‘What time did you arrive?’
‘It would have been just after ten.’
She’s drowning in dread now. It’s a familiar feeling.
Ever since we got engaged, I wanted to come here, see Dick’s home.
But I’m scared.
It doesn’t feel right here. This place is too still, too quiet.
‘Please, Dick. Let’s go.’
The water must be ten feet deep, but that man is standing.
Ice in his eyes.
Like Matthews’.
She looks directly at Higgins. ‘I saw the light on in Dick’s office. I’ve never seen so much blood . . .’
Her hands mask the sobbing. She knows the interview’s over, there’s no way she can continue. Her mind is clouded in pain.
Dick laughs when I ask him.
‘Clever men aren’t real. Just another stupid blackfella myth.’
None of this is real.
The scent of freshly cut grass pleases her. Takes her back to summer afternoons spent playing on the lawn. Birds singing a lullaby – the Corrowa’s lullaby. Miranda’s skin used to get itchy when she was a child. Auntie Ethel was always saying that Dad would have to do something about the ants. But the ants weren’t as bad as those grubs that used to make a chequerboard out of Miranda’s skin. Dad would scold her over that. Always scolding.
It sounds as though the traffic has settled. Still loud but not frantic. Occasionally, she hears a truck pause for a gear change. Why hasn’t she ever earned her manual licence? Hears a plastic bag that’s gained legs from the wind. It lands on her ankles. Miranda offers a gentle kick and hears the frantic sniffing of a dog fast approaching.
They stare at each other – shock in equal doses. The dog has the desperate eyes of an escaped prisoner, whose body has become malnourished from life on the run. Fine black hair hangs from its bones. The pound will eventually catch up with the fugitive; even the dog seems resigned to its fate. It shakes its head timidly and goes on its way.
The morning sun stings her eyes. Bowling ball on her neck threatens to roll. Her body begs to vomit, but the final vestige of dignity says no. She feels her clothing. The same white shirt she was wearing last night. Oh yes, thank God her black shorts are still there. Feels the outlines of her bra and panties. Not definitive proof that she hasn’t been sexually assaulted. But it will have to do.
Her handbag is sitting at the foot of one of the huge trees. The trees in Meston Park have often reminded Miranda of old men. Grey skin stretched over bulbous limbs, generosity accumulated over a lifetime spills out into shade. Miranda hyperventilates when she notices that the zipper of her bag is open.
She rummages through the pockets for her keys. Thankfully both home and work sets are in tact, hidden beneath her mobile phone. But her purse is empty of cash. Credit card gone. Dread hits when she realises that someone must have rifled through her purse while she was out cold.
Laughter ricochets in the wind. In the southern end of Meston Park, the drinkers are either rising or persevering. Sitting on top of old cardboard boxes, wearing beanies even though it’s the middle of summer. A group of joggers pound the footpath, alternately gawking at her and speaking hush, hush. Who would believe that Miranda had once been a runner too? In the days before optimism and belief had become strangers.
Adrenalin pumps.
She’s afraid to think his name, let alone speak it.
Did she see him last night?
Did she really go to his office?
She checks the received calls on her phone – several new ones from a private number. She flicks to the dialled numbers. Oh Jesus, she made three calls to a number she doesn’t recognise.
The glare is unbearable. Miranda reaches into her bag for sunglasses, hoping the thief didn’t steal them too. She touches something cold and sticky. Her little finger feels as though it’s been stung by a bee.
She seizes the black handle of the knife, and jumps.
It’s the shrill call of her mobile. She grabs it. ‘Hello.’
‘Who am I speaking to?’
The voice is male and vibrates authority as her own voice trembles.
‘Miranda Eversely.’
‘Miranda, I’m Detective Sergeant Jason Matthews.’
