‘So this is what it all boils down to.’
Lesley turns around. Ethel’s short hair is parted in the middle, the way a mother might prepare her daughter for pre-school. Lesley imagines her in a pink pinafore dress, carrying a rag doll.
Ethel’s eyes are animated, like a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. ‘After all of your posturing, you’re nothing but a compulsive gambler. Public servants like you need to break your own destructive cycles. What right have you got to preach to our mob?’
‘Fuck off, Ethel. I’m not in the mood.’
Ethel places her hands on her hips. Invisible smoke escapes from her ears. ‘Don’t you ever speak to me like that!’
Lesley’s had the day from hell and is ready for a fight. ‘And what are you going to do? Send one of your imaginary friends after me?’ Lesley spits contempt. ‘Ethel, you’re crazy.’
Ethel rolls up the sleeves of her blouse, slaps her left fist with her right palm. ‘Let’s sort this out then.’
The old man looks up from his machine, as though he’s about to speak. Ethel shoots him a stare that could turn his coffee to ice. He gives a sorrowful glance to the machine and then seizes the ice cream bucket. Ethel watches with satisfaction as he takes off as fast as his walking stick will allow.
Lesley shakes her head in disgust. ‘You had no business scaring that old fella.’
Ethel laughs, sits in his seat. ‘Did you like the email?’
Lesley sizes her up. ‘It wasn’t Charlie who sent it. It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘You and I have some unfinished business, Lesley.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know damn well what I’m talking about.’ Ethel points at the machine the old man has just vacated. ‘Is that where you put all the money you got from Coconut Holdings?’
‘How did you . . .’
‘There’s a word for that. Now let me think. Ah, that’s it – perjury.’
Anger shoots through Lesley’s veins, just as fear muzzles her tongue.
‘Hmm, what I can’t get over is how this little machine could eat so much money.’
‘What’s this about? You’d better not bullshit. You hear me, Ethel!’
Ethel is calm. She’s at her most terrifying when she’s calm.
‘I want to know why you did it.’
‘Ethel, I can’t deal with this now. Did you hear about poor Dick?’ Lesley sighs.
‘I have sympathy for his family. I really do.’ Ethel is pensive now. ‘But he shouldn’t have messed around with blackfella business. Neither should you.’
‘You got your stories Ethel, okay, but they’re different to mine.’
‘You remember those stories I told you?’ Her eyes plead with Lesley, but Lesley won’t have a bar of it.
‘I don’t. I swear.’
‘You’re lying. Just like you lied in Court.’
Lesley sighs in frustration. Damn tired of this native title business. Six years of fighting, for what? They should have signed.
They should have listened to me.
‘What good is this going to do for anyone, Ethel? It’s not gonna bring the young fella back. It’s certainly not doing you any good. Ethel, please listen to me. You have to let this go.’
Ethel inspects the alcove, as though she’s searching for something. Someone. ‘But he won’t let it go.’
‘Who are you talking about? Charlie?’
‘Him.’
‘Who, a clever man?’ Lesley giggles like a child whose feet are being tickled. ‘I’m sorry, but you really have to leave that stuff alone. No one believes you, Ethel. Do you know the reason why no one believes you?’
Lesley can taste it: sweet victory.
I’m the leader now. You listen to me.
‘Because that mob never existed.’
Lesley laughs hysterically and one of the security guards pokes his head through the doorway.
‘You need help, Ethel. Go to the medical service, the flash new one. It’s just down the road from you.’
Ethel hangs her head low. Whatever she came here to achieve, it’s now dissipated like the dead dreams that choke the air. Ethel heads for the doorway.
She pauses, whispers, ‘He’s coming for you.’
Coins in the slot breathe ephemeral hope. Clutter of the trolley pierces Lesley’s thoughts.
‘Coffee, love?’
‘No, thank you.’
The waitress is in her early forties but tired eyes look older. Blond hair is greying, messily held together in a bun. Her skin is sallow, as though this place is a vacuum, sucking the life out of her.
‘You alright, love?’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ Lesley says curtly. But the waitress is undeterred.
‘You don’t look chipper today.’
The woman leans into her. ‘If you want my advice, you should give these machines up.’
Lesley knows the face. Redneck trash that has never been anywhere, never done anything. But will always believe that Lesley is nothing.
‘Excuse me! I work for my money, thank you.’
‘I didn’t mean to –’
‘You don’t lecture the white people who come here, do you?’
‘Sorry.’
Lesley smiles in accomplishment when she hears the trolley wheels fade. She studies the empty chair next to her. Why not? The old man isn’t about to return. Flutter of excitement as the friendship is rekindled. Welcomes the roar of the plastic bag of potato chips.
She used to think she owed Ethel. After all, they’d been in the dormitory together. And life in the girls’ dormitory was harsh. Bordered by barbed wire and locked at night, it was more like a prison than a nursery. The children rose to the cries of the first bell to make their beds and sweep the floors. Ethel was one of the older girls, and even then she bossed everyone around. Lesley had been so terrified. But at least she could sleep next to Ethel, who never seemed to mind drying her tears.
