the middle-aged woman wake up each morning to a silent sun’s silky light that seeped like liquid around the curves of velvet curtains that camouflaged bleak glass plates that kept the outside world at bay. He wondered why the infant glare and the implicit warmth did not call Mrs Bannister out immediately. It was always almost midday when he first caught sight of her making her way to her outside toilet with a worn chenille dressing gown wrapped tightly around her narrow shoulders.

Perhaps, Horrie thought, noon’s bequests of brilliant rays were so beautifully dispersed that Mrs Bannister could no longer resist their allure. Once she was up and about, she seemed to spend hours tending to her pretty garden’s many needs and daily wants. Armed with hot tea, cool patience, an old spade and a rusty fork, she could be seen digging, weeding, watering and, well, nurturing. Long after her death – when Horrie had confronted dangers that threatened his own grip on life – he came to believe that Mrs Bannister had been intent on making a private paradise in her own image as a way to cope with her loneliness.

On the few occasions that Mrs Bannister seemed to have enough courage to leave her house and garden, she did so with a determined look on her face that often deterred others from approaching her. It was as if she was able to briefly withstand some ever-present panic and tolerate some unspeakable pain only if she concentrated on quelling their poisons. So her excursions were few and seemed hard won – grim respites when her worst fears – or perhaps seriously bad memories - were in hiding. When she spoke to anyone else it was out of necessity. Still, somehow a dry sense of humour seemed to prevail in the local shops as she made her purchases with economical quips about the weather and the times. In Horrie’s eyes though, her frugal joviality was just an act and Mrs Bannister was merely a highly proficient player despite the dismal stage she occupied. He also noticed that middle-aged men would stare at her. Horrie had no idea, however, that she had been a beauty in her youth. The only obvious remnants of her glory were her long blonde hair and her dark brown eyes.

How Mrs Bannister spent her nights was anyone’s guess. There was no television aerial on her roof. Once the garden had become cold and tired of her delicate prods, and her pantry had been filled, stacked and tallied, Horrie presumed that, like his own mother, her instincts would turn wonderfully to food and drink. He imagined her making dinner for Hannah, who was even more solitary than her mother. His young male sensibility could never have coped with the truth about Hannah. Her depressive illnesses had made her an invalid of the most extreme sort. But her mother loved her without conditions and Hannah benefited immeasurably from the older woman’s slim hope and firm faith. Mrs Bannister’s mission seemed to be the exercise of a kind of charity that might save Hannah and quench her own despair.

The lights in the Bannister house stayed illuminated late into every night. Horrie would see them as he stood in the insipid darkness and looked for new stars that never appeared. While his own body clock was being primed to give in to amiable sleep despite the electric traces of street lights and frequent harsh flashes from passing trains, Mrs Bannister fought off unconsciousness in dim rooms pent up with candles’ scents and flickering shadows. Horrie thought she might be saying her prayers to her Presbyterian god. Later, in Vietnam, when he invented his own prayer life aimed at the Christ who lived in the Redgate Church of England’s anteroom, he wondered if Mrs Bannister’s appeals to an oddly invisible deity had had any impact. He hoped that they might have washed back over her like an ointment for her mysterious scars, making waves like massages she could no longer bring herself to share now that her man was dead.

Eventually, Horrie would sometimes notice when he sought to relieve his bladder in the darkness of early morning, the lights in Mrs Bannister’s house would be doused. He guessed that she could sleep well because she had resisted it to the point of near exhaustion. Perhaps her slumber was so deep it would seem like she had drowned in a pool of sweet peace and bottomless dreams composed just for her – imaginings where her sad history had been revised and rendered different enough to make lavish pictures she might believe were wholly real and fully true.

Hannah did not attend the funeral and she too passed away soon after her mother’s death – apparently of pneumonia brought on by the absence of her deceased mother’s loving care. Horrie was in no doubt as to why Hannah did not front for her mother’s farewell rites. Once, while chopping firewood for the two women, he had heard them arguing. Mrs Bannister had pleaded with her daughter to get out of bed and go outside to take in the fresh air.

“You know that I can’t,” the distraught young lady had protested. “There’s monsters out there.”

FANFARE FOR FAILURE

2010-07-02T17:55:00.012+10:00

Trumpets stream sticky strains of juice
And jugular contortions.
We've heard it all before,
Complete with conceit,
Tongue-twisted with distortions.

How many nights this week
Have you cried before sleep?
How many months these years
Have you stopped to stifle tears?
Add them up and check the sum,
Then count again before the auditors come.

You know it's nearly over
When the trombones belch and blast.
Then the soprano saxes soar and trill –
More breathy terror than throaty thrill.
Responding seems so useless
But you try a march at the scary score,
Which is just so bloody hard to do
With your feet nailed to the floor.

What romances can you truly seek to begin
When there's no more willing hearts to win?
How does the end of hormonal heavings display -
Pure boredom, or some silly kisses to mark each day?
And yet your weak mind urges new climbs both hard and long -
Like those you scaled when you were still so young and almost strong.