TEN
The Premier’s watermelon seed eyes blink. Sky blue, where there should be black. The make-up girl frantically mops the Premier’s brow. A tight pigtail pulls her eyes to her forehead, like television antennae. He often tells Lesley that in twenty years of public life, he has never grown used to having his skin dowsed with sludge. Lesley watches the make-up girl finish her operation. She finally walks away and he offers no thanks. Lesley reasons that he’s too busy moulding today’s look. Stoic in grief.
Lesley knows that the Premier is in his element with an audience of journalists. Enemies he can laugh with.
A pig in shit.
Bjelke-Petersen called them his chickens. The Labor man indulges them with the same theatrics. Same contempt.
Ordinarily, the Premier is met with menacing smiles, cynical faces that dare him to draw from outside his toolbox of doublespeak and spin. But today the mood is sombre. Wendy Hames, the tough and sexy correspondent from the Queensland Daily, is holding a Kleenex to her eyes. The air is saturated with disbelief.
From the back of the stage, Lesley watches him greet his chickens.
Come to me, my chickens. I’ll protect you. Keep you safe in a world of violence.
The Premier steps up to the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press, it is with regret that I inform you of the loss of a truly great Queenslander, Dick Payne. Dick was a Harvard-educated lawyer and a devoted family man. He was also a relentless campaigner against welfare dependency, which has had a debilitating hold on our Aboriginal communities.
‘Dick Payne was a great leader of his people. He was also a much-cherished friend. One of the most profound experiences of my political life occurred while I was touring Aboriginal communities in north Queensland, with Dick, last December. One steaming hot Friday morning, Dick took me to a public meeting in Doomadgee. Some of the locals were strongly opposed to Dick’s reforms, which would have forced them to sign good behaviour covenants as a condition of access to government services.
‘At first I was concerned that we would be seen to be imposing our will on the community. But Dick wouldn’t have any part of that. He took on everyone who questioned his reforms and he fought like a bulldog. Now, some bleeding hearts might argue that what Dick did that day was wrong. Some good meaning city folk with rose-coloured glasses may even say that Aboriginal people have the right to choose to live in dysfunction. But Dick saw things differently. Dick knew that Aboriginal people needed a saviour, who would rescue them from themselves. Dick Payne was that man.’
The Premier pauses, counts to three. Lesley has heard that he used to do this often when he was a lawyer. He’d pause just after an important point during his summing-up to the jury. He always knew he had them when their eyes followed his intently. Musicians under the spell of a conductor.
‘As all of you would be aware, Dick and I were scheduled to launch the Aboriginal Employment Initiative today. Tragically, Dick will not see his legacy unfold. However, I assure you that I am more determined than ever that this outstanding Queenslander’s dream is realised.’
He offers the cameras a half-smile. Not too much glee, just a drop of hope.
‘The Aboriginal Employment Initiative will be renamed the Dick Payne Memorial Program. The life tragically cut short will live on in successful Aboriginal Queenslanders, who will find meaningful jobs, own their own homes, and live like everyone else.’
The Premier casts his eyes to Wendy Hames. The black pencil skirt has been pulled up above her knees, revealing white lace, but she doesn’t appear conscious o
f it. Hames smiles in appreciation. He reciprocates.
‘I will now step back to allow the Police Commissioner to answer your questions.’
Lesley has known the Police Commissioner for over ten years. They’ve seen each other at various functions held at Parliament House. She knows that he’s been a cop for thirty-five years, the last five in the top job. She’s seen him give a number of press conferences with the boss; usually just after a grisly murder or a major drug bust. He’s never at ease in front of a camera. His face is always a nest of worry.
‘This was a cowardly and brutal attack on a defenceless man.
‘Mrs Payne has been assisting police with our enquiries.
‘We believe that the murders of Dick Payne and Justice Bruce Brosnan could be linked.’
Journalists circle him like sharks and he can do little to pacify them.
‘Look, I am not prepared to say that the murders have any connection to that native title business. It’s simply too early to say.’
The Commissioner sounds exhausted, his voice a lone bead in a hollow drum.
‘I urge members of the public who have information to contact Crime Stoppers.’
