by Tim Pegler
I limp to the curtain. My heart plummets as I recognise Mick and Ned’s grandad, both looking unusually stern. I can’t do this now! I don’t want them to know, let alone see me like this. For a second I despise Ned for telling them — then realise it can’t have been him. Must be something else. Something must be wrong.
Mick raps on the front door. ‘Hello? Erin — can we have a word? It’s about Ned. Erin? Are you there?’
I’m at the front door before they can knock again.
As the door swings open, Mick mumbles, ‘Thanks, Erin, can we …’ He stops mid-sentence, taken aback by my appearance. ‘Christ, Erin. Who did that? It wasn’t … it wasn’t Ned, was it?’
I see Vic Edwards’ lined face whiten. He reaches for the veranda post, as if to steady himself for bad news. I’m stunned by the question. Why would they think … Surely they don’t …
Mick turns to Vic and puts a hand on his shoulder. ‘Sorry, mate, I have to ask. We’ve got to get this sorted … before things get any worse.’
‘It wasn’t Ned,’ I blurt, desperate to understand their strained looks but terrified by what I might hear. ‘Why? What’s happened?’
With a trembling hand, Vic cuffs a tear from the corner of his eye. Mick looks teary too. ‘Umm, it’s not good, Erin. Ned’s missing. Can we come in?’
Goose bumps prickle my skin. ‘Wow. Yeah, you better come in. Let’s go to the lounge.’ Mick frowns as I hobble down the hall. None of us speak until we’re all seated.
‘We came to you because you’re his only real mate — besides us, of course,’ Mick begins. He’s leaning forward from the couch, as if he’s ready to drop to his knees and pray. Or beg. ‘Ned’s been missing for two nights. Hasn’t been home or to work. No message, nothing. And then this.’
He extracts the local paper from his back pocket, unfolding it with a flick of his wrist. He places it on his lap, running a hand across it to smooth the creases. Newsprint smudges his palm. Then he lifts the paper and turns it to face me. The front-page headline screams ‘DISTURBED & DANGEROUS: Violent offender on the run’. Under the headline I see a photograph that chills my blood. Him. The man from the driveway, the one that attacked me. He’s looking back at me, sullen as a walrus, with a bandage around his forehead. Why? Confused, I read the caption: ‘Bashed: Nigel Collier Junior was attacked by a mentally disturbed teenager. “He should be locked up,” Collier says.’
‘No,’ I gasp. ‘No way. This isn’t … This can’t be.’ I’m aghast. It’s inconceivable. Yet there is the man who raped me, there in black and white, claiming to be an assault victim. It doesn’t make sense, unless …
Mick watches intently, studying my cascading emotions. ‘Take your time. Read it all. We need to get to the bottom of this.’
I finish the article, countless questions competing for front row in my mind. I’m also conscious of Mick and Vic, waiting for me to tell them everything I know. But I don’t know how to begin. Actually, I feel nauseous at the thought. Then, before I can broach the silence, someone else belts on the front door.
CHAPTER 28
NED
Back when I was twelve, Grandpa took me on a holiday. He wanted to fish the Ovens River. Me, I was happy exploring the banks. Or just sitting. Watching Grandpa. Cast and wait. Cast and wait. The river sliding by. Cast and wait. Cast. Wait. Calm.
We stayed at an old pub in Beechworth. Each afternoon, after returning from the river, we’d go for a walk. Visit places like the courthouse and the old lockup. I felt like I was in the Tardis, travelling back in time. I could imagine Ned Kelly, not even sixteen, standing in the dock. Hearing he’d spend the next six months doing hard labour in Beechworth Gaol. I reckon he would have been cheeky. Cocky. His body language would have sent a message to the judge, loud and clear. It’ll take more than six months to tame a Kelly.
There was a small Kelly museum in the centre of town. Most kids went straight for the souvenirs — ‘Wanted’ posters, pistol key rings, even Kelly helmet pencil sharpeners. My favourite thing was a copy of a letter, the famous Jerilderie Letter of 1879.
