The Boundary

by Nicole Watson

Her voice is soft. Shyness, he figures.

  ‘Were you at work yesterday, Anne?’

  ‘Yes. In the morning he delivered the judgment in the Corrowa case. The trial was pretty draining for everyone involved, especially the elders. I felt sorry for them, but the law has to be applied equally, without fear or favour.’

  She pauses, suddenly conscious of her sermon.

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘I left the office at about six o’clock. He was sitting at his desk.’

  ‘Did anyone come to see him yesterday?’

  Her eyes turn sheepish for only a second, but it’s not lost on him.

  ‘I don’t know. At least, I’m not aware of –’

  ‘Good morning, Detective Matthews. I’m David Westin, Chief Justice of the Federal Court.’

  David Westin is tall and wiry. Face sombre. He’s not accustomed to waiting for others. Anne takes her cue.

  ‘I’ll be down the hall if you need anything, detective.’

  ‘Shall we talk in my office?’ Before Jason can answer, Westin is heading for the door.

  His suite is similar to Brosnan’s, but slightly larger. Jason wonders if the rooms are measured to reflect one’s place in the judicial hierarchy. Westin gestures they take a seat on the more generous sofa.

  ‘This is such a tragedy. I haven’t been able to speak to Emily yet. Do you know how she is?’

  ‘We interviewed Mrs Brosnan earlier this morning. She’s understandably distraught.’

  ‘Such terrible news. Please ask if there is anything I can do.’

  ‘How well did you know Bruce Brosnan?’

  ‘We shared chambers when we first went to the bar. We had a long professional association.’

  ‘How would you describe his relationship with Emily Brosnan?’

  ‘I really wouldn’t know. As I said, my relationship with Bruce was of a professional nature.’

  ‘Are you aware of anyone who might have had a grudge against him?’

  ‘No. But, once again, I didn’t really know anything about Bruce’s personal life.’

  Jason doubts the conversation will be anything but a waste of his time, but then he remembers. ‘Did you ever meet Brosnan’s daughter, Isabella?’

  ‘Detective Matthews,’ Westin says, frowning, ‘I do understand the importance of frankness, but . . .’

  ‘I assure you that discretion is a crucial part of my job.’

  Westin sighs. ‘About ten years ago Isabella was in a very bad way. She had a drug addiction. I understand that she was even homeless for a brief period. But the extent of Isabella’s problems didn’t come out into the open, until the criminal charges.’

  ‘Working on a Friday afternoon – Homicide’s the gift that just keeps giving.’

  Jason knows Higgins is only half serious. Between them, Higgins was the first to decide on Homicide, inspired by a father who had spent two decades seeking answers for and from the dead.

  ‘You can really make a difference in Homicide. Do things no one else can,’ Higgins insisted, as other young men indulged in drinking games. Jason was intrigued by the passion in his friend’s voice. He was just as touched by Higgins’ unswerving belief in his father. Whereas Jason had always struggled to reach an understanding with his own father, Andrew seemed to worship the ground that Higgins Senior walked on. It led Jason to believe that, of the two of them, Higgins was the better man. He was the one who had charisma, compassion for those he worked with, and married at a time when the idea of a life-long commitment still scared the hell out of Jason.

  Higgins takes a left and pulls up at a red light. ‘Have any luck reaching Sherene Payne?’

  ‘No, her phone keeps going to message bank.’

  ‘And it was definitely the last call to Brosnan’s mobile?’

  ‘Yeah, seven twenty-nine.’

  Higgins frowns. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A lawyer. Married to that big shot Dick Payne,’ Jason says, glancing out the window.

  The yards in the established suburb of MacGregor are generous, accessorised with pools, landscaped gardens and pergolas. They pass a Scout hall in a park and Jason thinks he could probably have a good life here, albeit a quiet one. Will he ever settle down?

  Jason looks at his partner’s groggy eyes, and thinks perhaps not. ‘How are things at home?’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Higgins pauses. ‘Lisa and I had another argument.’