Lesley and the Premier exchange glances. She’s crying softly, her face a picture of devastation. The Premier rubs her back gently, like a brother would soothe his little sister whose ice cream has fallen to the ground.
Ordinarily, Lesley drinks in the excitement of a press conference. But today there is no adrenalin rush. No glorious reminders of how far she has come in life.
The Premier takes her elbow. ‘Lesley, can we have a word?’
Journalists are placing minuscule computers into chic bags. Camera tripods disappearing like the remnants of ancient castles. Lesley hadn’t even noticed that the press conference had ended.
‘Lesley, it’s nothing to worry about. I have some calls to make. Come to my office in half an hour.’
But I wanted to go to the casino.
I’ll have my big win today.
‘Certainly, Mr Premier.’
She watches the boss walk away, his minion Ralph Parkes nattering away beside him.
That boy could talk with wet concrete in his mouth.
She stares at her cubicle. Lesley has always been so proud of the little space she has made her own. Next to the computer a glass frame holds a photograph of her and the boss. She’s tacked pictures of her daughter Alisha on the cheap blue canvas that covers the dividers.
She’s exhausted but gets up to make herself a cup of her favourite instant coffee infused with hazelnut essence. Sipping the piping hot liquid, Lesley stands at the window overlooking George Street. Black overwhelms the heavens. She’s excited by the imminent storm. Despite the smog and dust of the city, she can still taste the fresh scent of rain.
Lesley boots up her computer. There is nothing of any moment in her inbox; an email advising of new HR procedures, another confirming a team meeting tomorrow morning. At the bottom of the pile is a message from [email protected]. The message is naked apart from a link to www.Corrowa.com.au.
Hot coffee bounces from her chin to the floor.
‘Hey, kiddo. The boss is waiting for you.’
Parkes is hanging over the divider, which threatens to buckle under his weight.
‘Oh my, what a mess you’ve made.’
‘It’s nothing. I just spilt my coffee.’
She runs into the kitchen and grabs a dishcloth, her chin throbbing in pain. She should really put some ice on the burn.
‘You don’t have time for this. He has to see you now.’
Standing with his arms crossed, Parkes looks like the schoolyard bully. She wants to scream at him, remind him that he is only a young twerp. But she knows better. Knows her place. He’s one of the new breed of Queensland Labor, born into privilege that has corroded his mind like a computer virus. The boy dresses, talks and walks like a Young Liberal. But he’s Labor aristocracy.
The Premier is a handsome man. Over six feet tall. His height camouflages the weight around his middle. Hair is salt and pepper and his face is freshly shaved.
‘Lesley, thank you so much for coming to the press conference. I know that it couldn’t have been easy for you.’
‘It’s all part of the service.’
The Premier and Parkes exchange smiles. ‘Lesley, I have a proposition for you.’
She offers the matronly smile that makes so many of those inside this building gush.
‘I meant what I said this morning – I really am determined that Dick’s program will be successful. Without him, however, things will be difficult.’
The Premier raises his left hand to invisible stubble beneath his chin. She’s seen this pose many times before. He always manages to dress simple sentences in fancy clothing. And he looks so serious.
‘We’ll need to involve the minister.’
The minister is beautiful, graceful, but damn stupid. This is an opportunity for Lesley to shine. She’ll clench it with both hands.
‘I could prepare a briefing note.’
The boss clears his throat. ‘What I was thinking was that you could organise a meeting with the minister and Coconut Holdings.’
Lesley nods excitedly.
‘Now, Lesley, I know you’ll be busy over the next few days. No doubt, you’ll have, ah . . . cultural business.’
‘But I can manage it.’
‘Now Lesley, you know that I take the cultural responsibilities of my staff very seriously. I want you to spend time doing . . . what do you call it? Sorry business?’
‘That’s right, but –’
‘So Ralph will be assisting you. I want the two of you to work as a team.’
Parkes smiles at her. ‘I’m having lunch with the minister’s adviser. I’ll get the ball moving.’
