The Boundary

by Nicole Watson

  Home never really leaves you.

  The ocean floor of his mind is being dredged, sediments of the clever men rising to the surface. He laughs as he reminisces about cousin Rod, who’d looked so guarded when he spoke of their ability to bring the rains. Others even claimed that the clever men could fly. Of course, like all other myths, no one had ever seen the deadly assassins. Dick had taken in such myths so easily when he was a child. As an adult, he realised that he had needed them to anaesthetise him to the pain. Pain that drenched you like a thunderstorm – the deformed for whom medical treatment was a luxury, mothers who grieved for young boys whose brains had been fried by anything they could stick into their mouths, noses, veins, people who carried so much pain that you could almost see the millstones tied around their necks.

  The light reflecting on the khaki has transformed the river into a diamond mine. Thirty floors above, Dick is mining. He enjoys taking raw thoughts and processing them into wisdom; wisdom that will wean the black man off sit-down money, booze and smoke. Christ had turned water into wine, fed the masses with fishes and loaves. Dick Payne will perform miracles too. Fuck, he could do with some coke. Where’s the number for that dealer? He’s working his BlackBerry when the landline hollers.

  ‘Dick, there’s a Detective Sergeant Jason Matthews on the phone for you.’

  ‘Holly, I don’t know him. What does he want?’

  ‘He said it was a personal matter.’ She sighs. ‘Actually, Dick, he’s left a few messages for you to call him.’

  ‘Put him through.’ Dick taps his hand on the desk while he waits.

  ‘Mr Payne, good morning.’

  ‘I’m in a hurry, make it quick.’

  ‘I’m trying to contact your wife.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve left messages on her phone, but she hasn’t returned my calls.’

  ‘Why do you think Sherene could help you?’

  ‘I’d prefer to discuss that with your wife.’

  ‘My wife is in Sydney until later tonight.’

  He slams down the receiver, his mind a beehive.

  He wants to slap her, make her terrified. Punish her for everything she is and all she can no longer be. Perhaps she was never that person to begin with. She was just fucking with him, to trap him.

  He feels his pulse racing, the heat skipping off his jowl.

  The file on his desk keeps beckoning; Coconut Holdings’ next development in Western Australia. He needs this; it will propel his name into brighter lights. Lights that will save his people, inject pride into their veins. Help them to become like him.

  He paces the carpet, drinks in his domain. First black man to breathe the hallowed air up here. Did it all on his own.

  His shelves are filled with glossy native title texts, most of which quote him. The personal bathroom always brings a smile to his face. It is, after all, a symbol of his success. But it also reminds him of the women. The whores he’s fucked, every which way, in that tiny shower cubicle. Thoughts of them make him feel emptiness, but not guilt. He’s not like Sherene, whose lover had been a mentor. A friend. Dick’s women are playthings. Walking codeine to dull the pressure.

  And he’s so skilful, he’s got the routine down pat.

  Like a farmer in a coop of battery hens, Dick mechanically plucks them of their naïvety. He begins by offering his prey a glass of wine. Over three bottles of semillon they plot her ascent in the glamorous world of native title litigation; she will travel to the furthest parts of the country and pursue test cases in the High Court. Most importantly, however, she will provide him with personal support. Blushing cheeks on the fawn’s drunken face are his green light. After lifting her onto the desk, he’ll drape the inevitably long legs over his shoulders and swiftly relieve his swollen sex. She will go half an hour later, clutching a twenty-dollar note for the taxi ride home. Dick seldom remembers their names. What’s the point? One, however, left an indelible impression. Whiny voice.

  She was nervous and giggly, more a child than a woman. As the weeks progressed, whiny voice became manic. When were they going away for that romantic weekend he had promised? After three weeks, she stopped calling. Life was proceeding normally, until the afternoon that whiny voice appeared in the flesh. He was seething. Then whiny voice opened her overcoat and allowed it to fall. She did it so elegantly that, later, he wondered if she had rehearsed untying the strap and shaking the dense fabric from her shoulders. He drank in the sight of her pubic hair, before throwing her around. She leaned into the desk and giggled as he undid his fly.