Then the drums rumble to the front of the room –
Bang and bash and kaboom!
There's expectation and longing
And perhaps a chance to resume.
But the horns move back to the fore
And brass sets the tempo just once more.
So you creep to the edge and you cry,
Knowing all that is left can live on if you die.

QUOTIENT

2010-07-02T13:08:00.006+10:00

In the quotient of quiet granted
To the deep hours of a winter morn,
There's a continual hum
That scars the callused cold
And cuts the tender dark.
And you can hear the occasional rumble
Of a train, with its jarring warning horn.

Somewhere in the distance
A siren screams escape
And, closer, a black dog begins to bark.
But sly sleep brings its sleek deliverance
And ferries the fragile dreamer away
To places you can't get to
In the leering light of day.

LOSER

2010-07-02T13:04:00.002+10:00

I never once threatened the world order.
I was far too shy and inclined to mumble.
I never ever pulled at Atlas’ sturdy ankles
To see if I had the strength to make him stumble.

Yet I was earnest and committed enough
To make some progress at doing some good
While I provided adequately for all my own
Because I knew the cold state never should.

Then those pathetic putrid looters
Came up behind me to bully, ambush and bash –
Callous bulls in a fragile china shop
Plundering nothing less than someone else's cash.

All my years of work and all my days of faith
Counted nil, indeed much less if it be fully known,
And hateful hyenas picked my carcase dry
Then they let sun and rain and wind grind each bone.

So now I recline here rendered dormant,
Never again to dare, never again to choose,
Wondering if it feels in any way better
To lose when you have much more to lose.

ANOTHER WAR

2010-06-29T13:58:00.006+10:00

The following is an excerpt from the early drafts of David Morisset's novel set in 1960s Australia.

Blackness – that was the hardest part - those few seconds of dark when you deserted the sunlit grass and you occupied the shade under an impenetrable canopy. In that instant night you were at your most vulnerable. They could see you. You could see nothing. So the fear rose up from your pelvic floor and singed your stomach like the savage burn of a bare stovetop. If shots from snipers scorched the gloom you knew you were at serious risk of death, dismemberment, paralysis, or, in some ways, the worst outcome of all - fighting on with the knowledge that one of your friends was beyond help. Eventually your eyes adjusted and some light came back to cuddle you into manufactured composure. The fear was still there. Just like the hot-house smell that pervaded all of southeast Asia, it was always there. That was the drill. Day in, day out, the patrols kept the province safe and they also kept your heart thumping. Normal life, where your heart would softly beat mellow time, seemed a million miles away and then some.

MEHRABAD

2010-05-25T12:25:00.005+10:00

The following is an excerpt from a draft of David Morisset's novel set in late 1970s Iran.

When he arrived at Mehrabad airport in the darkness of the early hours of morning, Ben was struck by the lack of lights in the once brightly illuminated city and suburbs. The airport itself was its usual shambles – nothing had changed for the better. He took a taxi – paying for it in US dollars - and checked into the Park Hotel after providing a deposit (again in US dollars). Awaking to the early September sun filtering through the window of his room, he reminded himself that it was almost three years ago to the day that he had first woken up in Tehran. Showering and dressing quickly, he went downstairs and stepped outside into the already hot air of the bustling street.

Turning to the north, the mountains were the first shock to his perspective just as they were when he first saw them in 1976. It was as if they were charging at him, but never moving, looking back at him, but never seeing him. In their majesty they seemed indifferent to the gaze of a jet-lagged westerner returning to rescue his oriental lover. And yet, they reassured Ben somehow. Just as they did before the revolution, the steep slopes rose like fire, their blackness striking. The top peaks still held snow that looked like ashy vanilla ice cream brimming over the top of an upended cone.

As his eyes moved lower, the streets of the city came into focus – the buildings all light brown and beige and every colour in between as Ben used to tell visiting delegations in jest. The sameness of it all charmed Ben and he found himself beginning to warm to the severe urban landscape. He tried to get his bearings and soon felt secure in his recollections of the grid pattern of the main roads – even if he did not feel safe once he had noticed the grim pictures of hard-faced mullahs on every formerly blank wall. He realized that his heart was racing, his blood was rushing, and his face was flushed and red.

People were striding in all directions with purposes in mind that Ben could only guess at. A few middle-aged men loitered in doorways, smoking, with no apparent intention other than watching women walk by with their covered heads bent low. Ben thought how dignified the women seemed. Their modesty appeared so fresh to him after the cheap familiarity that passes for freedom in the West.

Thinking of Manijeh, Ben remembered how much he had admired the beauty of these women of the near east. Forgetting where he was, he searched their faces, looking for some sort of response. None came. So he found himself longing for glimpses of the sheen of jet black tresses coyly hidden beneath fetching scarves. He marvelled at the shimmer of smooth olive skin, just as he had when he first saw Manijeh almost three years ago. He wondered if any of these women had her wit and humor. Instinctively, he studied the way their loose-fitting garments moved as they walked and he searched for any hints of shapes and curves that make a woman.

