by Mark Smith
‘Last chance,’ Ramage whispers.
Rowdy and I strain towards each other and I get close enough for him to lick my face.
‘I’m sorry, boy,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry.’
Ramage hauls me back around to face him. ‘I won’t ask again,’ he says, his voice thick with phlegm. ‘Will you join us?’
‘Never!’ I say, but I can’t look at Rowdy.
Ramage doesn’t seem surprised. He lets go of me, folds his arms and sits against the desk. He turns to the guard. ‘Kill the dog,’ he says.
Rowdy is dragged out of the room, barking frantically now, and the door is closed. My face is in my hands and I’m howling. ‘You bastard! You bastard.’
‘Such a pity,’ Ramage says. ‘We could have made a good team, you and I. Like father and son.’
Another guard appears and I’m pulled, kicking and screaming, back to the cell.
We’re both awake, sitting against the wall as the room starts to heat up with the new day. JT didn’t say anything when I came back last night. I figure he overheard most of what happened anyway. He reached for me in the dark and put his arm around my shoulder.
‘We really cocked this up, didn’t we.’ he says.
‘We had to try. We couldn’t just sit it out in Angowrie and hope for the best.’ I run my finger across the stitches again and pull a swab out of my pocket to dab at them.
We’re interrupted by the sound of the bolt sliding open. Three soldiers muscle their way in.
‘Get up,’ one says. He kicks me hard in the ankle.
‘Where are we going?’ JT asks.
‘You’ll see,’ the soldier answers.
Cable ties are pulled tight around our wrists again, and we’re led into the yard. I squint, trying to adjust to the glare, and look around for any sign of Rowdy.
‘What happened to my dog?’ I ask the nearest guard.
He smirks. ‘How would I know, kid? Probably shot.’
A truck rolls across the yard and we’re bundled into the back, this time with two armed soldiers. One is tall and lanky with a horsey sort of face and a crew cut, while the other is heavily built: short and tanned and muscles pushing against his shirt. He plays with his weapon, an automatic machine gun, flipping a catch on top over and over.
‘Come on, hero,’ the short one says, looking directly at me. ‘Give me an excuse to shoot a collaborator.’ He spits at my feet.
Dust finds its way through gaps in the canvas canopy as we pass through the gates and pick up speed. Within ten minutes we come to a halt and the flap is thrown open. We’re in Longley. The main street stretches out, running downhill towards the railway line. The feedstore is on the right, only fifty metres away. There are two sentries at the gate, neither in uniform.
We’re directed towards a yellow brick building. It’s a courthouse. My gut tightens—a horrible, clawing feeling like I’m going to be sick.
We sit on a bench in the foyer. Our guards stand either side, more formal now, like they’re being watched, too. After a few minutes we hear footsteps coming through the door, and muffled voices. Kas comes first, a Wilder on either side, her feet dragging on the floor. Her hands are bound behind her and there’s thick grey tape across her mouth. Blood trickles from a cut on her cheek.
‘Kas!’ I yell, before a punch to my stomach doubles me over. She turns and looks, her eyes wide. She tries to say something but the tape makes it impossible to understand.
Next comes Daymu and she looks worse than Kas. Her mouth is taped as well but her eyes are glazed, like she’s barely conscious. JT leaps up but the stocky guard pulls him back down.
Kas and Daymu disappear inside the courtroom, and JT and I are left straining to follow them.
‘Nice looking girlfriends they’ve got, Jackson,’ the tall soldier says, smiling. ‘Bet they’d be all right, eh? If they weren’t Sileys.’
JT’s eyes lock on the lanky guard. ‘They’re too good for a piece of shit like you,’ he says.
Sometimes I wish JT wasn’t such a bigmouth. He doesn’t know when to shut up. The soldier curls his lip and looks like he’s ready to lay into JT, but the one called Jackson shakes his head and says, ‘Don’t get sucked in, Murphy. These two’ll cop it soon enough.’
Just then the doors open and we are taken inside. The courtroom is all wood panelling, with floor to ceiling windows on each side. Most of the seats are gone, but at the front there are half a dozen chairs facing the judge’s bench. Kas and Daymu are propped against the wall. The Wilders stand next to them.
