ALL OR NONE
WINTER
There were eleven of them squashed into the red Ford Transit van. All were in high spirits—except, that was, for the driver, Tommy Clarke. He wasn’t happy.
Tommy had thought long and hard about offering his services locally as a driver and wouldn’t have if it hadn’t been for Anne, his wife. She had heard that people were looking for transport into the city for a protest march and saw it as the perfect opportunity for them to earn some money—even though it was scheduled for Saturday, which would mean Tommy missing the big match: the Swans versus the Eagles.
He had tried to argue, but it was a waste of time. Anne Clarke was an unstoppable force of nature and opposing her was an exercise in futility. Still, it was that same determination and persistence that had attracted him in the first place—that and a body that could stop traffic.
Before meeting his wife, Tommy had drifted like a ship without an anchor. But Anne had plans—lots of them—and the principal one was to buy a house. Of course, properties cost money, and Tommy had no idea where they would get that. Luckily, Anne did.
She stuck a big whiteboard up in the kitchen, taping it to the wall. Using a black marker, she split the board vertically into three columns: incomings, outgoings, and savings. Then, she crossed the lines with dates. Every week, she filled the boxes with numbers—money they earned, spent, and saved together. The savings column had gotten larger and larger, but they still needed every cent they could get, which was why Saturday’s driving job had to go ahead.
Tommy picked the passengers up outside Absolute Muffin, Church Point’s only bakery. He stashed their banners and signs in the back of the Transit and then set off to Sydney Town Hall, where they would join the others for the Future Is in Your Hands march. After they returned, Tommy would drive them back. He would get three hundred dollars cash for the job.
It was the first demonstration Tommy had attended. He thought protests and marches were a waste of time and was surprised at the eclectic mix of people he had picked up for the protest. There was old Mrs. Deans, who was almost eighty and could hardly walk; a farming family, the Morinas—father Antonio, mother Lucia, and their eight-year-old son, Sasha; Claire Nichol, who owned the local ladies’ fashion boutique, and her husband Noel, a teacher; a couple of hippies whom Tommy had never met before; and the Coopers, newlyweds who were older than Tommy and Anne but had gotten married at almost the same time and in the same church. Theresa Cooper worked as a dental hygienist and was bubbly and outgoing. Irwin was more intense, an academic who worked as a chemistry lecturer at the local college.
“So, what’s this all about?” Tommy had asked Theresa Cooper after they’d set off.
“It’s about justice and fair play,” Irwin Cooper said before his wife could answer. “Unless we do something now, The Man will destroy the world. And by The Man, I mean those blood-sucking vampire developers and money-grubbing capitalists who’ll do anything and everything to line their own pockets.”
Tommy nodded, regretting that he had started the conversation.
“This protest is all about drawing a line in the sand,” Irwin added.
“What Irwin is trying to say is that this march is about protecting the environment and making sure that our views are taken as seriously as the developers’,” Theresa clarified.
“Exactly,” Irwin said. He pointed behind him. “Take the Morinas back there. They used to own a small farm in Spain before they emigrated to Australia. They bought a plot of land here and began farming. Now, they have a son and what could be a thriving business. They’re well on their way, but some property group has bought everything around them. They want to buy out the Morinas, too, and build a hotel and golf course, but the family doesn’t want to sell.”
“They shouldn’t, then.” Tommy gripped the wheel tight as the Transit hit a pothole and bounced up and down.
“The problem is, if they don’t, those people will make their life hell,” Theresa said. “They’ve already made threats. And they’ve bought their way into the local council.”
“Yep, see, it’s all about fighting The Man,” Irwin added.
“Oh, right,” Tommy said, switching on the wipers as rain started to fall.
Theresa held her husband’s hand. “Irwin, we should let Tommy concentrate on driving, don’t you think?”
And that was the end of that conversation.
****
Arriving in Sydney’s city center, Tommy parked. “Come back here when you’re finished,” he instructed the passengers before they disembarked to join the other protestors.
After everyone left, the reluctant driver ate the chicken and avocado sandwich his wife had made, lay across the back seat, and closed his eyes for a nap.
When he awoke, the march was ending. The crowd was dispersing, and people were heading home.
Tommy picked up his camera. Anne had reminded him to take a picture, which she would use to advertise the Transit van’s services. He attached it to a tripod and then joined the passengers lined up along the side of the truck for a group photo.
After that, Tommy set off at high speed, ignoring the rain that was now hurtling down. He was desperate to get back to see the end of the match, so it was only twenty minutes later that the van reached the top of Clifton Hill and began its descent.
The van picked up too much speed; Tommy tried to brake as the vehicle skidded on the wet, greasy bitumen. Passengers’ screams rent the air as the Transit spun around and out of control. It finally left the road, gliding across silky grass before plunging over the cliff into the angry, foaming ocean waters below.