  ‘Dick, baby, when are you leaving your wife?’

  Excitement instantly boiled over into rage. He screamed at her to leave. She cried that she loved him. He responded by calling her the pathetic slut that she was. She grabbed the overcoat and ran, a spluttering mess. White women are supposed to have fewer complications. Dick Payne can’t afford complications. There is only one complication that he’d embrace. Perhaps it’s because he knows that this complication has become an illusion. Like Sherene, Miranda is no longer the woman he once wanted so desperately. He reflects on her disgusting office that night. Air heavy with cigarette smoke and dust. She looked like a bag lady, breathing decay.

  He touches the swollen skin around his right eye and grimaces. Had he known what would happen, he’d have stayed the hell away.

  Ten years ago.

  They came from all walks of life: pensioners who spent their retirement writing leaflets in the hope of change, schoolteachers and the occasional suit. He was reaching for his glass of water when he noticed her in the front row. She wore a black jersey and tight denim jeans with boots. The toned contours of her body pleased him but it wasn’t just her looks that he found intoxicating. It was the feistiness that she exuded. She spoke animatedly to those around her, who hung on her every word. He imagined her arguing with him and then descending into fits of laughter, making love like there was no tomorrow.

  When he finished his dry analysis of the Native Title Amendment Act, the audience clapped enthusiastically. They always did. He was so desperate to make contact with her that he answered questions from the floor with only monosyllabic replies. As he shuffled his notes, Dick pondered what he would say to her. Suddenly there she was, standing above him. He smiled as he breathed in the scent of her perfume. It was subtle and reminded him of the jasmine beneath the window of his boarding school room.

  ‘Mr Payne, I understand you’re speaking at the Wexley Institute tomorrow night.’

  He smiled into blue eyes that were even more alluring up close. ‘Sorry, I don’t believe that we’ve been introduced.’

  ‘Miranda. Miranda Eversely.’

  He pictured her gyrating above him, pert breasts. As if reading his thoughts, she scowled.

  ‘Can I just say how very disappointed I am that you are working with that disgusting right-wing think-tank. Mr Payne, are you familiar with the saying about absolute power?’

  ‘Let me think. Is it along the lines of absolute power corrupting absolutely?’ he said, wryly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that an indirect way of insulting me?’

  ‘If you want blunt, I’ll give you blunt – you’re a sell-out.’

  ‘What . . .’

  ‘You heard me. I hope the fifteen seconds are worth it.’

  He can’t remember what happened after she dropped the sledgehammer on top of his heart. Obviously, she walked away.

  Was she gloating? Some nights he drives past her office, watches her through the window. Often she holds a wine glass.

  At the last minute he decided not to go to Court for the judgment. He understood why she had fought, but he found her self-indulgent. Why fight a battle that’s impossible to win? Walking the negotiator’s tight-rope was so much more difficult than the carefree life of a revolutionary. Radicals da
nced on the floor of principle, but that was all they ever did. He, on the other hand, lived and breathed change.

  That night, after the Corrowa had lost, he sat in his car watching her. She looked so frail. Even from the street, he could see she was crying, face buried in her hands. As he scurried up the steps, he imagined their future together. He would rescue her from self-destruction. She would finally learn to appreciate him.

  But he walked into the carcass of an old dream. Mascara had run down both of her cheeks and her eyes were bright red. Skin grey and haggard. Miranda lunged at him like a wounded animal and he had to do all he could to restrain her. Once he’d thrown her into a chair, she just sat there, staring blankly as though she didn’t even know him. He didn’t realise what she’d done to his eye until the following morning, when Sherene noticed.

  Miranda could have lived the life most women only dreamt of. He would have seen to it that she wanted for nothing. Miranda was a fool. A fool undeserving of him. Undeserving of his love. He should have called the cops that night. Made a complaint to the Law Society.

