Callan.J-+45+Degrees+Celsius

By Callan Joiner  Morton Cook weaved through the rubbish bins in Oakley Lane. He was beginning to feel nervous about being outside so late. The police usually targeted any black man outside after nightfall. He turned down Marlow Street and crossed the road onto the footpath on the other side of. Morton was on his way home from work at the meat packing factory. He had been forced to work overtime after one of his colleagues had quit their job. All Morton wanted to do was get home and go to sleep. As he turned onto Brown Street, he noticed as dark shape moving quickly along the opposite side of the road, towards an elderly lady sitting at a bus stop. Morton looked on in wonder as the dark shape turned into a shaven thug as it reached the pale glow of the single street lamp. The man was big and muscular and the light reflected off his white, shaven head. He suddenly pulled out a large knife and charged at the old woman. She screamed with terror as the knife plunged into her torso a number of times, then slumped down onto the footpath. The skinhead snatched her handbag and bolted off into the darkness. Morton rushed over to the old woman, but she had already stopped breathing, a massive pool of scarlet blood framing her dead body. Morton looked in shock, then cleared his head and began running along the road, looking for a house so he could call the police. Morton ran along Brown Street, which was near the eastern edge of Port Hedland, until he reached a T intersection. As he thought about which direction to take, he heard the siren of a police car screaming in the distance. The noise quickly became louder and he realized it was coming towards him. Sure enough, the flashing lights appeared along the road. The car rounded the corner. As the headlights struck Morton, the car screeched to a halt and the doors flew open. “Hands in the air Abo!” shouted one of the officers. Morton raised his arms. “Why’d you kill her?” asked the other. “Try and run away did you, where’s her bag?” “I didn’t take dat bag” Morton replied. The policeman without the gun came over and put handcuffs on Morton. “What you doin?” asked Morton. “You’re getting in the van” replied the gun wielding officer. “I didn’t do nothing!” Morton cried. “Oh yeah, Coon with red, bloodstained hands running in the opposite direction to a murder, yeah he’s probably innocent” sniggered the unarmed officer. The other officer laughed. “Put him in the van Jones”. The unarmed officer led Morton to the back of the Paddy-Wagon, shoved him forcefully inside and locked the door. “You driving Thomas?” asked Jones. “Yeah, alright” replied Thomas.  The holding cell was damp, cold and musty. Morton sat on a raised stone bench, shivering in his thing singlet and boardshorts. He was ravenously hungry, having not eaten since lunchtime. He heard the noise of a door being opened, followed by footsteps coming towards him. “Get up” shouted a voice. Morton looked up and saw Constable Jones standing before him. Morton stood. Jones unlocked Morton’s door and led him into a bare room, with only a desk and two chairs for furniture. A short, fat man sat at the opposite side of the desk. His badge read ‘Senior Sergeant Graham Harris.’ “Sit down Mr. Cook”, he growled. Morton sat. “Why would you stab and old lady to death Mr. Cook?” he asked. “I said before, I didn’t do nothing” he replied. Harris shook his head. “My officers see a man with bloodstained hands, running as fast as he can away from a crime scene.” “Add the fact that he’s a boong and I don’t think there’ll be much chance that it wasn’t him that committed the crime, Mr. Cook.” “I did not stab the lady” Morton replied. “It was a white fella.” The three policemen laughed. “Yeah right” sniggered Jones. “IT WAS A WHITE FELLA!” Morton screamed. Thomas replied by thumping Morton over the head with his baton. Morton fell and his world went black.  A quiet banging noise entered Morton’s thoughts. He was contempt to do nothing, but the noise continued to grow louder and louder, until he opened his eyes. He saw a dented white roof. It took him a moment to realize that he was back in the Paddy-Wagon. He quickly woke himself up. The car jolted on the rough road. “Hey Constable, where we going?” Morton asked Jones. “To Perth” Jones grunted. “Why?” “So you can go to court.” Morton became overcome by rage. “I SAID, I DIDN’T DO NOTHING!” he screamed. Jones simply slid the divider between the cabins shut. Morton began thumping the sides of the van. He smashed one side so hard, that a fist-sized dent was left in the metal. Panting, he slumped down onto his back, then quickly sat back up. The floor was boiling hot. Morton then realized how hot it was. He really needed a drink.  After some time had passed, the van stopped. The back door swung open and Sergeant Thomas looked in. He saw the dent Morton had left in the side of the van. “Can I have some water?” Morton asked. Thomas shook his head. “Not after you dented my van” he replied. “You can wait until we get to Perth. “Where are we?” asked Morton. “In Meekatharra” came the reply, as the door swung shut again. The van began to move again shortly afterwards. Morton could hear the sounds of food wrappers being opened. He thought in desperation of what he would like to eat or drink, he had not eaten since lunchtime the day before.  The van continued along the bumpy road. Morton began to feel worse as he became more dehydrated. He was sweating profusely. The world began to become blurry and fade in and out. He felt like he was going to pass out. He heard the sound of the divider sliding open. He looked up at Jones, peering at him. The two stared at each other for a minute or two, then Jones slid the divider closed. Morton’s head was swimming. He could barely think. The van hit a significantly large bump, and Morton flew into the air, coming down with a large thump. He lay on the floor of the van, still, not moving, with blood coming out of his nose.  <span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Constable Jones swore as his smashed his head on the roof of the van. He sat in agony for a minute, as his superior laughed. This put Jones in a foul mood. He decided he’d better check on Morton, he was sitting unfastened in the back. He slid back the divider. Morton was lying still on the floor. Jones laughed, glad that he had not suffered the worst due to the bump. ”How are you feeling Mr. Cook?” he asked. Morton did not move a muscle. “Answer me Mr. Cook.” Still nothing. “Mr. Cook, if you don’t reply, I will stop the van and beat you with my baton.” Morton still did not reply. Jones looked puzzled. “Thomas, stop the van, there may actually be something wrong with him.” <span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Cathy Cook looked in despair at her dead husband lying on the morgue table. He blinked back tears, as her two children entered the room. Jane placed some flowers next to her dead father. Dale stood silently in the corner. The three stood silently for a few minutes, before Cathy ushered her two children out of the room. She then fell to the ground and began to wail. She ran out of the room and rushed over to where the two police officers were standing. “You killed my husband” she whispered. The two men looked at the floor. Cathy stared them both in the eyes before she left with her kids. <span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Morton’s cold, dead body lay still on the morgue table. He was now proof of racial discrimination. His glazed eyes, showed the emotions of those who he cared for and who cared for him. Little did he know, Morton Cook was a message to Australia, a message that something needed to be done to fix racism. Morton had died because of racial stereotyping, and something needed to be done to stop it. <span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;">
 * __<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;">45 Degrees Celsius __**