But then Ethel turned fourteen and she was sent out to work. She came back a year later. In the eyes of five-year-old Lesley, her protruding belly looked strange on her stork-like legs. She gave birth soon after, but Lesley never saw the baby. It wasn’t long after that Ethel began hearing the voices.
He’s come back for me.
He loves me.
You believe me, don’t you, Lesley?
Ethel had terrible headaches after that. Lesley would brush her long hair to try to ease the pain. Ethel said the headaches were because of him, but not to worry, because he’d be going soon. The other girls thought that Ethel was strange, said nasty things about her.
The old world.
Men and women like Lesley are the leaders now. She takes a gulp of her gin and tonic. Welcomes the soft burn. A rustling against her neck. Light as a feather.
A red feather.
ELEVEN
Harrison McPherson, Senior Counsel, smiles into the huge mirror above the marble basin. His silver hair is damp and the grooves in his face have only made it more handsome. Age could be unforgiving, saving its most brutal scorn for women. Over the years he has noticed his female colleagues’ penchant for maintenance, lineless foreheads and cats’ eyes. He buttons his crisp white shirt and tucks it into his suit pants.
The roses outside his front door have begun to wither, and the grass is slightly overgrown. Leaves coat the bottom of the pond. Two more days until the gardener’s weekly visit. The Queensland Daily is sitting in its usual spot, just inside the gate. He’s not surprised by the front page. Payne is standing next to Keating, both ecstatic after the Parliament passed the Native Title Act. Payne’s eyes have a youthful glow, the contours of his face are smooth and healthy. A far cry from the bloated cheeks and bloodshot eyes Harrison came to kn
ow during the trial.
Yes, it’s right that he should be on the front page. Dick, after all, was an enigma. Harrison had met a few men close to Dick’s calibre in the Territory. Boys nurtured by boarding school, fed a diet of Christian discipline. By manhood they wore the crests of both worlds. Some enjoyed varying degrees of success, but Dick had been in a class of his own. Kept his city audiences spellbound, while putting the fear of God into the blackfellas. He was the only person with whom Harrison could share his rare predilection. Dick had understood that the darkness within was not to be feared, but mastered.
He chuckles to himself as he reflects on their last dinner together. Dick’s wife had just taken off to Sydney and Dick was anxious to unwind.
The piano is soothing, like the Möet that caresses my tongue. The whore dangles from Dick’s knee. Her red dress is faded, sequins chipped. Dick’s just snorted his first line of coke for the evening. He whispers into the whore’s ear. She stands and announces that she’s going to the bathroom. Indignation simmers beneath heavy make-up.
‘Harrison, mate, you know what I think?’ Dick wears a chemical grin. ‘Assimilation was a bloody good thing. I mean it. Assimilation doesn’t deserve the bad rap that it gets.’
Dick shakes his head bitterly. ‘Those old cunts who marched in the seventies, where are they now?’ he says. ‘I can guarantee that none of them are dining in five star restaurants and drinking Möet.’
Dick slaps me on the back.
‘I drive a five-hundred-thousand-dollar car. Labor adores me despite the shit I throw at them. The Liberals think I’m a God.’
The whore returns, stops halfway to our table. Dick glares at her.
‘Slut!’
As Harrison prepares breakfast, he wonders if he’ll ever find another companion like Dick. Harrison loves his kitchen – it’s the size of a living room. State-of-the-art fridge looks like something from NASA. In the middle is the stove surrounded by granite, every kind of pot and pan suspended above. Guests sit in awe, watching his culinary prowess. Harrison occasionally dabbles in French cuisine, but his favourite meal is anything that comes from the huge wok.
He douses thick white toast in butter while bacon roars from the pan. Eggs poach nearby. He garnishes the twin plates with fresh parsley and feels a rush of excitement as he imagines the opportunities he will have in his new role. It’ll be just like theold days, when he was the Aboriginal land commissioner in the Northern Territory. He’d been so content, before the incident. A new car for the boy’s mother saw the police statement disappear. He’s reminiscing about puppy eyes when the phone rings.
‘Hello,’ he says.
‘Harrison, I’m so sorry for calling you at this hour.’
‘It’s only seven o’clock, Lesley.’
‘Harrison, you know I wouldn’t impose, unless I really had to.’ Her voice is on the fringe of a sob.
‘What is it?’
‘I was wondering if you’d have time to see me this morning?’
Disappear, you old whore.
‘I’m so sorry to hear about Dick. It’s such a tragedy. But I really don’t think I can see you this morning. You see, it’s my first official day as president of the Native Title Tribunal. I have meetings booked until . . .’ He pauses, pretending to read his diary. ‘Ah, yes, I’m busy until after five o’clock.’
She’s weeping now and he just wants it to stop. ‘Alright. If you’re quick, I can fit you in at eight-thirty,’ he says, grudgingly.
‘Thank you so much, Harrison.’
Harrison places one of the plates on the breakfast tray. Grumbles as he marches up the stairs. Morning sun lingers into the bedroom window. He cringes at the half-eaten packet of soft candy on the dresser and throws it into the waste paper basket. Once he ate a piece by mistake. He woke up on the kitchen floor, with a massive bump on his head. He’d lost half a day.