  Perhaps he still will.

  SEVEN

  Human traffic filters in and out of the Greek delicatessen below. Miranda envies the ease with which they engage in conversation. She receives few invitations to go out for coffee. Or anywhere else. She has no real friends apart from Jonathon. And he has his own life. On the rare occasion that she socialises, Miranda is usually gripped by fear. Scared that people will think she looks dowdy. Fearful they will find her intellect lacking.

  The judgment is divided into two piles on the corner of her desk. She can remember very little of what she’s read already. That night is a blur. If she’s brutally honest, Miranda would concede that much of the last six years has been a dust storm.

  There had been talk of a land claim in the southeast, but no real impetus until the Corrowa caught wind of the proposed sale of Meston Park. Once the injunction temporarily put the sale to bed, the Native Title Tribunal attempted to mediate. Inside the plush reception room, Miranda was surprised to see Lesley seated at the front with Dick Payne. Lesley may have been a bureaucrat but she was Corrowa too. Only much later would they realise the extent of her betrayal.

  Payne looked uncomfortable in the white shirt that accentuated the bloated mess his body had become. Miranda likened him to Darth Vader, one who had been seduced by the dark side of the force and was now beholden to an evil emperor. That morning, however, she felt sympathy for a man who was drowning in his own success. And now he’s soon to drown in their old people’s money, under the guise of the Aboriginal Employment Initiative.

  Auntie Ethel had worked as a domestic throughout her teens, before she could escape from Manoah. But she never saw a cent. The protector even followed her to Brisbane, but she was safe. The mob kept her within their sight at all times. They were the Murri version of Harriet Tubman’s Underground Railroad, but history would never celebrate their heroics.

  They had been fighting to recoup their stolen wages for decades, only to be told by smug officials that all of the records had been destroyed during the flood of 1974. Only remnants remained, held in the dubiously named Aboriginal Welfare Account. Now, those crumbs would fund Dick Payne’s brainchild.

  ‘Withdraw the claim and we can talk about jobs for the young people,’ Dick said at the tribunal. ‘Coconut Holdings really wants to help.’

  ‘If your client wants to be so bloody helpful, then why doesn’t it recognise our native title?’ Charlie said.

  Dick eyed him with contempt. ‘You’ll have no chance in Court, old man. This is your one opportunity to do something positive for your children.’

  The mercenaries wanted them to sign so badly, dollar signs dangling in their eyes like jackpots in pokie machines. The very machines that Lesley had spent thousands on.

  ‘Look around you,’ Dick said. ‘Look at the Asians who clean toilets so their kids can go to private schools. Look at the Greeks who work seven days a week so their families never go without.’ Dick had the eyes of a snake, spat words like venom. ‘You mob disgust me.’

  Containing her anger at the memory, Miranda wonders what has become of fair play. Meston Park was the last piece of land left to the Corrowa. How many more shops did the newcomers need? How many more things could they possibly fit into their homes? How much more construction could the city eat, before it succumbed to heart disease? The Corrowa said no. Their dignity carried no price tag.

  The trial that followed was like a swimming carnival – but in order to win, they couldn’t get wet. And cross-examination was like opening your skull and inviting a stranger to dissect everything within it. The Golden Tongue painted the Corrowa as extinct, belonging in sterile museum boxes rather than a bustling city. A demolition job dressed in eloquent legalese.

  Miranda lifts the judgment from her desk and looks for some space on top of the filing cabinet. The place is such a shambles; she’ll have to bring order to it, one day. She places the judgment on the telephone book. It’s still open at the page she slept on. An address has been circled – Brosnan B and Brosnan E, 58 Wadley Street, MacGregor.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, mate.’ She turns to see O’Neill at the door. ‘Have you got a moment?’

  She sees the concern in his eyes, the anxiety that’s slowing his body like lead.

  ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Come in.’

  He takes the chair usually reserved for clients.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this.’ O’Neill pauses, swallows. ‘On Friday morning I had to come in here, to get the Levy file . . . I was pretty bloody shocked.’