Sunlight streams through the windows, highlighting the dust hanging in the air and turning it red and green.
We are pushed into the chairs. I can’t take my eyes off Kas. She seems calmer now.
You okay? I mouth to her.
She blinks and nods her head.
A door behind the judge’s table opens and two more Wilders file through. They look like all the others we’ve met in the last couple of years—bearded with long, matted hair and wearing clothes that don’t seem to fit. I recognise one of them. It’s Sweeney, the leader of the group we ambushed when we first met Daymu. He sees me looking and grins, showing his toothless gums.
Finally, everyone is ordered to stand. Tusker walks through the door, closely followed by Ramage. The scar down the side of Tusker’s face looks like a claw mark. He stands to attention, his gaze locked on Kas. He flicks his tongue in and out like a lizard.
Ramage shuffles in, his attention directed at a wad of papers in his hands. He wears a pair of glasses that slide down his nose, and he pushes them back up with a finger. He sits, and Tusker gives the signal for everyone in the courtroom to do the same.
Ramage leans back in his chair, removes his glasses and looks across the short space between us. He rolls his shoulder and I remember it’s where Harry shot him last year.
He’s taking his time, showing who’s in charge. He turns and whispers something to Tusker, who nods. They both smile, sharing some joke.
Tusker rises to his feet and sticks his chest out. ‘This court is now in session,’ he says. ‘Commissioner Ramage presiding. Who comes before the court?’ He must be remembering the lines from some old movie.
Jackson stands. ‘Two accused collaborators, Your Honour,’ he says. ‘Captured by one of our patrols on the coast near Megs Creek. They were harbouring these two runaway Sileys.’ He points to Kas and Daymu.
Ramage has put his glasses back on and now he peers over the top of them. ‘Stand up,’ he says.
It’s hard to get up with our hands tied, so Murphy pulls us to our feet. My stomach is turning over, but I try to look Ramage in the eyes.
‘What are your names?’ he asks.
‘You know who we are,’ I say.
Tusker snaps at me. ‘Show some respect in the commissioner’s court. Answer the question!’
Ramage is unfussed. It’s pretty clear he’s going to pretend our meeting last night never happened. He shifts in his seat, massaging his shoulder with his hand. He waits.
‘Finn Morrison,’ I say.
Ramage turns to Tusker, holding back a laugh. ‘We may need an interpreter here. Can you understand a word this boy is saying?’ he says.
‘Must be some sort of dog language, Your Honour,’ Tusker replies, like he’s never heard me speak before. He shifts his attention back to me. ‘Try. To. Speak. English,’ he says slowly and the guards all laugh.
‘Thank you, deputy,’ Ramage says. ‘And who are you?’ he asks, looking at JT.
JT stands with his feet apart, staring him down. ‘Jeremy Tutton,’ he says. It’s the first time I’ve heard his actual name.
Ramage nods. His voice is controlled, almost friendly. ‘Where are you two from?’
‘You know that, too,’ I say. ‘The town you chased Rose into last year.’
Tusker nods at our guards and I feel a blow to my kidneys. I’ve got no way of breaking my fall. I hit the boards face first and feel the stitches on my chin split open. Big hands lift
me to my feet and the blood drips onto my shirt.
‘Now,’ Ramage says. ‘I’ll ask that question again. Where are you from?’
‘Angowrie,’ I say.
He snorts. ‘A quarantined area!’
‘It’s where I was born.’
‘So were lots of others but it didn’t stop them leaving. It’s a forbidden zone.’
‘Didn’t stop you from going there,’ I say.
Jackson yanks me by the cable ties, but Ramage tells him to stop.
‘I went there to reclaim my legal property—the Siley, Warda,’ he says. ‘I had every right to pursue her. But you’—he takes a deep breath before continuing—‘you hid her and endangered her unborn child.’
I’ve heard this argument before, when I held Ramage at gunpoint in the valley. It still makes me seethe.
Now he braces himself against the edge of the table. ‘You kept her from the medical treatment she needed. You’re lucky you’re not being charged with murder as well.’