  His words hang in the air with no place to go. Both have seen too many men give everything to the job, only to retire to the loneliness and dust of boardinghouse rooms.

  The light-coloured bricks of the two-storey house were popular in the 1980s. The balcony on the top floor is bare apart from a poodle, yapping wildly. Seven garden gnomes stand at the foot of the front door.

  ‘Fan of Snow White?’ Higgins says, knocking on the door.

  ‘Maybe. I’m surprised no one’s flogged them.’ Jason glances over the fence at the Brosnans’ house, next door. ‘Have you heard those stories of people being sent postcards from their kidnapped garden gnomes? There was this one from –’

  ‘Good. You’re on time.’

  Rebecca Collis is tiny in the door jamb, the sash of her blue dress wrapped tightly, light powder pressed into a face that speaks of clean living.

  She slides bony hands from yellow gardening gloves. ‘You must be Higgins.’

  Higgins smiles and extends his hand. ‘Mrs Collis, thanks for agreeing to see us.’

  ‘It’s Miss.’ She turns to Jason. ‘And you’re Matthews. An Aboriginal detective, hey?’ She sizes him up like a bidder inspecting art at an auction. ‘I think Aborigines can achieve whatever they put their minds to.’

  Voice whistles as she speaks.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Collis.’

  ‘I went to school with an Aboriginal boy. What was his name . . .’

  Higgins smiles impatiently.

  ‘Come in, then.’

  The dining room could have come straight from the window of a furniture store. The white vinyl chairs and glass table are flawless. Tall black vases stand in the corners of the room and portraits of children adorn the walls.

  ‘Grandchildren?’ Higgins asks.

  ‘God no! I wasn’t that stupid.’

  Bashful grin dances on creases.

  ‘Nephews and nieces.’

  Jason and Higgins sit at opposite ends of the table. Rebecca takes her place in the middle.

  ‘Miss Collis, perhaps we can start by talking about last night.’

  ‘I did what I do every night. I had my dinner in front of the news and then I watched the 7:30 Report.’ Rebecca draws close to Jason. ‘That Kerry O’Brien is a dish. If I was twenty years younger, I’d let him put his shoes under my bed.’

  Higgins laughs heartily while Jason tries his hardest to remain serious.

  ‘I heard a car pull into the driveway next door. I think that was during the last story on the 7:30 Report. Yes, that’s right. I just assumed it was Emily or Bruce.’

  She looks wistful; it’s all too recent.

  ‘Did you hear or see anything unusual last night?’

  ‘After I got my nightly dose of Kerry, I started doing the washing up. That was when I heard the argument.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Bruce and Emily’s house.’

  ‘Did you recognise the voices?’

  ‘Hmm, it was a man and a woman. I couldn’t really understand them. To be honest, I felt uncomfortable hearing it. None of my business. So I rang my sister in Sydney.’

  ‘How long did you speak?’

  ‘It would have been half an hour. By the time I hung up the phone, the arguing had stopped. I sat in
bed reading a book for an hour. It’s Peter Corris’ latest. I really love that Cliff Hardy . . . none of that new age CSI rubbish.’

  Higgins starts coughing as though he’s about to choke. Rebecca disappears into the hallway, returning with a tray of glasses and a jug of water.

  ‘I would have been asleep for half an hour before I heard Annabelle.’

  ‘Annabelle?’

  ‘The dog.’ Rebecca speaks with the certainty that all dogs should be called Annabelle. ‘She’s a good pooch – never barks unless there’s a stranger outside.’

  From behind his mask, Jason finds that very difficult to believe.

  ‘Then I heard the thumping. It sounded like someone was going to knock the door down. I was so surprised when I saw Emily. At first I thought she’d been attacked. She was a frightful mess. She didn’t make any sense until I forced her to sit down. She wanted me to go to see Bruce, but I wouldn’t. I didn’t think it was safe. We rang the police together.’

  A flash of pain appears on her face.

  ‘I hope I did the right thing.’

  ‘How long have you lived next to the Brosnans?’

  ‘Oh, I moved here when I retired. It’s fifteen years in April.’