The boy is still buried in drug-induced slumber. A flowering moustache and occasional pimple are the buds of puberty. Soon he’ll be too old.
‘Get up,’ Harrison says. ‘I said, get up!’
The boy mumbles before opening his eyes. Only now does Harrison notice the dark caverns that surround them.
‘Are you hungry?’
The boy’s eyes are melancholic.
‘Hasn’t anyone told you that it’s rude to stare?’ Harrison says.
‘John’s going to pick me up.’
The child’s voice is soft, a gentle hum.
‘Who’s John?’
‘Mum’s boyfriend.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
Harrison proffers the breakfast tray. ‘Do you have time for breakfast?’
The boy answers by hungrily seizing the food.
‘I have to go to work. Let yourself out when you’re finished.’ Harrison dispenses a bundle of notes next to the bed. ‘And use the tradesmen’s gate.’
As he pulls the BMW out of the driveway, Harrison wonders if the child will steal from him. He’s brought scores of boys to this house. None has stolen. Perhaps their bodies are too weak to haul the loot? Perhaps he pays them too well? The song is familiar but he cannot remember its title. The singer rants about the pain of unrequited love and Harrison wonders why women seemingly cannot sing about anything else. His mind turns to that stupid, old whore. Without Dick’s imprimatur, Lesley’s incompetence has been stripped bare. How long will it take for her to drown? He’ll enjoy watching Lesley gasping for air.
‘Good morning. It’s Alexander Johns on Green and Gold FM. This morning I’m in the studio, where I’m joined by the leader of the Opposition, Brian Sparkes.’
‘Good morning, Alexander. It’s a pleasure to be here.’
‘It’s always a pleasure to have you. Brian, the past few days have been incredibly tough.’
Johns’ voice is so reasonable, could sell anything.
‘Just over ten days ago, we had the first judicial killing in recent memory. Then one of the greatest minds in the State was murdered in his office.’
‘It’s terrifying Alexander, it really is.’
‘Brian, yesterday we heard from both the Premier and the Police Commissioner. The Police Commissioner said that it was too early to say whether or not the murders have any connection with the Corrowa native title litigation. Would you like to comment on that?’
‘Before answering that question I just want to express my sincere condolences to the family of Dick Payne. He was the most articulate man I have ever met.’
Harrison glides into the Registry of the National Native Title Tribunal with his head high, impeccably dressed. But there is no audience waiting with bated breath. The woman at the reception counter is young and obese. Her dark hair is tied up in a pony tail and she’s holding the grey phone to her left cheek. Lesley is sitting on the black couch in the foyer. He’s taken aback by her haggard face. Looks like she’s aged ten years.
‘Harrison, how are you, bub?’
‘You’re early.’
‘That’s okay. I can wait. I’ve been yarning with Laura. I know her mum.’
The woman at the counter smiles, revealing braces.
He glances at his watch. ‘I can give you ten minutes.’
The furniture is just as Harrison had requested – elegant and understated. His large teak desk stands in front of the generous window that stares into George Street. The walls are bare, in wait for the paintings that are still in his chambers. The shelves are full of legislation and leatherclad binders. Lesley sits on the white leather couch.
‘Lesley, you look like you didn’t sleep last night.’
She nods glumly.
‘What’s this about, Lesley?’
‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the court case.’
‘What kind of thinking?’
She’s been here a minute. A painful nine to go.
‘Well, you know, I’m a positive person. I don’t like to dwell on the past. The young fella was like that too.’
He offers the stare he uses to grill witnesses in Court, the one that roars contempt for fools. But she’s oblivious.
‘That’s why I said that Ethel’s story about being a Corrowa wasn’t true. I mean, how would an orphan know where she comes from? I’d always thought that the poor thing made up her identity.’ She shakes her head knowingly. ‘I really did think that holding onto that rubbish has been bad for her health. She should be like me, you know, move on with life.’
Her voice projects the innocence that he cherished during the trial. He bristles at it now. ‘Lesley, I have another meeting shortly.’
‘Sorry, Harrison. What I’m trying to say is that, well, Ethel might have been right.’
‘Lesley, you listen to me. I will not be compromised.’ She should have kept the money and run, stupid whore.
‘I’m sorry Harrison. I didn’t mean to upset you. With the young fella gone, I’ve got no one to turn to.’
She’s sobbing now. Pathetic. ‘Lesley, you have something you want to discuss with me? Yes? I’m a busy man. I have important things to do – for your people!’
‘Blackfella business.’ Her whisper is encased in fear. But it’s petrol to flames.
‘Oh please! You’re beginning to sound like Ethel Cobb. There is no such thing as a clever man and, quite frankly, I’m disappointed in you.’
Lesley is dumbfounded, her long eyelashes blinking into space. She’s a child who’s just discovered the truth behind Santa Claus.
Harrison is pleased with his efforts. He’s shaken her out of self-pity, now he needs to ease her back into reality and get her out of his office. Promises himself that he will never answer another of her calls. The professional association is spent, the façade of friendship no longer serves any useful purpose.
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