Reading it, I could see Kelly pacing a dimly lit room, one hand tugging at his beard, the other swiping at the air, emphasising his thoughts. It is not the place of the police to convict guilty men as it is by them they get their living … had the right parties been convicted it would have been a bad job for the police … only I came to their aid and kept them in their bilits and good employment and got them double pay and yet the ungrateful articles convicted my mother and an infant my brother-in-law and another man who was innocent and still annoy my brothers and sisters and the ignorant unicorns even threaten to shoot myself. ‘Did you get that, Joe?’ And Joe Byrne, taking a nip from his drink, flexing his inky hand in the lantern light. Laughing. Wondering when his mate will be done. Wondering if this is what old Mr O’Donoghue had in mind when teaching him to write. Wondering when the laughs will stop. How much time they have before the tears begin.
Kelly returning time and again to the events of Stringybark — the moments that made him a killer. Hellbent on arguing he had no choice. This cannot be called wilful murder for I was compelled to shoot them, or lie down and let them shoot me … remember those men came into the bush with the intention of scattering pieces of me and my brother all over the bush …
Kelly finally ending the letter, with Joe’s hand resting, aching with effort, on page 56. Joe hearing a note in his mate’s voice, which belies the letter’s ferocious final threat. Choosing to not contemplate what it might mean. Kelly considering asking Joe to read the letter back to him but thinking better of it. Striding to the door. Calling for another bottle. And the girls to come back.
Fifty-six pages, bristling with personality. Kelly’s words. His story. His humour. His determination to be heard. His fury at the way others had meddled with and manipulated his family. The power of Kelly’s words reached out to me from the pages. Impressed me like nothing I’d read before. And now, almost a century after the letter exploded from his lips, the ink rages through my veins. For I too, am a widow’s son outlawed.
Dear Sir, I wish to acquaint you with some of the occurrences of the present past and future.
I’ve been writing for hours. My hand, unfamiliar with pushing a pen for long periods, is cramping. I write so rarely. I don’t even sign my name. Always too scared. Putting thoughts on paper always seems too big a commitment. Too public. Too open. I wouldn’t, couldn’t risk letting people inside my head.
Whenever there was writing to do at school, I just sat there. Held the pencil, wrote nothing. Memorised the shapes of the letters. Sometimes I traced them with my index finger. Only in the library, when I was sure no one could see, only then did I write anything down. I kept my notes, my feelings, my words, my story, locked away. Secret. Until now.
If I am to be heard, to tell my story, I need to write it down. Every detail. So I do and it’s painful. Exhausting. Yet, as I pour myself onto each page, my confidence grows. I sense Kelly felt the same way — emboldened by each additional word etched in ink.
I’m not proud of what I had to do to get the stuff to write my story down. Mrs Triantafolou’s corner shop backs onto a cobbled laneway. There’s a gate in her fence so she can put her bins out. I didn’t expect it to be locked. It wasn’t. I knew there would be fresh bread and milk waiting out the front of the shop but didn’t want to risk being seen on Barnaby Street — too busy. Besides, I needed pens and paper.
Behind the shop, bins, stacked crates and piles of cardboard boxes hemmed the fence line, crowding the outhouse in the corner. I found a tray of stale loaves of bread by the back door and a box of dusty Tarax bottles that Mrs T hadn’t got around to loading into her fridge. That would do for tucker but I still needed a pen.
Tentatively, I tried the handle on the back door. The door felt jammed, rather than locked. I had no time to be gentle. Holding the handle down, I rammed the door with my shoulder. It burst inwards, screeching across the shiny lino. The noise scared
me; anyone at the front of the shop could have heard it.
I waited, listening for movement. Cautiously entered. In the far corner, near a stand of birthday cards, Mrs T had a stationery shelf. I grabbed a couple of pens and some exercise books, a can opener and some tinned food: spaghetti, baked beans, a beef casserole thing and some darkening bananas. I also borrowed a wire shopping basket to carry all the stuff. Then, convinced I’d already stayed too long, jumping at the sound of every car in Barnaby Street, I dragged the door closed behind me, shoved some bread and soft drink into the basket and fled, the basket banging against my thigh with every stride.
