bloody sunday.

the recent massacre in norway brought back some very dark memories of the port arthur massacre in 1996. tears collapsed down my face as i read abc news online on the saturday morning after the gunman had devastated a small island north of oslo. a numbness claimed me. i forced myself to listen to an interview with a survivor and i found myself answering some of the questions, even before the interviewer had finished asking them. about the way in which the killer had roamed around the island, calmly, on a self-proclaimed mission. about the ways in which he shot his victims. there were so many aspects with which i was familiar.

i had been through such a tragedy before. while i was not at port arthur historic site on that sunny sunday afternoon back in 1996, i was indirectly involved. at the time, i was studying for my hsc and in the weeks following the event, my sanity began to unravel. my world drifted into an increasingly intricate, hidden place deep within my self.

eventually, an unconscious healing process began to emerge, weaving its way through my inner most self. through my art classes, the 'loneliness birds' [a term i had borrowed from bryce courtney's the power of one some years previously] eventually started to disperse. i began to gently resensitise myself to the world. it was a complicated, drawn out process. in my final year of high school, i took a writing class, which would lay the foundation for a career in journalism [which i did not end up pursuing]. the darkness i retained crept into my work, and unfolded in layered and loaded poetry and prose. without conscious recognition, my major piece was my way of finally letting go of what had happened eighteen months previously.

i have shown few people what i wrote all those years ago. i seldom talk of the event. given the recent circumstances in norway, however, i am dusting off the words i penned 15 years ago. i think i'm ready to share them.

B L O O D Y S U N D A Y

Beside my face the clock glowed 10:06. I pushed out my leg from under the warmth of the doona. It was quickly whipped back in, for it was far too chilly to be rising at that hour. In a few moments, it will hopefully be warm enough. However, the day was quickly evolving and I had to be ready to feed the devils at eleven o’clock. I reluctantly rose from my cocoon and headed to the bathroom.

As I silently scrubbed dishes from everyone else’s breakfast, I cast an eye to the hills beyond. Naked autumn branches had revealed the view. My god, we’re lucky to be living in a wonderfully beautiful area of the world. Nothing ever happens here. And thank god for that. I reflected on the massacre that had happened only months before, in the small village of Dunblane, in Scotland. I felt safe in the knowledge that nothing like that ever happened here. Touchwood. Tasmania is isolated; not only geographically, but because we don’t seem to have the same trouble in Australia, as other countries around the world do.

I sauntered over to the Park, to find I had very little time to prepare the meat for the devils. I made my way straight for the feed room where a half frozen pademelon lay, waiting on the frigid cement floor. I grabbed at the base of its tail and marched it out to the chopping block. I brought the axe high above my head. I wonder how many chops it will take to slice this mother in half? As the blade connected with flesh, fine fingers of blood stained bone flew, coming to rest upon the ground, as marsupial offal had many times before. The intestines bled onto the block and settled in the nicks and slices of the timber.

I dropped the lumps of meat in the old Divetalac bucket, that was kept by the block for such occasions, and trundled off to the stone wall, behind which hungry carnivores lurked and spun. The five ugly marsupials were perched on hind legs, balancing as wallabies do. I composed and spilt a short speech for those who could stomach the smell; then, I tipped the contents over the wall.

“They have the strongest jaws of any land dwelling animal. Large sharks are perhaps the only animals to surpass this amazing strength. But don’t worry folks. If you happen to come across one in the wild, you’ll be glad to know that it won’t eat you… alive that is. For they are scavengers.”

How incredibly corny. I can’t believe I say that. But look at how they laugh. Look at the flash cameras. Bloody tourists. They give me the shits sometimes. Should I continue on, or pop into obscurity while I have the chance? See you later.

I was dumped at the front counter, when I got to reception. Bugger. Just what I need. Ignorant people, asking stupid questions, telling terribly irritable narratives of a wombat they once rescued and how they feed it cow’s milk, only to find it either died or became blind. Well, duh. Let a toad come forth, so I might kiss him and…

*

It was at about 2:15pm when the first ambulance thundered passed. Shit! What the hell has happened? It was rare to bear witness to a siren on the Peninsula. Maybe a heart attack and I am fretting about nothing.

