by Fiona Lowe
‘You have the right to live the way you want to live, Jade.’
‘Yeah.’ But theory bore little resemblance to her reality. ‘Did you honestly expect that dating me would be this hard?’
The dart of something in his eyes confirmed the answer she already knew.
Tara and Jon sat opposite Fiza and Amal at the Tingledale kitchen table. When Fiza had called and Tara had told her Amal was a suspect, there had been a long silence on the line.
‘I telephoned you to say I was sorry to learn about the break-in. I did not telephone you to accuse my son!’
The words had slammed down the line, their ferocity jostling Tara. ‘I’m sorry, Fiza. We’re heartsick, but the evidence points towards him.’
‘I will get Amal from school. We will come and talk to you.’
‘I don’t think that’s—’
‘Please, Tara. I beg you. Talk to him before you involve the police.’
‘I’m not happy about it,’ Jon had said when Tara had raised it. ‘It’s best to leave everything to the police.’
But Jon hadn’t heard first-hand about the night Fiza’s and Amal’s lives had changed forever. He hadn’t felt the grief for a dead husband and a lost way of life. Nor had he seen the flash of a lioness in Fiza’s eyes when she spoke of still needing to fight for her child even though they were twelve thousand kilometres from the warzone they’d fled. And then there was the uncomfortable brick in Tara’s belly that the police were determined to pin something on Amal. She couldn’t work out if it was because Amal was involved with a group of boys or if there was racism at play.
What would you do to protect your family? Fiza’s lilting question wouldn’t leave her. Tara wasn’t contending with a war or racism, but she understood that bone-deep protective urge that went hand in hand with love and motherhood. Recognised it in Fiza. Understood it was the reason she’d pushed so hard to convince Jon to take the meeting.
‘It doesn’t mean I’m not furious with Amal for breaking our trust,’ she’d explained. ‘I want to shake him for causing his mother more anguish and pain after they’ve been through so much and she’s worked so hard to give him a safe life full of opportunities.’
‘You do realise just because Fiza said he didn’t do it isn’t proof, right?’ Jon said.
‘Yes.’
‘And I’m still calling Denny North.’
‘After we’ve spoken to Amal.’
Jon grumbled but he’d agreed to the delay. Now he was showing Amal photos of the graffiti, the rubbish and the garden section.
‘So what do you know about this, Amal?’
His school uniform made the boy look younger than his years. ‘I didn’t do it. I wouldn’t ever do something like this. Especially not to you and Mrs Hooper.’
Some of Tara’s hard line wavered at his sincerity, but not Jon’s. ‘You specifically asked Tara to work in the garden section.’
‘Because I love plants. Not because I want to destroy them!’
‘He was home last night,’ Fiza said. ‘He has been home every night since we moved here.’
‘Unless you check him every hour, you have no idea if he snuck out of bed and into town or not,’ Jon said.
‘We live ten kilometres out of town,’ Amal said. ‘How would I even get there?’
Jon folded his arms. ‘I can think of many ways. Steal your mother’s car. Get picked up by one of your mates. You tell me.’
‘He did not drive my car. I put petrol in yesterday and I pressed the …’ Fiza’s hands moved as she searched for a word, ‘… the number again. They were the same.’
‘I’m telling the truth. I didn’t go into town.’ A hint of antagonism threaded through Amal’s words. ‘The last time I was at the store was when I watered the plants.’
‘Amal, I want to believe you,’ Tara said. ‘You’re polite, you work hard, you’re always smiling and cheerful. I appreciate all those qualities.’
Gratitude crossed his face. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hooper.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She waited a beat. ‘Tell me, why would boys break into the garden section last night, not the store?’
His pupils dilated fast. He looked down, staring determinedly at his hands.
‘Amal?’
‘I don’t know.’
But the quietly spoken words didn’t carry the same weighted conviction of his previous denials. For the first time he looked frightened. It niggled Tara. They hadn’t told him or Fiza about the missing spray cans, the pocket knives or the jobsite radio, only the damaged plants and mess. If Amal had been lying cheerfully to their faces about his innocence up to now, the question shouldn’t have thrown him.