  Miranda slumps into her seat. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘The smell! Jesus, you must have been on the turps for hours.’ The disgust in his voice cuts like a knife.

  ‘You’ve been so good to me and I’ve let you down.’

  O’Neill has indeed been very good to Miranda. Hired her as an articled clerk and then kept her employed as a solicitor. She’s never had to look for work in the past ten years.

  ‘Mate, I’ve seen this a hundred times. Alcoholism is a disease.’

  Is she really an alcoholic? She’s never used that word in relation to herself. Miranda can’t think of any lawyers who do. She’s met drunks worse than herself. And they’re at the Bar.

  ‘You need to get help.’

  ‘Did you have something in mind?’ Her voice is shaky, barely audible.

  ‘I was hoping you’d come up with something yourself.’

  ‘I’ll make some enquiries.’

  He’s struggling with eye contact. This is excruciating for him too.

  ‘Mate,’ he says. ‘I think we should have a few conversations about this.’

  Miranda’s mobile phone rings and she picks it up.

  ‘It’s Auntie Ethel.’

  ‘Ah, well don’t let me keep you from the Queen.’

  She can see the relief wash over him. The business is concluded. For now.

  ‘Bub, I’m at the Native Title Tribunal,’ Ethel says.

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear the news about that mongrel dog?’

  Miranda is stunned. Ethel’s never used such language before.

  ‘Aunt, who are you talking about?’

  ‘Golden Tongue. Who else?’

  ‘Auntie Ethel, I don’t understand what this is about.’

  Ethel’s voice becomes distant. Miranda can hear her admonishing some unfortunate soul.

  ‘Miranda, are you there?’ Ethel says.

  ‘Yes, I’m still here.’

  Where would I be going?

  ‘That mongrel dog just got a new job. He’s going to be the President of the Native Title Tribunal. How could they give that j
ob to a paedophile?’ Ethel exclaims.

  Miranda doesn’t have the energy for this. If it were anyone else, she’d have said goodbye and hung up.

  ‘I hadn’t heard that. Auntie Ethel, I still don’t understand why you’re at the Tribunal. What are you doing there?’

  ‘Protesting, bub. I’m not leaving until that paedophile stands down.’

  ‘Auntie, I don’t think you should be calling him a paedophile unless you can . . .’

  ‘Bub, you there?’

  ‘Yes, Auntie. Look, I think that you should stay put. I’ll come and get you.’

  Miranda clenches her teeth as she opens the door. She wonders whether the others had been there on Friday morning when O’Neill went into her office. How much do they know? The articled clerk, Angela, smiles as she walks past. She will never know how much Miranda appreciates that small gesture.

  The offices of the Native Title Tribunal are a stone’s throw from the Supreme Court, making the surrounding cafés second homes to the law’s patricians. Rosy-cheeked barristers sip lattes and bask in the curiosity of passers-by. She’s been here so many times, but never to save Auntie Ethel from defaming the new president of the Tribunal. Although it’s probably the Tribunal’s staff, rather than Ethel, who are in need of rescuing.

  Miranda recognises the young woman at the reception.

  ‘Hi, Miranda. We’ve been expecting you.’

  ‘Yes, I believe that you have.’

  At the heart is an open space that houses mostly Aboriginal staff. Hallways lead to chains of smaller offices containing suits. Miranda is surprised by the apparent absence of concern over Ethel’s protest. An elegant black woman laughs demurely into a telephone, while a handsome young man with sun-bleached hair trims the leaves of a pot plant.

  She’s led into the office of Glenda Fitzgerald, the Corrowa’s former case manager. Glenda’s brown hair is cut into a short bob that sits just below her ears. Thick dark glasses accentuate foundation too pale for her face. Glenda appears nonplussed, perhaps a little tired. On the other hand, Auntie Ethel seems to be enjoying herself. She’s chatting animatedly with Glenda about her favourite football team, the North Queensland Cowboys.