A police vehicle was swiftly cruising in the ambulance’s slipstream. Another siren. Perhaps a car accident. Obviously a back-to-front-driving tourist has had an accident. Dear me. The white commodore slid to a halt at the T-junction, one hundred metres up the road. Its position on the road prevented vehicular access to Port Arthur. It was the second ambulance that steeped me in panic. A bus crash. Just tell yourself it’s a bus crash, Alice. Has to be. No other reason for so many specialty vehicles. What the hell is going on? My heart knocked at my rips, pounding panic through my flesh. What is happening…?

­

*

I remember his face so vividly. He hadn’t shaved for several days and his clothes were putrid with tobacco and stale skin. He had two young children moping behind him. He obviously gets weekend visits. Why are they so sad?

“Twenty dollars altogether, sir. And here is a guide for the park. If you follow this and the black and white arrows, you won’t miss a thing, and should return back here! The entrance is through the blue door and down to your right.” Perky talk, Alice. Cheer them up, girl.

The exchange of money seemed an extremely painful process for him. His hands shook, almost violently, and he faltered as he handed over the creased notes. I really do wish we could give him a discount. He’s obviously strapped for cash and all he wants is a fun day with the kids.

He halted from heading straight to the door. Instead, he pondered and traipsed his children over to where the stuffed toys were. As I served the next customers, I kept a close eye on them. Every so often, I would notice him glance up at me. There was a flicker in his eye I didn’t like to trust. He has evil eyes. Hope you’re not planning to take off with our stock, mister. As I began to describe the Bush Mill section of the Port Arthur Triple Pass, the man lurched forward suddenly and halted only moments from my face. Hey, bad breath. Consideration goes a long way. I began to shake a little with the confrontation. He held my stare. He then proceeded to spill the most shocking outburst, I wish never to hear again.

“Er… you won’t get on the train, we tried, but there was a man, a man with a gun and he was shootin’ at everybody and at me and the kids, we were just drivin’ past, you know… you can’t go there…”

I lapsed momentarily from reality. My legs ceased from collapsing, but only just. Dad had heard the man from his office and came down to investigate more. My stepmother followed and came around behind the counter to offer assistance. Nah, he’s lying. Surely. No. This only happens on TV or in the newspaper. Not on my little island. Not just down the road.

A gun. Shooting. And only five minutes from where I was standing. What if he comes here next? I don’t know that I feel like dying today.

Everything I had said that morning was a little ironic, really. I began to feel unsettled.

Un-named forces twitched through my body.

The silence of disbelief was shattered by the brakes of a dark green Holden, as it screeched in the car park. The first of many unmarked police cars I was to see that day. As a young policeman crossed the threshold of the reception entry, I noticed a gun strapped to his belt. My younger siblings were in the kiosk at this time. I was quick to rip the two youngest behind my back. Too young to see this, to know what is going on. In hindsight, a silly thought – children are perceptive. They see things. They know.

The policeman took my father aside. All occupants of the building wore blank masks upon their faces. The conversation between the two men was interrupted, when four elderly women got out of a car, across the far side of the car park. They were shaking and hysterical. In that state, how can they drive? How?

I was quick to pursue new thoughts. As I slipped towards their car, I spotted a small, perfectly round hole in the windscreen. A larger hole spread through the back windscreen. A bullet hole. I secretly granted permission for hysterics. I don’t think I’d be much better off, hey. Poor dears. Just what they need on a pleasant Sunday drive in the country.

It was only moments before the stretch of gravel that lay before the main building, was thick with police cars; marked, unmarked. Dad offered the building to the police. They accepted gratefully. We had three telephones line and a facsimile line. Communication with Hobart was now easier. All the stock was brashly removed from shelves and tables, and shoved to the sides of the room. Tables and chairs were rearranged to resemble a make-shift statement room.

And all afternoon, people came. People made statements. People left. Our place had been turned into the Police Headquarters for the Port Arthur Massacre.

The media descended upon us as devils to a decaying carcass. They began to send false messages to the world:

They stood in front of the Tasmanian Devil Park sign and announced: “We are here at the scene of where innocent people have lost their lives to a mad gunman.”

Oh fuck. How the hell is mum going to know we are safe? For now. And everyone else. Oh shit. Oh bugger. Bugger. Bugger.

“I’m after a Swan child. Are you a Swan child?”

The voice was harsh. It spilled from an ire-ridden face.

“Um…” C’mon. Snap out of it. Answer him. How does he know who I am? “Um… yep. I’m one of them.”

