Five feet nothing and lean, like a ferret. A thin upper lip above which a thinner wiskerish moustache added to his rodent appearance. Pale, nothing eyes doing little to give some saving human dimension, not an essential characteristic for a gaoler. He was about twenty.
Standing near the remand compound gate the back of my throat contracted as some flying mite perhaps seeking escape found easy access. I hawked.
"Did you spit," he snapped. "Yes I did, I............."
"Ha. Then you'll scrub this wall down," and his eyes almost came alive. "Now inside."
Ten minutes later he unlocked the gate, led me to the storeroom and handed out a bucket and scrubbing brush, supervised the adding of detergent and water.
"Now scrub them walls until they're clean. I'll be back to check."
At breakfast that morning, before I'd finished my tea, the Runt had ordered me to follow him and his lean but longer mate to where a putrid, half filled garbage bag lay in a corner.
"Pick that up and come with us."
Into F wing to cell 4 where a blackfeller lay on his bunk.
"Clean up his shit," he ordered. I emptied the remains of the prisoner's breakfast into the bag while the Runt complained to his mate about the black bludgers in the place. Then past 5 which I shared with four Aboriginal mates in our 5X3 metre cell. To No. 6 where the process was repeated with another dark brother. (Of about 90 inmates of Alice Springs gaol, only a dozen or so were whitefellers).
"I want to see the doctor." says the young man on his bunk.
"You reported sick yesterday (this was Friday) and you'll stay locked up until he comes Tuesday. Them's the rules. Teach you to bludge next time. Can't fool us that easy." Slam of door, rattle of lock as he shot the bolt home.
"This way," he ordered and I followed. Two more doors out into the yard to a small square pill-box out on its own at the back of the gaol. Sliding the small waist-high grill back, he told me to hold the bag open.
"Empty your gear into that," he barked into the blackness. A dark hand and arm emerged in compliance as a voice from within rasped out, "I want to see the Superintendent."
"You mean the Senior Officer," issued from the slit of a mouth.
"I been here 28 days," replied the inmate. "My time is up for solitary. I got rights."
"You got fuck all, pal. Three days in Tennant Creek don't count down here, you've still got that to go." He slammed the grill and locked it, grinning at his side-kick. "These black cunts give me the shits. They're only fuckin' monkeys anyway."
Nodding in assent as we walked away and not to be outdone, the other screw yelled back at the pill-box. "Smash yer fist inter the wall why doncher."
A pause, a cry of screaming anger, then a loud thump from the isolation cell.
Loud laughter from the duo.
"Now do it with the other fist," yelled number two, followed by more sniggers.
As I scrubbed the wall, accompanied by a spit and polish routine for the benefit of my black and amused audience in the compound, I turned to one of my monkey mates and asked. "What's the name of the short-arsed turkey who set me up for this caper?"
"Mason," he replied. "Want to know something about him? His brother is in Darwin boob for rape - and HE'S a fuckin' gentleman compared to this mongrel."
How to get square? Not for me, I'm 'privileged' by skin. But for those in here without even that buffer. The pen is mightier than the sword? THAT wasn't penned by a black prisoner in Alice Springs gaol.
Ten day's later I walk out a 'free' man. I look up at the Northern Territory flag hanging listless in the mid-day heat. It's supposedly a stylised desert rose with a dark radiating centre surrounded by white petals. I remember a reply by a top-end elder to the question:
"What do you think of the new flag?"
A studied silence. Then.
"An arsehole with teeth."
Who could top that to describe the Mbantua* Runt?
*MBANTUA - PROPER (ARRERNTE) ABORIGINAL NAME FOR ALICE SPRINGS.
Standing near the remand compound gate the back of my throat contracted as some flying mite perhaps seeking escape found easy access. I hawked.
"Did you spit," he snapped. "Yes I did, I............."
"Ha. Then you'll scrub this wall down," and his eyes almost came alive. "Now inside."
Ten minutes later he unlocked the gate, led me to the storeroom and handed out a bucket and scrubbing brush, supervised the adding of detergent and water.
"Now scrub them walls until they're clean. I'll be back to check."
At breakfast that morning, before I'd finished my tea, the Runt had ordered me to follow him and his lean but longer mate to where a putrid, half filled garbage bag lay in a corner.
"Pick that up and come with us."
Into F wing to cell 4 where a blackfeller lay on his bunk.
"Clean up his shit," he ordered. I emptied the remains of the prisoner's breakfast into the bag while the Runt complained to his mate about the black bludgers in the place. Then past 5 which I shared with four Aboriginal mates in our 5X3 metre cell. To No. 6 where the process was repeated with another dark brother. (Of about 90 inmates of Alice Springs gaol, only a dozen or so were whitefellers).
"I want to see the doctor." says the young man on his bunk.
"You reported sick yesterday (this was Friday) and you'll stay locked up until he comes Tuesday. Them's the rules. Teach you to bludge next time. Can't fool us that easy." Slam of door, rattle of lock as he shot the bolt home.
"This way," he ordered and I followed. Two more doors out into the yard to a small square pill-box out on its own at the back of the gaol. Sliding the small waist-high grill back, he told me to hold the bag open.
"Empty your gear into that," he barked into the blackness. A dark hand and arm emerged in compliance as a voice from within rasped out, "I want to see the Superintendent."
"You mean the Senior Officer," issued from the slit of a mouth.
"I been here 28 days," replied the inmate. "My time is up for solitary. I got rights."
"You got fuck all, pal. Three days in Tennant Creek don't count down here, you've still got that to go." He slammed the grill and locked it, grinning at his side-kick. "These black cunts give me the shits. They're only fuckin' monkeys anyway."
Nodding in assent as we walked away and not to be outdone, the other screw yelled back at the pill-box. "Smash yer fist inter the wall why doncher."
A pause, a cry of screaming anger, then a loud thump from the isolation cell.
Loud laughter from the duo.
"Now do it with the other fist," yelled number two, followed by more sniggers.
As I scrubbed the wall, accompanied by a spit and polish routine for the benefit of my black and amused audience in the compound, I turned to one of my monkey mates and asked. "What's the name of the short-arsed turkey who set me up for this caper?"
"Mason," he replied. "Want to know something about him? His brother is in Darwin boob for rape - and HE'S a fuckin' gentleman compared to this mongrel."
How to get square? Not for me, I'm 'privileged' by skin. But for those in here without even that buffer. The pen is mightier than the sword? THAT wasn't penned by a black prisoner in Alice Springs gaol.
Ten day's later I walk out a 'free' man. I look up at the Northern Territory flag hanging listless in the mid-day heat. It's supposedly a stylised desert rose with a dark radiating centre surrounded by white petals. I remember a reply by a top-end elder to the question:
"What do you think of the new flag?"
A studied silence. Then.
"An arsehole with teeth."
Who could top that to describe the Mbantua* Runt?
*MBANTUA - PROPER (ARRERNTE) ABORIGINAL NAME FOR ALICE SPRINGS.