He was hungry so the smells coming from the stove tops and the trolleys of sidewalk vendors began to torment him. First there were the sugary fumes of the roasting beet. They were followed by a hint of something much more earthy - fragrant pistachios – so Ben wished for a beer or two, knowing that was now impossible. The Park Hotel had once been a favourite venue for a quiet ale amongst the city’s Australian expatriates.

All the time, he could hear the incessant noise. Although the traffic seemed lighter than he remembered, car horns blared, faulty mufflers growled, and bald tyres screeched at the insistence of fully tested brakes. Voices engaged in conversations all around him but his Farsi had suffered from lack of use. To his ignorant ear, even the calls of greeting sounded like quarrels – just as they did three years ago. Of course, friendly expressions on faces testified to something other than differences of opinion.

Finally, Ben was struck by how proud the people seemed – as if nothing had changed – as if recent history had not been so cruel – as if they could not see the boarded up shops and the evidence of fire damage that dotted so many buildings. He was reflecting on these things as he re-entered the hotel lobby where Shaheen was waiting by a large vase of multi-coloured roses that were beginning to wilt.

Shaheen nodded his head in the direction of a tall man standing on the other side of the foyer. Ben walked to him and shook hands. Without speaking, the man led Ben back out to the sidewalk and opened the door of a light blue Paykan. The tall man slid into the rear seat next to Ben, who noticed that there was no handle on the inside of the door next to him.

The vehicle moved off to the north. No-one spoke until there was a rapid exchange between the tall man and the driver as they sped past the British Embassy compound on Old Shemiran Road.

....

CHIZAR

2010-05-14T22:06:00.008+10:00

The following is an edited excerpt from a draft of David Morisset's novel set in late 1970s Iran.

From the moment she entered his house, Manijeh showed no interest in anything other than Ben. Her embraces were so exciting to him that at times he thought his knees would buckle. Her body had a way of squeezing up against him, making him regret the clothes that came between his skin and hers. At the same time, he thought, this was not like love with a Western girl. Manijeh was clearly not completely inexperienced but there was a tentativeness evident in her approach to him that he felt constrained to respect. So, he took things very slowly and enjoyed her all the more as a result of his patience.

A lot of the time together they just talked as they sprawled cuddling on the two seater lounge by the front window of the house. They speculated as to how Manijeh would find life in Australia. They never ever considered whether it might be better for Ben to stay with her in Iran.

“You make it sound so good. I hope it can happen.” As Manijeh said this she lay down so her head was resting contented on his chest. He could smell her hair and feel her cheek hard up against his pectoral muscles.

“Why won’t it happen? We just have to love each other and then anything can happen!” He really believed this was true.

“I don’t know … I am worried that it won’t.” It was as if she knew more than him about the obstacles they were likely to face.

“Let me worry.”

Ben decided he should make some declarations of love to boost her confidence.

Manijeh laughed happily this time when he said “Dūsit dāram.”

She responded with “man asheghetam”, a more romantic expression than he had used. Then she kissed him softly all over his face. She drew back, searching his eyes and, apparently, finding exactly what she coveted, presented her mouth for another full-on kiss. Ben gladly met her expectations.

“Mani, I love you.”

“What did you call me?”

“Mani. I’ve heard Mitra call you Mani and it sounds nice.”

“Why do the other Australians call you BJ?”

“It’s just my initials. Australians always mess around with names. I’m sure Iranians do the same.”

“When I first heard Mr Moretti call you BJ, I thought he was saying Bijan.”

“Bijan?”

“Yes. It is a Persian name?”

“Oh … really?”

Manijeh clicked her tongue against her palate. The she raised her left hand and formed a fist as is to strike him in exaggerated exasperation at his sarcasm.

“Sorry.”

“Do not say sorry. But from now on I want to call you Bijan when we are alone together. Not at the embassy - just when we are really alone together. There is a famous love story about Manijeh and Bijan. Ferdowsi wrote it. They are so much in love but it takes a long time for them to be together. On our wedding night I will tell you that story.”

The time alone in Ben’s house was precious to them. Their kisses became more intense and their embraces became more bold …

… but all good things come to an end, even if only temporarily. Ben drove Manijeh back to a section of Old Shemiran Road where she could easily flag down a taxi. He watched as she shouted her destination at the next passing taxi.

It was, he always thought, a strange system. The taxis were multi-hire and ran up and down set routes. When you needed a taxi you called to the driver stating your destination. If that was on his way and he had a spare seat, he would stop.

Manijeh always told Ben that she was careful in taxi selection. She did not want to be jammed between two leering men who would enjoy being in constant contact with her body as the vehicle made its turns and stops.