My plan, once I’ve finished writing, is to make my story public. I’m not sure how. I could address it to The Editor and slide it under the door of The Advocate office and then all of Rushton would know. Dunno if that would be fair on Erin, though. It’s her story too. I could whack it in the letterbox outside the police station … but I’m not sure I’m ready to get that close to the cop shop, even late at night. And I don’t know that I can trust them to use it right. I want it to be evidence. My truth. Proof that Nigel Collier’s death was an accident. Proof that he defiled the first friend I’ve had. Proof that I do have the words to stand up to a bully.
Getting too dark to write. Knackered anyway. I’ve filled almost three exercise books. My writing hand is so sore I can barely operate the can opener. I slurp spaghetti cold from the can. Wipe the tin clean with some stale bread. Wash the meal down with some creamy soda.
I’m unusually calm. It’s as if this new sense of purpose, this mission, has steamrolled my doubts and fears — replacing them with a percolating anger at all Collier has put me through. Like Kelly said in his letter: I don’t think there is a man born could have the patience to suffer it as long as I did …
I suffered it all right. Suffered in silence. Not any more. I’m a widow’s son outlawed. My words must be heard.
CHAPTER 29
ERIN
As usual, Dad turns up claret-faced, out of the blue. As the front door swings open, he’s loose and affectionate, all ‘Hello, love, I got out early’ until my appearance straightens him up. ‘Jee-zus! What happened to you?’
I’m impatient, aware I have to get back to Mick — and angry, not wanting to hear Dad’s story or his ‘gissus a hug’. I mumble something about guests and tell Dad that Mum’s in the kitchen.
In the lounge room I snatch The Advocate from my chair. I scan the article again, unable to believe what I read. The rapist, Collier, is quoted as claiming he came forward with his story ‘because the public needs to know a disturbed offender is on the loose’. He says he was washing a car when he ‘… suffered an unprovoked attack by a young man wielding a piece of timber’. The article continues: ‘The young man, a Nicholas “Ned” Edwards, has been known to Mr Collier for many years but is becoming increasingly aggressive in his behaviour and is now considered a threat to public safety. “Fortunately I have been studying self-defence as I have been accepted into the Police Academy in Melbourne,” Collier said. “I tried to detain Edwards but a vicious blow to the right side of my head prevented me from making a citizen’s arrest. Edwards ran off in a southerly direction.”’
I want to throw the paper on the floor, rip it to shreds, burn it. I don’t want it in our house. Instead, I pass it back to Mick as if it’s venomous. In many ways it is. Mick watches, one eyebrow cocked like a question mark.
‘It’s crap! All of it. You both know Ned wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He doesn’t have an aggressive bone in his body. That Collier is full of shit — overflowing with it. And the paper has swallowed every one of his lies. Man, it makes me want to scream!’
‘Erin,’ Mick interrupts. I feel like a kettle, lifted off the stove — still steaming but slowly calming down. Then I see Dad standing in the doorway. There’s an awkward moment as I ponder how to handle his presence.
‘Dad, this is my boss, Michael Hartnett.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Murphy. Call me Mick.’
‘Hello. Paddy.’
‘And this is Vic Edwards — my friend Ned’s grandad.’
‘Hello.’
‘Dad, they’ve come to talk to me about Ned. He’s gone missing. Umm, you better have a seat.’
‘I’ll get your mother. She needs to be here for this.’
‘But, she …’
‘No buts. Hang on a minute.’
I don’t know where Ned is. I do know what might have made him run. But how am I going to take them through it? I’m not sure I can … I don’t know if I’m capable of … I just want to forget … Then I feel Mum’s hand, heavy on mine.
I sigh. ‘There’s something between Ned and Collier,’ I begin, tentatively. ‘A history. Ned’s scared of him. He tries to avoid Collier whenever he can. But when I came along things changed. I didn’t want Ned being scared or pushed around … Poor Ned! I’ve really messed things up for him, haven’t I? I tried to put Collier in his place. I called him a coward for abusing someone who couldn’t speak back. I gave him a serve in front of his mate. And then the last time I saw Collier … the last time I saw Ned …’
Tears racing, skidding, salty to my lips. The room blurred.
I tell them everything. The words come slowly, a surreal narration to the nightmare looping through my mind. Any time I close my eyes he’s there, greasy and grunting. He’s Gulliver-sized; I’m Lilliputian and powerless — not even able to scream.