‘Murder?’ I say. ‘You’d know all about that.’
Ramage simply smiles and waves his hand like he’s brushing away flies. I look to our guards but they seem unconcerned by what they’re hearing.
‘Rose wanted her baby to be free,’ I say.
‘Free!’ Ramage raises his voice a couple of notches. ‘No Siley can be free. They’re the property of their owners, and only their owners can make the decisions about their wellbeing.’
‘I don’t agree with that,’ I say.
Ramage lets out an exaggerated laugh and bangs his hand on the table. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘You don’t agree.’ He looks around the room. ‘Well, let’s throw out all the laws of the land and we’ll consult young Finn Morrison whenever we want to make a decision. But we’ll need some sort of code for this dogboy—like one bark for yes, two barks no!’
The Wilders and soldiers laugh along with him until he stops them with another wave of his hand. Tusker hasn’t taken his eyes off Kas.
Ramage looks down at his papers. ‘And these two, sergeant?’ he asks, pointing to Kas and Daymu.
‘Sileys, Your Honour,’ Jackson says. ‘Escapees guilty of crimes against free settlers. They have colluded with guerilla groups, murdered innocent patrollers and caused serious injury to Deputy Commissioner Tusker.’
Everyone’s attention is drawn to Tusker, who parts the hair on his chin to reveal the scar where Kas cut him.
‘Unfortunately,’ Ramage continues, ‘these two slaves are not on trial today. But I have a special interest in the one with the birthmark. She killed my son, Raymond.’ He pauses and crosses himself. ‘May he rest in peace.’
‘Don’t think it’s peaceful where he’s gone,’ JT says.
Ramage ignores him. ‘These Sileys will be punished when they are handed to the authorities in Wentworth.’
Kas lets out a muffled wail from behind the tape.
Ramage seems to consider something, then tells Sweeney to remove the tape from Kas’s mouth. He peels it off roughly and Kas moves her jaw around to flex the muscles.
‘State your full name,’ Ramage demands.
‘Kashmala,’ she says.
‘Your full name,’ he says again.
Kas remains silent.
Ramage is breathing heavily, struggling to control himself, now. ‘Your surname is the name of your owner, Siley. It’s Ramage.’
‘My surname is my father’s: Afridi.’
‘You see,’ Ramage says, turning back to us. ‘This is why Sileys can never assimilate. They hang onto their old lives. They infiltrate societies like ours—where the rule of law applies—and they try to drag us back into their tribal ways. This,’ he continues, banging his fist on the table for emphasis, ‘is why we must use a firm hand, teach them respect.’
Kas can’t help herself. ‘Respect!’ she screams. ‘Murder, rape, torture, slavery—is that what you call respect?’
‘Put the tape back on this animal,’ Ramage yells.
Tusker moves quickly across the room and wraps his arms around Kas from behind. His hands grab at her breasts as Sweeney takes a roll of tape from his bag and winds it around her head and mouth. She struggles to breathe.
‘Get them out of my courtroom,’ Ramage yells.
Tusker is reluctant to let go of Kas, but Sweeney and one of the other Wilders pull her and Daymu away and drag them out of the court. I watch on helpless, and then they’re gone.
Quiet falls on the room again. Ramage tidies the papers on his desk and Tusker struts back to his chair.
‘Finn Morrison. Jeremy Tutton,’ Ramage wheezes. ‘Stand up.’
We struggle to our feet.
‘The rebuilding of our society relies on the establishment of order. You have chosen to betray your country by disrupting that order and endangering the lives of others. Sileys are slaves, they always have been. They do not have rights and nor should they. Their lower intellect makes them good for only one thing—work.’ He pauses to allow everyone to consider that statement. ‘You are both charged with harbouring fugitive Sileys and perverting the course of justice. We find you guilty on both charges.’
‘What?’ JT says. ‘We haven’t had the chance to defend ourselves.’
‘Defend yourselves?’ Tusker interrupts. ‘You were caught red-handed with Sileys. You have no defence.’
Ramage coughs violently, doubling over and trying to catch his breath. When he straightens again, he continues. ‘I sentence you to reclassification.’ He turns, pushes himself away from the table and leaves through the back door.