‘Amal, if you know something you need to tell us.’
He kept his head down. ‘You won’t believe me.’
Fiza said something to Amal in Arabic, then looked at Tara. ‘I am sorry. When I am stressed, I lose English words. I beg him to tell you what he knows.’
Amal looked up then, straight at Jon, his gaze challenging. ‘Aussie blokes don’t dob on their mates.’
Jon winced and pressed two fingers between his eyes as if he’d just been pierced by an arrow. When he removed them, his arm trembled and he placed one hand over the other.
‘What is dob?’ Fiza asked.
‘I know a bit about being a mate, Amal,’ Jon said. ‘I’ve got one mate who has my back no matter what. Then there are some blokes I thought were mates, but when I got Parkinson’s and I needed their understanding, they couldn’t manage it. You did a better job of it the day I fell, and when we played backyard cricket and some of my bowls went wide.’
A tug of emotions played out on the boy’s face but he remained silent.
Jon continued. ‘I want you to ask yourself this. Is someone a mate if they let you get convicted of a crime you didn’t do? Are they a mate if they expect you to stay quiet to protect their illegal activities and let you lose your chance to become a doctor? I can tell you that a true-blue mate would never ask you to do those things.’
‘But you don’t know what it’s like,’ Amal muttered.
‘Then please explain it to me. I want to know.’
Amal’s fingers fiddled with some loose rattan on a placemat. ‘They call us African. They say we’re all the same, but there’s no such thing as African. What do I share with a boy from Ghana? They speak English. In Sudan we speak Arabic. Ghana is Christian, Sudan is Muslim. Some food’s the same but a lot’s different. It’s like saying Australians and the French are the same!
‘If I say I’m Sudanese, they tell me I’m in Australia now. But when I say I’m Aussie, they say I’m African. I have a certificate that says I’m Australian! They say they’re Australian because they were born here, like they made it happen. Every day at school I have to prove I’m an Aussie. Show them that I deserve to be here when they never have to. I am Australian. I studied Australian Rules. I watch it on TV and at the oval so I can play at lunchtime. I kick the soccer ball. I asked you to show me cricket. I even tried—’ A horrified look flashed in his eyes and he bit his lip. He didn’t look at his mother. ‘No matter what I do, they expect more and more to prove I belong. And then the black boys, they say, forget being Aussie, be in their gang—but they ask me to do things I know are wrong too.’
‘And have you done these things?’
He ducked his head. ‘Once.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I drank vodka with them in the park.’
Fiza gasped and Tara reached out, squeezing her hand, hoping she wouldn’t tell Amal off when they were finally getting somewhere.
‘And what happened?’ Jon said.
‘I threw up.’
‘And?’
‘And …’ The rattan was now wound tightly around his finger. ‘They went to the silos. I watched them spray their tags over the Aussies’ tags, but the whole time I was scared. I kept thinking, Om will kill me. She will cry and I hate it when she cries. So I left and ran home. But the policeman wit
h all the stripes on his shirt stopped me on Serenity Street.’
‘Sergeant North?’ Tara asked.
‘Maybe. He wanted to know where I’d been. I couldn’t tell him or he’d find the boys. If I lied and said I was somewhere, he’d go there and ask. I said I had the right to remain silent.’ Amal shuddered. ‘He didn’t like that. He made me empty my pockets and my backpack. He used his torch to look for paint on my hands. When he only found my school stuff, he ripped my chemistry homework and sprinkled it over my head. He said, “Being smart won’t save you. One day I’ll get you.”’
Fiza said something in rapid Arabic and Amal hung his head.
‘He should not have been drinking, but it is not a crime to walk at night,’ she said to Jon and Tara. Her face twisted. ‘When we arrived in Australia they told us we can trust the police. Hah!’
‘Amal, do you know if this gang’s responsible for breaking into our store?’ Jon asked.
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘Then tell us.’
Agony creased his face. ‘I can’t.’