My voice fades to nothing. No one speaks. Mum’s hand squeezes mine.
I clamp my mouth shut and sniffle steeply, swallowing back the sobs clambering in my throat. I’m uncertain what the silence in the room means and suddenly fearful I’m being judged again — judged unworthy. It’s agonising. I can’t bear this silence, no matter what it means.
‘I should have told someone Collier was giving Ned a hard time but I thought I could handle it,’ I blurt, wretchedly. ‘But he waited and he paid out on me. And now he’s done a number on Ned too. He’s an animal. I’m sorry, Vic, I didn’t want to bring anyone trouble, especially Ned. Believe me; that’s the last thing I wanted.’
Still no one speaks. Then Mum: ‘We need to report this, Erin.’
‘But, Mum, you know what they’ll say. The police don’t believe people like us — like they didn’t in Murnong. They’ll say it’s my word against Collier’s — and he’s practically a cop, as far as they’re concerned. There’s just no point. No point at all.’
‘There is a point, Erin. Even if it doesn’t help you, it might help your friend. Now put on some nicer clothes and perhaps Mr Hartnett or Mr Edwards might drive us down to the police station.’
‘But, Mum, what if they don’t …’
Dad’s growl cuts me off before I can finish.
‘Gotta do this right. We’re goin’ to the cops.’
CHAPTER 30
NED
My story is told. Tucked under my arm, three exercise books brim with words. I feel lighter, as if they’ve been carved from my flesh.
Waiting for darkness. After three nights in the wool store, I’m ready to venture out. I’m charged with excitement and expectation. I’ve decided the newspaper is my best bet to tell my tale. To have my say. To protect Erin, I’ve scribbled over every reference to her name. That hurt. It was like erasing her from my life. I wonder if she’s done the same to me. Wiped me. Written me off as useless.
Time to go. In my mind I’ve made this trip many times already, weighing up possible routes to the highly visible Advocate office. It won’t be easy. The paper is located in the main road in the centre of town, past the fountain, the post office, courts and police station. All too well lit. Too busy. The back way is better.
If I stay away from major roads, cut through the footy ground and into the park, I can approach from the rear of the police station. Dash across the main road to drop off my notebooks. Head back here.
I’m a bat in the night. Sweeping along the nature strips, swooping across roads. This is my country. These are
my streets and lanes. But Rosamond Park, so sleepy by day, seems menacing, even creepy, at night. Striding down the hill, I tread on a pine cone. Roll my ankle — badly. Standing, toppling as the ankle combusts. Forcing myself to rise again, no time for rest, barely able to feel my foot. Lurching onwards, a bat with a newly bung wing. Following the park border, alongside the hardly-there Rushton Creek.
Not much cover once I leave the park. The main road is well lit, much brighter than I’d figured on. The lights are still on in the Addy office but there’s no movement inside. A couple of cops stroll down the steps from the police station and I shrink, pressing myself against a tree at the roadside. The cops are laughing. They lower themselves into a patrol car; it reverses and then swings onto the main road. They turn left, passing within metres of me.
Twenty-five metres. Two lanes of road, tram tracks, two more lanes. What if I’m halfway across when the cops come back? Will I freeze like a roo in their headlights? My ankle threatens to capsize me each time I put weight on it. I can’t do this. It’s too far. Too risky.
No choice. I bite down on my lip. Step forward. Taste blood in my mouth.
Limp onto the road. Across the cobbled tracks. Ten more metres to the Addy’s door. Reach the gutter. Rest. Only the footpath to go. The mailbox is beside the door … which swings open. A man strides out of The Advocate office, a cigarette glowing at his lips.
I freeze. Drop beside a car angle-parked in front of the building, a whopping great Leyland. Hope like hell he’s not about to hop inside it. At least I’m on the driver’s side. If the cops come down this side of the road I’ll be hidden behind the car. If this bloke doesn’t drive it off, that is.
He drops the butt and grinds it beneath his shoe. Posters for the paper’s next edition are draped over a forearm and he moves down the footpath, opening glass display cases and replacing those carrying the previous day’s news. ‘RECORD WOOL PRICE’, one proclaims.
