Newtown Station, Platform 1

Doug Stephens knows he’s not alone. Dulled by years of alcohol and drugs his senses, once razor sharp, don’t desert him. He feels it strongly now. His scalp tingles. A sure sign. To an untrained eye everything appears normal. Just a lone figure standing at the end of a railway platform. Somewhere close in the dark a pair of eyes watch his every move. On the wind Doug smells an approaching storm. A crack of thunder is the only warning and rips the night apart like an explosion. Rain rifles down. Up on King Street he sees people scurry for shelter disappearing into the night. Cupping his hands to shield the match, he lights a joint. A faint sliver of light escapes from the strike. Experience has taught him how to conceal himself. Now he must draw the observer out. Doug shuffles from foot to foot easing the pain creeping through his legs. He is at home in the rain but not in his body. It betrays his secrets. His cough hacks and shifts fluid. Spitting a glob of blood flecked phlegm he watches it swirl in the puddle forming around him. He moves to the platform’s edge and stares at the empty tracks: two steel blades disappear into the belly of the night. He checks his watch. 2250 hours. Fifteen minutes to kill. Buffeted by the wind the station signs set up an insistent beating but it’s no match for the pounding in his head. Whoever is there is close. Doug holds steady and refuses to turn. Inside his jacket he fingers the carved bone handle.

“Very dangerous out here. Come with me.” The voice soft, commanding, cuts through Doug’s thoughts and echo in a past memory.

“Piss off.” Doug never wastes time getting to the nub of things.

“Sir, storm bring down power lines up and down the line. I am afraid for you. Please, move down under the awning.”

“What’s the matter mate, hard of hearing? I said piss off.” Flicking the chewed end of the joint onto the track it fizzes. Lies soggy on the shiny iron rail. Sputters. Dies.

Doug gets relief from dope. It helps him breathe. Numbs his pain. Shields him from the demons taunting his every moment. Waking nightmares have driven him here again. He intends to silence them tonight.

“No more trains now for some time. At least one hour. Please, come inside.”

“Listen pal, don’t you understand plain English?” A sardonic smile escapes. After two tours of duty he recognised the accent straight away. “Nah, course not. Fuckin’ slope.”

“Is it all Asians you hate, or just us Vietnamese Captain Stephens?” The familiarity and perfect English spin Doug around.  He can’t see any details, just a shadowy outline back lit in the overhead light.

“What the … You don’t know me. How do you know me?”  Doug roars. “Who are you?”

“You’re famous now Captain. I see you on tele, read about you in paper. Very dangerous out here.” The voice sing-songs its earlier command. “Come with me.”

Moving towards the shelter of the station he never looks back knowing Doug Stephens will follow.

“Hey stop there. I’m talking to you pal. I asked you a question.”

Doug charges after him but stops short, seeing him in full light. Burns cover the right side of his intruder’s face. The eye misshapen. An ear missing. Ridges and folds of skin are matted by scarring where his cheek and jaw should be. Doug’s seen it all before, but it still makes him ill. The pictures in his memory never leave him. He lives with it every day.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Brian Ian Smith. Been my name for twenty-seven years. Your authorities gave it to me while I was held at Port Hedland. They thought it’d help me fit in. You know, start a new life. And I have. I made myself invisible. No one takes any notice of me. You hear? Perfect English. And a job. I clean the shit up here at night. Never in daylight. Your model assimilated refugee. Your perfect Asian. You must feel proud Captain Stephens.”

“Don’t you …”

“I know all about you Doug. Can I call you Doug? Or do you prefer Captain Stephens now?”

There is no mistaking the vehemence in his voice.

“I recognised you from the newspaper pictures. They flatter you. You look sick Captain Stephens. Your heroics at Long Tan makes great reading. On the thirtieth anniversary you’re a hero again. Delta Company, 6th Battalion. Out-numbered twenty to one. Short of ammunition. Attacked by two and a half thousand crack Viet Cong troops. Led to safety by Private Doug Stephens with the loss of only eighteen lives. Do you rest easy with that Captain?”