‘Because the black gang’s threatened you?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t spend time with them any more.’
‘If someone’s asking you to keep their crime a secret, they’re not a friend.’
‘You don’t understand. They’re not my friends.’ Amal’s shoulders drooped and he blew out a long breath imbued with resignation. ‘There are three boys. White boys. They sell stuff at school and in the park.’
‘Stuff they’ve stolen?’
‘Sometimes. Mostly they ask the black kids to steal it for them.’
‘Those boys should say no,’ Fiza said hotly. ‘Why don’t they say no?’
Amal’s expression was pure teenager—long-suffering forbearance. ‘Because they get the spray cans for free, Om. They hate the way the Aussie boys make their graffiti look like they did it. It’s why they paint over it.’
Jon rubbed his temples. ‘Let me get this straight. There are three teenagers masterminding a stolen goods racket in town and making it look like the Af—black kids did it all?’
‘Not sports equipment,’ Amal said. ‘Things like alcohol and spray paint. Knives. Anything they can sell. Drugs too.’
‘I need you to tell the police who these boys are.’
Amal stiffened. ‘No. They won’t believe me. They will say I’m making it all up because these boys are well respected.’
‘Jon, he might have a point,’ Tara said. ‘You know what Denny North said to us about smart boys. It matches what Amal just told us.’
He ignored her and kept his gaze on Amal. ‘If you don’t tell the police about these boys then you’re still a sus—’
‘Oh my God!’ Tara grabbed Jon’s arm and stood up. ‘Please excuse us for a few minutes.’
‘Tell me if you are calling the police,’ Fiza said.
‘I’m not. I just need to talk to Jon privately.’
Jon followed her into the study and closed the door. ‘The first break-in was April, right?’
He nodded. ‘During the big DIY push before Easter.’
‘When did Morgan Llewelyn ask Ian about a job for Darcy?’
‘Hang on, Tara. That’s a leap.’
‘It’s as much a leap as us thinking it’s black teenagers. Was there a break-in before Darcy started?’
‘I’d have to check the date on his employment form.’
‘Was he working when we didn’t have any break-ins?’
‘He had footy finals and a holiday with his family and then I said we didn’t need him until last week—shit!’ He ran his hand through his hair. ‘You realise you’re accusing the magistrate’s grandson of breaking and entering?’
‘Morgan’s job is nothing to do with whether or not Darcy’s stealing from us.’
‘Yeah, but what’s his motive?’
‘People steal for a hundred reasons, but think about it. He’s our worst casual. He’s lazy, entitled and self-serving. The only reason we haven’t sacked him is because Morgan’s a mate of Ian’s.’
Jon paced in the small room. ‘It still doesn’t absolve Amal. He asked to work in the garden section.’
‘I know it doesn’t look good, but it’s only bad in retrospect. It made sense at the time, because I’d rostered Darcy to plants but he’s useless. What if it was Darcy’s idea to swap?’
‘It would put him inside the store and give him access to what he wanted to stash ready to steal,’ Jon said.
‘And we were frantic on Saturday. No one would have noticed him moving between the sections, hiding things.’
‘But if Amal knew that was Darcy’s intention, it still makes him an accessory to the crime. North will be all over him.’
Tara’s head pounded. She desperately wanted to believe Amal, but he’d confessed to trying to please two groups to fit in. If Darcy had set up the theft, not only did it take down Amal, but also the black teenagers who’d risked being caught breaking and entering. It played right into Denny North’s and the town’s prejudices. She readjusted her opinion of Darcy Llewelyn. He wasn’t lazy—he was conniving and evil.
She gasped, struck by a thought. ‘You know when you installed the CCTV, a lot of the loyal customers got stroppy?’
‘Yeah. And I told them we were only using it at night to catch the thieves.’
‘Exactly. Except when I arrived on Saturday, my head was so full of balloons and displays, I forgot to turn it off. It ran until Monday morning.’
Jon frowned. ‘It will show us if Darcy was lifting stuff, but it won’t show him stashing it in the garden section. It’s not enough to clear Amal.’
