Gone Fishing by Susan Duncan

sensible ideas about where to start with all this? Do we want to hit the legal trail and wear the costs – and frankly it could run into hundreds of thousands of dollars? Or do we want to come up with a program of what I can only refer to as our unique and traditional Island way of handling a problem? By that I mean we find a way to handle it ourselves.’
    The crowd roars. ‘Let’s do it the Island way, Bill. Let’s show the bastards!’
    Bill Firth, his face now puce, his shirt sodden at the neckline and under his armpits, scans the equally heated faces in the airless hall. ‘So where do you want to start?’
    The silence – broken only by the lazy buzzing of an early March fly – is deafening.
    â€˜Right,’ Bill says, sighing heavily. ‘We can all agree, at least, that no one wants Garrawi Park to be desecrated by developers.’
    â€˜Hear, hear.’ Enthusiastic shouts.
    â€˜Well, we’ve made a start. Not much of one, but nevertheless, it’s a beginning.’
    Davo again: ‘Pretty bloody good, if you ask me. Can’t remember the last time we all agreed . . .’
    â€˜Thanks, Davo.’ Bill Firth actually bangs the table with his fist, bringing to swift closure what everyone is fully aware could have turned into a long Davo-paranoia-rant.
    Sam places his empty stubby on the floor at his feet and rises from his chair. ‘Artie reckons . . .’ There’s a collective groan. ‘No, wait a minute and hear me out. He was a big-time union boss in his day and what he said made a bit of sense.’
    â€˜Before or after the first glass of rum?’ shouts someone from the back.
    The rotund president raises his hand for silence. ‘Give the man a hearing,’ he orders, nodding at Sam to continue. Outside, the breaking clouds take on the golden hues of sunset. A dog barks. White cockatoos go ape-shit. A goanna must be raiding a nest. ‘Everyone’s a critic,’ someone yells, getting a laugh.
    Sam begins: ‘Artie said the best way to tackle the problem was to light spot fires. Keep the bastards jumping so they never know what’s going to happen next. Any delays cost money. Artie reckons if you start costing them enough, they give up and go away.’ This time the crowd stays quiet. Heartened, Sam continues. ‘Kate – you all know Kate from The Briny Café . . .’
    â€˜Not as well as you, mate.’ There’s a ripple of uncomfortable laughter. Sam chucks the culprit a dirty look and continues with his case.
    â€˜I know there are a lot of smart people here tonight. But Kate, well, she used to be a top journo and she’s reported on environmental and property development issues in the past. We had an impromptu meeting . . .’ Sam breaks off and eyeballs a sniggerer, who sinks lower in his chair and raises his beer in apology. ‘Any of you blokes speak Latin?’
    â€˜Aw jeez, Sam, get to the point. We’re melting in here.’
    â€˜Two words, my friend: quis licit . Who profits, in other words. Follow the money and nail the shady deal-makers behind this travesty of a development.’ He ends with what he believes is the core point of the crusade: ‘How can we feel proud if we don’t save Garrawi? How do we tell our grandchildren we failed because we didn’t try hard enough?’
    People are sitting higher in their sweaty, sticky, scratched white plastic chairs now, their faces aglow with what Sam hopes is enthusiasm and not just the booze. ‘With enough passion and plain old bullheadedness, I believe we can pull off a coup and roll a plan that looks like a certainty right now,’ Sam says. ‘Let’s face it. Most of us are born anarchists and rule benders. We’re used to fighting for what we believe in and if our methods can be a little, er, unorthodox at times, at least we end up with the right result. Well,