“There’s a woman on the phone for you. Hurry up. Make it snappy. You’re taking up our phone time. We don’t have time for this. Go on…”

Hey, I realise you must be pretty shitty and frustrated, but you don’t have to be short and rude. I’m feelin’ it to, you know. Man…

I tackled a path through the throng of blue uniforms and located the phone.

“Hello?”

“Oh, thank god you’re ok. What about the other two? What’s happening? Who answered the phone? He’s not there is he? Are you ok? Was that a policeman I just spoke to?”

It was my mother. Pause.

“Alice?”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, we’re fine. No. He’s not here. Don’t know where he is. Yeah, the other two. All ok. Haven’t seem them for a while. Don’t know. What’s going on there? Do you know what’s happening? How are you?”

Mum explained: a friend of hers had seen the business on the telly and had informed her that something was going on. He was Jewish, so mum had thought he meant that he was referring to another bloody episode between Palestine and Israel. That was not the case.

“Dead. Mum, how many dead?”

“Dead? Fifteen. That’s what they’re saying.”

Fifteen. No. One or two, maybe. No. Not fifteen. My mind reverted to a tabula rasa. A lengthy pause.

“Anyone we know?”

“Don’t know. No names yet. I should go. Make sure you stay safe, please. I love you. Goodbye, I love you all.”

Mum was the last caller to get through to the Peninsula that day. Soon after, the lines cut out. We were almost stranded. The only contact with the world beyond Eaglehawk Neck was by two-way radios.

*

While everyone around me was being busy, I sagged against a sign outside. I thought that if anything did happen, I could hop up and slide into the safety of the kiosk quickly. I sat, watching everything unfold. No one knew exactly what was happening. How it had happened. Not even the police. They had put together a vague idea of how the day was unfolding. I created my own mind map: He had shot people outside the Fox and Dog, maybe the Bush Mill. Port Arthur?

The owner of the local bakery had wandered down to have a snoop. Word had filtered through to him that two local girls had been shot. And were dead.

“Lizzie Howard and Nicole Burgess. They were in the café. Working.”

Lizzie used to baby sit me as a child - and I used to flush underpants down the loo. She loved to tell me this story when I was older. No. No, no, no. Not Lizzie. You Fucking Bastard. How? Fuck! Why do a thing like that. Hey, why???

I stood, and a sloth-like shake moved my head. I felt for the sign behind me. I feel against it and slid to the paving stones. My legs were numb. I sat, staring at nothingness. The world was devoured by slow motion. Voices droned. Legs crawled. I was ripped back into reality when I overheard an officer say that the Killer had disappeared into the bush and was heading North. He has just knocked off Port Arthur, the Fox and Dog. We are the next major attraction in the North direction. So many guns. So many police. But I don’t feel safe. I should. Why don’t I?

I stationed myself in the passenger seat of a police car and listened to distant voices converse on the two-way. A voice told me that He was believed to be on the run. Another claimed He was at Seascape. Who is telling the truth? I was soon to find out.

Two metallic-red Land Cruisers roared into the car park. From them, poured ten men from the Special Operations Branch. Soggies, as they like to be called. They were clad in Army uniforms. They disappeared into the old cider barn, a large green building across the car park. We were not allowed over there. It was a black hole, where information was swapped and stored. Spare firearms and ammunition had been lugged in there from the back of small trucks. The men reappeared shortly after. With large weapons. And painted faces. Whoa. This is reality. Guns, so many guns. And those men. Only on TV. Not my world.

The Soggies leaped back into their red trucks, and raged towards Port Arthur. I was informed they were headed to Seascape, because He was believed to be there.

*

The mortuary van arrived at dusk. As it pulled into the car park, a bus passed. Faces were slapped with bandages and blood. The last of the helicopters glided overhead. They had been back and forth all afternoon. Their sound still haunts me.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I could still hear the helicopters in my mind and I was paranoid that every noise was that of a gun. My youngest brother slept with his parents. He woke as the Grand Prix finished and asked: “Did Schumacher win?” and slipped back into slumber.

To ease my anguish and distress, I journeyed to the Park. At least I feel a little safe here. My own bodyguards. All the stock had been pulled from the walls and a white board was positioned on a central naked book shelf. There was a solitary circle in the centre of the board. This circle contained a number. As the night elapsed, the number rose. A number higher, for every bloody body discovered.

*

All through that day, a song continuously crept through my mind: “I can’t believe the news today, I can’t close my eyes and make it go away. How long, how long must we sing this song?... Sunday, Bloody Sunday”.

This was my Bloody Sunday.