‘It will be if it shows Darcy carrying the stuff into the garden section after three o’clock.’
‘Why three?’
‘Because Fiza worked an afternoon shift and Amal finished early to mind the twins.’
CHAPTER
40
Milo had woken up early and as Helen was minding him today anyway, she took him for a walk. The pink and violet dawn spun light on the river track and the wheeling screech of galahs drowned out the frog serenade.
‘Bird.’ Helen pointed to a magpie on a branch. ‘Can you say bird?’
She’d discovered she got a ridiculous burst of excitement each time Milo said or did something new. She’d loved Nicki, but with Milo racing through the milestones, she’d realised exactly how much Nicki’s disabilities had stolen from them both.
She’d offered to mind Milo when Jade asked Bob to drive her to Shepparton to talk to a careers counsellor. Helen was disappointed Jade had asked Bob and not her, but she was tempering her reaction with quiet relief. In the middle of chaos, Jade had emerged from her blue funk no longer resisting the idea of study. This was the first step.
From the first time Helen had met Jade, the younger woman had presented with a mix of determination, dry humour and a pinch of protective pugnaciousness. Tuesday morning had shattered her don’t-mess-with-me veneer, exposing how young and in need of support she was. This version of Jade worried Helen.
Each time Lachlan visited, Jade retreated to her room so he’d spent more time with Milo than with her. Helen had been about to broach the subject of Jade talking to someone when Constable Fiora had knocked on the door. Macca had resurfaced in town, with an alibi in Deniliquin to account for his whereabouts. Given the bloke who said he’d been with Macca the whole time had a history of petty crime, it wasn’t strong. Macca had told the police he hadn’t seen Corey in weeks, not since he’d ‘gone to see a bloke about a job’. As the tyre prints on the nature strip didn’t match Macca’s ute, all the police could do was remind him of the intervention order. The offensive texts stopped.
A day later, Jade had announced she wanted to be a florist and asked Bob to drive her to the TAFE in Shepparton. Helen hadn’t been able to completely hide her disappointment about floristry. Not that she didn’t value the joy florists gave to people, but Jade didn’t have support to start her o
wn business and working as an assistant to a florist was a low-paid casual job unlikely to lift her out of poverty.
Helen cut up from the river track to the community garden, giving herself a workout pushing Milo’s pram up the rise, and unlocked the gate. As she stooped to pick some strawberries for breakfast, her hips protested. Now things had finally settled down, and with Corey hunkered down somewhere for the foreseeable future, it was time to get back to her usual yoga routine. Time to get back to normal. She supposed that included changing the locks and moving back to Serenity Street. The thought didn’t fill her with enthusiasm—life in a larger house was far more pleasant.
Just admit it’s Bob’s company.
Apprehension twisted on a helix. If she admitted that, where did it leave her? She didn’t want to examine it too closely. She was closer to sixty than fifty and she hadn’t been on a date, let alone had sex, in twenty years. Just the thought of either sent her blood pressure soaring. The fact she couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing made it spike even higher.
She firmly reminded herself that she and Bob were good friends. Nothing needed to change. It couldn’t change—she’d lived on her own for too long and it was safer that way.
Except you’re not living on your own, are you?
That’s just temporary.
That thought didn’t reassure her either.
She gave Milo a strawberry, bagged the rest and stowed them under the pram. The promise of a hot day was already delivering in the warmth of the newly risen sun. As she pushed Milo out through the main gates onto Riverfarm Road, she saw Judith and Sharon in their exercise gear, standing chatting on the street. They appeared to be looking past her, which suited Helen—chatting to Judith was at the top of her list of things not to do before she died.
The low vibrating grunt of a diesel engine sounded behind them and she turned. A huge Kenworth truck lumbered slowly down the road.
‘Oh, look, Milo. It’s got a big digger on it.’
Milo’s bright eyes rounded into blue discs of wonder and when the truck finally passed, he cried out in disappointment. Helen swung the pram around so he could keep watching it until it turned right into Mill Street on its way to the highway.