  ‘Were Emily and Bruce already here?’

  ‘Oh yes. People around here tend to stay.’

  ‘Did you know them well?’

  ‘Not really. We’d chat over the fence occasionally.’

  ‘Did you ever hear them arguing?’

  ‘No. To be honest, I rarely saw them together.’

  ‘Did you ever see their daughter?’

  Rebecca smiles. ‘Isabella is a lovely girl. She always brings a present for Annabelle, mostly bones. But every Christmas, she’ll buy her a new outfit. You know it’s amazing . . .’

  ‘When was the last time that you saw Isabella?’

  ‘Hmm, actually, it was yesterday. I was sitting in the garden, having my lunch. Isabella was standing near the fish pond in the front of Emily and Bruce’s house.’

  ‘Did you speak to her?’

  ‘That’s the interesting thing. I called out to her a few times, but she just ignored me and went inside.’

  FOUR

  No sound bites of screaming children, no mass casualties. No eyes of the world staring in indignation. Native title is the most sophisticated weapon they have fired at us yet. Break our minds with invisible bullets, until we can no longer believe that we are who we say we are. This judgment will poison our insides like Agent Orange. Deform our children before they are born, so that they will never see their own reflection, only the distorted image the law sees fit to provide them.

  If we no longer have our traditional connection, then who are we?

  Refugees who have never left our own land?

  Six years of my life for nothing.

  ‘Where’s your Auntie?’ Charlie’s sneer is coated with blame.

  ‘I don’t know, Dad.’

  ‘I thought she was coming with you.’

  ‘No, Dad – she didn’t say anything.’

  Charlie mutters under his breath. It’s inaudible, but there’s no mistaking. He knows that alcohol is putrefying her soul. And flesh. Miranda feels like a character in a post-apocalypse film. A drone cloaked in grey skin.

  She stares at her father’s back as he walks away. Charlie is short, his body hard from the boxing of his youth. Soul is hard too. The faithful gather around Charlie. A young woman looks hungrily into his eyes. Her jeans are faded and tight. Other men have been staring, albeit surreptitiously, but Charlie appears oblivious. When the woman speaks, Miranda recognises the Manoah accent, its exaggerated vowels bounce off the walls.

  Everyone from Manoah has the accent, a virus that lives in a huge cloud over the mission, resistant to vaccine. Fifty years of living in Brisbane seems to have had no impact on Auntie Ethel’s, Miranda thinks.

  The soothing aroma of milky tea wafts. The elders have been sitting down for the past half-hour, sipping from chipped porcelain. Every so often, Miranda hears a gasp, followed by silence then a stampede of voices. Standing at the very back of the hall near the kitchen is the younger generation, too young to remember the euphoria on 3 June 1992.

  But Ethel’s not here.

  ‘Missed you in the office today, mate.’

  O’Neill is fifteen years older than Miranda, but he looks so much younger than she feels. The playfulness in his hazel eyes is gone, replaced by apprehension.

  ‘I called Angela,’ she says. How she hates her gravelly voice. ‘I felt so exhausted.’

  She knows her words smack of desperation. Christ, she had been desperate this morning. Throwing her bloodied blouse into the wheelie bin. Lying to Angela about flu-like symptoms. Spending what felt like hours staring into the toilet bowl, nursing a body filled with pain and regret.

  O’Neill just nods slowly. ‘Did you hear the news?’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘Bruce Brosnan was killed last night.’

  He pauses and she knows he’s letting her digest it.

  ‘The Premier and the Police Commissioner held a press conference this morning. Word on the street is a home invasion.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  In the corner of her eye, she sees Jonathon. It’s his height that she notices first and the smell – he always wears Lynx deodorant.

  Jonathon throws her a quizzical look.

  ‘You look surprised to see me,’ he says. ‘Hellooo. We discussed this last night. Don’t you remember? My meeting got cancelled, so now I’m giving the talk about the appeal.’

  She feels deflated when O’Neill walks away. She wants to follow him, wants to redeem herself, but has no idea where to begin.