Lesley feigns a migraine and heads out of the office. Ordinarily, she’s excited to be here, in the central nervous system of government. All of the important decisions are made here. But today, she feels only numbness. And fear.
The boss never trusts her to deal with movers and shakers. Only blackfellas who need to be hosed down, put in their place.
Parkes was the one to break the news about Dick. He was straightforward, which she’d appreciated. No point in pretending to be caring, even around grief. Parkes couldn’t give her any real details about his death. Only that the Premier had called Dick’s missus and she’d appreciated his call.
She hasn’t had time to cry yet. The press conference began half an hour after she was told. Perhaps she should go home. Have a shower. Make a cup of tea.
Lesley opts against using her umbrella. The rain is soothing. Across the street a group of teenage girls are dressed in the same uniform that Alisha once wore. Whatever the Premier’s daughter did, her Alisha had to follow. Sure, managing the school fees had been difficult at first, but she quickly obtained a scholarship. Lesley watches the school girls until they disappear, pained longing caught in her throat.
The shock of Charlie’s email is now a dull roar. Took her back to those crazy stories Ethel used to tell her when they were kids, in the dormitory.
I’m not like you, Ethel.
I’m a doer. Got eagles in my eyes.
Lesley doesn’t care for cyberspace. Has never even visited Facebook. But youngsters have their own blogs now, launch pads from which they share their stories with the world. Perhaps that’s all that Charlie’s doing. Besides, he’s a good man. He always says hello when they see each other in West End. Not like some of the others, who yell out abuse.
Ethel’s in Meston Park, she’s waving her finger, the way she used to when we were girls.
‘Lesley, you can’t mess with blackfella business.’
‘Off early today?’ Parkes’ face is wearing its normal half
-smile that radiates contempt. His black umbrella keeps his flicked brown hair in perfect order.
‘Yeah, bub. What happened to the young fella has hit me pretty hard.’
Parkes trawls his brain for comforting words, comes up with dregs. ‘Well, take care.’ He places his arm on her shoulder to draw her into an embrace, but stops awkwardly.
‘Thanks, bub. I really appreciate your kindness.’
He smiles to himself, pleased with his efforts.
As she walks through George Street, Lesley thinks about Sherene. They met only a few times, at Dick’s public lectures, where conversations were more like small talk than real. Lesley always assumed they were happily married. But as much as she loved him, Lesley knew that Dick was a flawed man. When you’re a leader, you carry others’ expectations on your shoulders. Every so often, leaders need an outlet.
Lesley stares at her outlet, mesmerised. She revels in the glorious pain of Just Before. It’s on her mind when she wakes, is woven into her dreams. The problem is that as soon as the excitement begins to fade, she’s in need of the next hit. But Lesley doesn’t have a problem with gambling. She goes to work every day. Why, some mornings, she’s the first to arrive in the office.
The light is dim as is everything, everyone. Faces are grey and haggard. The monster that eats their coins is a life-support machine. Breathes air into their pallor. Stars on the ceiling of the main gaming room and plastic palms are a tragic testament to savannah country. This city is surrounded by icons to past. A past that never was.
If misery is a smell, the casino is its factory. Cheap aftershave and sugary alcohol swim with regret. The smell lives in every centimetre of red carpet, every particle of recycled air. It’s three o’clock and the lunch crowd has left. Just the serious gamblers, those who have nothing better to do. And Lesley.
She cringes when she sees the elderly man behind her lucky machine. It’s got cowboys and Indians, flashing tomahawks when you hit jackpot. She won five hundred on that machine last week. The man’s walking stick is resting beside his chair. His grasshopper body crouching into the machine. Stained coffee cups sit next to a battered ice cream container that is filled with coins. Lesley sighs in resignation and takes the machine next to him. Her bones tell her that it will be a long night, even as her mind says, ‘We’ll be catching that bus in half an hour.’
The Boundary Page 10