‘What does that mean?’ I call after him.
Tusker stands slowly and walks around the table. He makes a tsk tsk sound with his tongue and shakes his head. ‘Ooh,’ he says, drawing the word out. ‘Reclassification is a very special punishment. Can’t you guess what it might be?’
Angela mentioned being reclassified because her parents had been immigrants. But that can’t apply to us.
Tusker pulls up a chair and leans in towards us. ‘You have to be very special to be reclassified,’ he says. ‘Very special indeed.’
‘Our parents weren’t migrants. They were born here and so were we,’ I say.
‘Do you have birth certificates to prove that?’ he asks.
‘You know that’s impossible.’
He shrugs his shoulders. ‘So, you have no way of proving your status.’
It’s pointless arguing with him.
‘What happens to us, now?’ JT asks.
‘Well, since you seem to like them so much, you’re going to become Sileys. You’ll be implanted with tracking devices and sent to Wentworth.’ He sways closer to me before adding, ‘Nowhere near your girlfriends though, I’ll see to that.’ He winks at me.
‘You can’t do that!’ JT says.
‘Oh, we can do it,’ Tusker replies. ‘And you know what the best bit is?’ He pauses, waiting for us to guess. ‘Now that you’re Sileys, we get to collect a bounty for each of you.’
The whole time Tusker’s talking I’m looking at the soldiers, trying to read their reactions. Why are they allowing this to happen?
‘You call this justice?’ I say to Jackson. ‘Can’t you see what’s happening here?’
But he barely looks at me. ‘Not our problem, kid.’
When they escort us from the courtroom, out the front door, Kas and Daymu are gone.
We lose track of time in the cell, dozing on and off through the heat of the day and shivering at night. The cut on my chin has formed a scab and it’s hard not to pick at it. Days go by, marked only by the arrival of our meals of beans and stale bread. The beans are lukewarm and swim in some sort of soupy liquid but we can soften the bread by dipping it. It feels like my body is shrinking with the lack of food. All through the summer we ate well—rabbits and abalone and fish, veggies from the garden. That seems like years ago.
We pace the cell to keep ourselves active. I try to distract myself from fretting about Kas by thinking of us back at the point, our cl
othes in a pile on the beach, diving into the deepest pool and holding our breath until our lungs are ready to burst. But every time I try to picture this, the image is overtaken by Kas arriving at the courthouse, wild-eyed and frantic, her face swollen and her mouth taped. What sort of damage has been done to her now?
The sound of a key in the lock jolts me into the present. Two guards we haven’t seen before block the light in the doorway. ‘You,’ they say, pointing to me. ‘On your feet.’
They lead me along the corridor to the room where we first met Angela. It’s been at least two weeks, maybe more, since the trial. I’m pushed through the door. Angela stands by a stainless-steel trolley, laying out instruments and putting on latex gloves. This time one of the guards stays in the room.
‘Hey,’ she says to me. ‘How you feeling?’
I can only shake my head.
‘Give me a look at that chin.’
I sit down and she checks the cut. ‘I’ll have to stitch it again,’ she says.
She takes a wet piece of gauze and begins to dab at the wound. She does her best to dissolve the scab but it catches on the old stitches as she pulls them out. My whole face feels hot and my eyes are watering.
Again, she stitches the wound. Again, it hurts like shit.
There’s a knock at the door and the guard steps outside.
Angela leans in closer like she’s checking the cut. She looks over my shoulder, then slips something into my mouth and touches her finger to her lips.
‘I’m going to put a tracker in your hand,’ she says, her voice barely a whisper. ‘It’s a dud. The live one is in your mouth. It’s up to you how you play it from here.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. Though I can’t figure out what she means yet. ‘Have you seen Kas and Daymu?’ I ask.
‘I saw them after the trial. They’d been in a fight. They’re tough, those two.’
The guard steps halfway through the door, but his back is turned and he’s talking to someone outside.
Angela keeps her eyes on him and talks fast and low. ‘They’ve been transported to Wentworth. Kas said…’ She hesitates.