  ‘Jonathon, how you going?’ Charlie offers a handshake, happy to see him, as always.

  When has Charlie ever looked at her that way?

  ‘Good thanks, Uncle Charlie.’

  ‘Which one of you is speaking?’

  ‘I am,’ says Jonathan.

  Charlie grins in approval. ‘Do you know what you’re going to say?’

  ‘I thought I’d just give a quick spiel about the principles of the Yorta Yorta decision and how they’ll affect any appeal.’

  Jonathon’s face is so earnest. Miranda has often wondered if he has ever nursed a grudge. Would he even know how?

  ‘It’s pretty grim, Uncle Charlie.’

  Charlie shrugs his shoulders. ‘I’ve never believed in this native title bullshit anyway. It’s just crumbs. All the while, our attention’s being diverted from the real things – sovereignty, land rights . . .’

  Jonathon looks wounded, and asks, ‘Where’s Auntie Ethel? I haven’t seen her.’

  Charlie sighs in exasperation. ‘She was supposed to come with this one –’ he says, nodding towards Miranda – ‘but she hasn’t turned up.’

  ‘That’s strange. Auntie Ethel never misses a community meeting.’

  Jonathon speaks as though he’s a member of the black community, and in a way that’s true. In the past few minutes, aunties have kissed him, uncles have shaken his hand. Even some of the young girls have gushed in his direction.

  ‘We have to start,’ Charlie says. ‘Can’t wait for Ethel any longer. She’ll probably turn up later.’

  As she watches Charlie and Jonathon take their seats at the front of the hall, Miranda feels the chill of shame. She tries to convince herself that last night was an aberration, a traumatic response to a traumatic event. After all, she spent six years fighting in a trench with only Jonathon sharing the burden. But right now, the jackhammer inside her brain is merciless. Recklessness defines her. Always has. Over the years, she’s taken drinks from strangers, jumped into cars with inebriated men at the wheel, woken in her bed with no recollecti
on of how she made it home the night before. Mum was the lucky one.

  Miranda can’t remember what her mother looked like. She can only recall the security of being on top of Carys’ shoulders, and the glare of the sand that day at the beach. Was she four or five? Miranda will never know. She’s not even sure if it’s real or imagined. It pains her that she can remember the green lights of the machines that kept her mother alive those last few months, but not her smile. Or her voice. It was soft and melodic, Miranda thinks, or was that her imagination too? She knows why her mother is on her mind. Chemicals fucking with her brain, melancholy shredding what’s left.

  Charlie opens the meeting with his usual acknowledgment of the traditional owners. Each one of them feels its poignancy. The law had determined that the ‘traditional’ Corrowa society no longer existed. Who are they now? And what of the man who determined that their traditional connection had been lost?

  Cameramen point their equipment into reluctant faces. The media are here to see if they can catch a delicious sound-bite, wild and vengeful natives who take joy from Bruce Brosnan’s death. But the Corrowa are far too dignified. Brosnan’s death is felt, but not acknowledged. Miranda had no great affection for the judge, but she has sympathy for his family. She had spent enough time listening to courtroom gossip to know that Brosnan had a daughter. No doubt she will be suffering terribly right now. After ten minutes of their probing, Charlie asks the press to leave.

  Jonathon speaks with his usual aplomb: native title is a bundle of rights kept alive by the continuation of traditional law and custom. Empowering words, Miranda thinks, if you forget that it’s the judges who decide what traditional law and custom actually is. The Corrowa are just as powerless as their countrymen’s artifacts kept in sterile glass cabinets, scattered throughout the Federal Court.

  Native title is shrouded in complexity. Ask five native title lawyers for an opinion and you’ll receive seven in return. Can they win an appeal? Miranda looks around the room. Intuitively, each knows that it’s a pipedream. It’s the feeling in the gut, fed by bitter experience. Watching black kids grow up in jails, black mothers fighting bureaucrats for their kids, elders being told that their hard-earned money will languish in government coffers. All law courts are cut from the same cloth.