“I don’t rest. Can’t. I sit in the park because I can’t sleep. And when I’m sick of sitting I walk. I sold that story because it meant big bucks. It meant I could eat proper food for a couple of weeks. Look pal it was a rotten, filthy war we couldn’t win. I went because my number was drawn. I was a marble boy, a nasho, not a bloody murderer. Back here people marched against us. They didn’t see blokes crying and dying being blown to pieces. You learn hatred when you see your mates killed. I came home and people laughed at us, spat on us, threw red paint over us. Yes, I hate you Vietnamese. But I also got to hate my family, friends, even Australia. You don’t know …”

“I was there.” Wind and rain pelt the awning filling the void left by words.

“How … I don’t remember …”

“Look at me. Who could remember? Perhaps you know me as Qui Tran. Little Qui?”

“You …?”

A scrapbook of pictures, smells and sounds spin through Doug’s head. He can’t contain them any longer. They spill forward. A frightened twenty-year-old in full battle gear. Night sky lit by artillery fire. The eeriness of the long lines of rubber trees. The gloom of the Long Tan plantation. Pouring rain. The sound of bugles signaling each fresh Viet-Cong attack. An invisible enemy. But they are out there. Watching. Orders – shoot to kill. Bugles. Machine gun fire. Yelling. Screaming. Two-inch mortar fire shredding trees and bodies. Separating Divisions. The stench of bodies and mud. The bugles again and again. Rigid with fear Private Doug Stephens sprays bullets into the shadows and hears the screams of women dying.

Out of the smoke and chaos walks a young boy. Is he Cong? Is he booby-trapped? Broken and frightened Private Stephens drops his weapon and cries. Let fate take its hand.

Little Qui, like an angel amongst the carnage, calmly picks his way through bodies, some dead, others twitching in half life. His eyes fixed on the sobbing Australian soldier. Taking Private Stephens hand he whispers, “Very dangerous out here. Come with me.”

Little Qui pulls him through the plantation into the surrounding jungle. For two days Little Qui shelters him. At the sound of approaching choppers Private Stephens is edged into the clearing. Staggering towards safety Private Stephens sees others from Delta Company follow him out of the jungle stunned and dazed. As the chopper lifts off Private Stephens looks down. Little Qui is watching, shielding his eyes from the rain. A flash of fire and Little Qui lifts off the ground tossed and flipped through the air.

“I’ve waited a long time to meet you again. I always knew I would.” Qui’s voice slices through the storm and shakes Doug. “You lied to me. You said I could go with you. You filled a nine-year-old boy’s head with dreams. I waited for you. But you lied. You’ve built your life on lies. But it’s too much for you isn’t it? I’ve watched you come here night after night. You’re gutless. You can’t finish it can you?”

“Cut the shit. What do you want? Do you want to kill me Qui?” Doug pulls the knife from his jacket and offers Qui the carved handle. “Go on.”

“Too easy Doug. I’d be doing you a favour. No. Whatever time you have left I want you to live with this. You said you know nothing about hatred until you’ve seen people killed. You’re right of course. We were not Viet-Cong. We were just an ordinary family caught in a war we didn’t want. But you came in and blasted everything in sight. I suppose you could say I was the lucky one. That night in Long Tan. It was my mother and sisters you shot.”

Doug’s knees buckle, collapsing to the platform. His stomach convulsing spews blood and vomit. “Do it,” he begs. “Please.”

“I’m not a murderer either.” Qui takes Doug’s hands and helps him to his feet. Up and down the tracks red lights flash, warning bells ring, boom gates lower. Faintly, in the distance, they hear the rumbling of the oncoming express train. Qui leads Doug down the platform into the dark. “This is the train we want.”

Together they stagger forward.