Prohibited Zone by Alastair Sarre Page B

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    â€˜Don’t you have anything more cheerful?’ she asked.
    â€˜What like? I don’t have any Wiggles.’
    â€˜The Wiggles would be better than this. It’s like we’re driving to a funeral.’
    As we approached Port Augusta the Flinders Ranges manifested to the east through the gathering heat haze, flanks shapely and elegant despite their age. The sky was completely clear. The car’s temperature gauge showed it was twenty-eight degrees outside, and it was only just past seven a.m. Mallee trees were being rocked by a north wind. It was going to be a very hot day.
    â€˜We’d better get our stories straight,’ said Kara, then spent ten minutes telling me what the story was.
    The roadblock was set up in a truck-parking bay five kilometres out of Port Augusta. Four police cars and a couple of bikes were parked in the bay and witch’s hats were laid out to funnel south-bound traffic. North-bound vehicles were able to pass straight through.
    â€˜This’ll be interesting,’ said Kara as we drew to a stop adjacent to a helmeted motorcycle cop. I wound down my window and was blasted by hot air.
    â€˜Morning,’ said the cop. He stood slightly in front of me and back from the window. He looked tired and as if he didn’t want to be there. According to his tag he was Number 5767. He was wearing regulation sunglasses and black moustache.
    â€˜Where have you come from this morning, sir?’
    â€˜Just up the road.’
    â€˜Exactly where, sir?’
    â€˜About eighty kilometres north. We camped on the side of the road.’
    â€˜And where did you come from before that?’
    â€˜Roxby Downs.’
    â€˜Were you at the Woomera Detention Centre at any time yesterday?’
    â€˜No.’
    The cop stooped and looked across at Kara.
    â€˜How about you, ma’am?’
    â€˜Yes, I was there.’
    â€˜May I see some identification, please?’
    She fished around in her satchel and pulled out a purse, from which she extracted a driver’s licence. She handed it to the cop, who studied it for a few seconds.
    â€˜You are Kara Peake-Jones?’
    â€˜No, I just gave you a fake ID. What do you think?’
    He stared at her for a moment, stony faced. ‘Are you still living at Milson’s Point, Sydney?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    He took out a sheet of paper from his jacket and scanned it. Then he looked at me. ‘May I also see your driver’s licence, sir?’
    I obliged.
    â€˜Just wait here a moment, please, Mr West.’ He walked away from the car and spoke on his two-way. He seemed to get a response because he spoke again and then returned to my window. He leant down so he could see us both, handing back our licences.
    â€˜I’m going to have to ask you to follow me to the Port Augusta police station,’ he said.
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜We just want to ask a few questions about events that occurred last night.’
    â€˜Can’t you ask them here?’
    â€˜It’s not me who wants to ask them. Actually, I’ve just come up from Adelaide this morning. We’re a bit short-staffed at the moment. Six officers were injured in the riot yesterday up in Woomera.’ He gave Kara a glare, as if it was her fault, which it might have been.
    â€˜And how many detainees?’ she demanded. ‘How many detainees were hurt when the police over-reacted?’
    â€˜We didn’t start the riot, ma’am.’ The ‘ma’am’ was a struggle. He looked at me sourly. ‘I’ll just take a look in your tray and we can go.’ He walked to the back of the ute and unstrapped the tray cover until it was almost completely open. He fossicked among my camping gear for a couple of minutes and then did the flap back up. ‘Doesn’t that toolkit usually go inside the cabin?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yeah. I had it out the other day and didn’t bother putting it back.’
    â€˜What did you