Prohibited Zone Read Free

several times – put forward the theory they were made of plastic for that very reason.
    I nodded. ‘Spud.’
    â€˜Westie,’ said Spud, returning the nod with a straight face, which was all he had. He put the Coopers down on the bar and took the fiver. Spud was bald all the way down to his ears, below which he wore sideburns that hadn’t otherwise been seen since 1978 and should have been outlawed then. He was a lanky, stringy piece of gristle about six-foot-three long. His chest was barely as broad as a billiard cue but his heart was as big as Uluru.
    He was taking an order from Trent Nelson, a haul-truck driver at Olympic Dam, the same place I worked. He was a huge and hugely ugly man. A rock had once almost crushed him to death after he rolled his truck, and they’d needed a crane to lift it off his face. But that didn’t explain how ugly he was. He had legs that could have been used as bollards for a ship and disappeared into unlaced, ankle-high boots that could have doubled as garbage bins. He was leaning on the bar with both forearms, chewing on a cigarette.
    â€˜I hear there’s been a bit of a blow on at the detention centre,’ I said to Spud.
    â€˜Bit of one,’ he replied, still holding Trent’s beer in his thin hand and looking at me. ‘We’ve had a fair few protesters come through, picking up supplies for the trip back to Adelaide. I guess their work’s done here.’
    â€˜Good for business, eh?’
    â€˜God bless their anti-establishment hearts and their unemployment cheques. Heading down to the big smoke yourself?’
    â€˜Yeah, got a week off.’
    â€˜Good break.’
    â€˜I need it. I’m burnt out.’
    â€˜You look it, mate.’
    â€˜Hey, Spud, you gunna keep warmin’ me beer for me?’ called Trent, removing his cigarette from his mouth and exhaling smoke as he spoke. ‘How ’bout fetchin’ me anuvver one, yer cunt. A cold one.’
    Spud walked over and put the beer in front of him, waving the smoke away with his hand.
    â€˜You’d be bloody lucky,’ he said.
    Trent fished around in his pocket and drew out some coins, which he tossed one by one onto the bar until they added up to five dollars. ‘Anyway, you don’t get a fucken tip,’ he said.
    Spud gave his trademark laugh – a single, explosive ‘Ha!’ – and came back to me.
    â€˜See what I have to put up with?’
    Trent raised his bottle to me. ‘Here’s to our ’ole in the groun’, Wessie, and to all the ’oles in our women.’
    â€˜Charming,’ said Spud.
    Trent clinked his bottle with mine and the one Baz was holding. Then Baz and I clinked.
    â€˜So how’s it going, Baz?’
    â€˜It’s going good, Westie. The lads have actually got something to talk about tonight.’ He twitched his lips into a smile and took a swig of his beer. He was the best-looking bloke in the pub and possibly the state, but he didn’t let it worry him. He had the poise of a model, the handshake of a gym instructor and a wit as dry as the Strzelecki Desert. He made bar-leaning look like an art form. He had probably had a rough day but looked as fresh as a bud.
    â€˜I could do wiffout the mouff ’oles, though,’ said Trent. ‘On me women.’
    â€˜Jesus, Trent, they’ve gotta eat,’ said Spud. He looked at me and shrugged, a look of thin despair on his face.
    â€˜Whachya gunna do for a head job if you do away wiff their mouffs?’ muttered Hose, the third counter-leaner. He was another of the detention centre guards. His face was brutalised by a broken nose; maybe he had worn a rock once, too, but more likely someone’s forehead. He was still in his uniform, the short sleeves of his shirt showing off powerful forearms and a tattoo of what at first glance looked like two dogs humping. I didn’t bother to take a second look. He lifted his head to