The Boundary

by Nicole Watson

  ‘Thanks, mate. Rodney, this is Miranda. Miranda’s a lawyer.’

  ‘Oh really, where do you work?’

  ‘Andrew O’Neill and Associates.’

  His eyes glisten with familiarity. ‘Wow, you guys do great work. Andrew’s helped the kid I do volunteer work with.’

  ‘What kind of volunteer work do you do?’ Miranda says.

  ‘It’s a scheme called “Uncles and Aunties”. Once a month I spend a Saturday morning with Tom. He’s been in and out of foster homes for most of his life. He’s just moved back in with Mum, but they’re struggling. So I take Tom to see a movie or we’ll ride our bikes in the Botanical Gardens.’

  Miranda pictures herself with a little girl, feeding pigeons. Laughing.

  ‘Rodney, you haven’t said hello to me yet.’

  The stunning brunette offers an exaggerated frown. Tiny figure in an even tinier black dress. She raises her hand and a diamond sparkles.

  ‘Oh my God – look at that rock!’ Rodney quickly embraces her. ‘So when did he pop the question?’

  ‘Last Saturday. Both of our families were there. He’d organised the whole thing and I had no idea,’ the brunette gushes.

  ‘That’s so wonderful.’

  Rodney turns to Miranda, offers an awkward smile. ‘Miranda, meet Louise.’

  ‘So sorry, Miranda, I must be boring you.’ Louise flashes a dazzling smile. ‘So how do you know Tegan?’

  ‘We’re neighbours.’

  Miranda is navigating uncharted waters. The excitement of new land pulses in her veins, but it’s tempered by the fear of drowning. She silently curses herself when she interrupts, wishes that she wouldn’t stutter. But Miranda is revelling in the thrill of meeting people from different walks of life. Excited by the possibility of making new friends.

  By nine o’clock most of the guests have disappeared. Tegan’s grin is testament to the evening’s success.

  ‘Made three grand.’

  Miranda smiles at her neighbour. ‘Wow, congratulations.’

  ‘And the nice thing is that I didn’t have to pay for this place.’

  ‘Even better,’ Miranda says.

  Tegan shrugs. ‘They like to have artists hanging around. Adds to the “authentic” West End experience. Hey, sorry I couldn’t spend much time with you tonight.’

  ‘Oh, please don’t apologise. I’m just happy to be here.’

  ‘Anytime you want to come next door for a cup of tea, just yell out.’

  ‘I will. For sure.’

  The guitar spills from the café’s tiny stage to the street. Patrons are swinging to the rhythm, clutching imported beers.

  Walking down Boundary Street, Miranda is in her own world. She’ll become a volunteer, work with kids. This could be the start of something. She can feel it. People listened to her tonight. They really wanted to know about her. Her! And tomorrow morning, she’s even going to wake up with a clear head. Might go jogging. She hasn’t been jogging for years.

  The aftershave hits her first. Something called Allure. Dan used to dab it on his neck after dressing for work.

  Black-rimmed glasses frame his stunned eyes. His stomach has shrunk and he’s wearing new jeans. They’re tighter than the old blue denim. He’s holding her hand.

  Louise from the exhibition.

  THIRTEEN

  They’d come in their buggy. The man has the face of a crab, beard thick like claws; the world only notices those beady eyes when he blinks. His wife’s waist is squeezed into a corset, eyes squeezed of life. The woman’s cheeks are unusually hollow, and her slight mouth will never complain of his cruelty. Six sons spent the journey in silence. Silence that’s flimsy protection from their father’s violence.

  The slaves followed on foot. Skeletal bodies fuelled by hope. Hope of casting eyes on that much-cherished child, discovering that a wife is still alive, feeling mother’s embrace. Their memories are a handful of sand, and the grains are slipping into the wind. Soon the archives will be empty of precious faces.

  Milky white walls whisper the secrets of this place. Her loneliness. Her body’s no longer taut, ripped apart by ten births. Her mind torn apart by four baby girls lost in their first month of life. She stays in her room for days at a time, reminiscing. She misses the cold air of home, streets alive with humanity. She stares into the mirror as she brushes her long hair. Cascading water over auburn and grey stones. Her tired eyes flicker with excitement. At times like this, she can see hints of the girl from London. Tonight, they will enjoy the company of the men from the Department of Lands. Their first visitors in five months.

  She’s obsessed with the floorboards, commanding the black girls to sweep until she can see her reflection. They hide their bewilderment as she pretends to see her harsh face in the timber. This morning she argued with Cook. His oriental tongue throws sparks of loathing. Loathing is everywhere here, in the black girls’ stares and the boys’ sordid eyes.

  Dinner is a success. The chicken was baked to perfection. The mulberry pie attracted so many compliments. None of which will be relayed to Cook. Generous quantities of wine lubricate conversation. She retires to allow the men to enjoy a final drink.

  She quickly prepares for bed and blows out her candle. Stifles her tears with a pillow, as she hears them walking out the door.

  How she despises the legacies of his indiscretions, those coffee-coloured babies. She will not have them anywhere near the house. Discipline is firm. She breaks in each girl with an iron brush. They walk with congealed blood in their hair. No one says a word.

  Perhaps the brush compensates for her own subjugation? Perhaps she has pitched herself in a perverse competition with her husband? When they first arrived he kidnapped a little boy. Not a day over five. The chains were too big for his tiny neck, so the child was locked in the poisons shed. He has been with them for twelve years. The absence of his right ear and permanent limp are testament to her husband’s cruelty.

  The young woman’s blanket is thin and smells of smoke. She tries to keep it clean, but like everything else in the blacks’ camp, it is caked in dust. She feels the tightness around her neck. Smells the alcohol on his breath. The boss lifts her over his shoulder and carries her to the men’s quarters. She’s pleading, crying, but no one stirs. This is a regular occurrence they are powerless to prevent.

  The boss’s sons sit anxiously, together with the men from the Lands Department. They jeer and gasp as he removes her nightdress. The bird soars above the men’s heads. One son takes to it with a broomstick, but the bird is too fast. It sits on the beam, mocking them.

  The young woman tries to focus on the cracked windowpane. She would prefer to see anything other than the faces of the men who will brutalise her. Her eyes are met by a box of rippling muscle. Thick and long neck, whose face remains in darkness. Glass shatters. She closes her eyes to the sounds of yelling, stumbling and the boss loading his gun.

  Opens her eyes to silence.

  The rope that was burning her wrists lies in pieces. Lifeless bodies are islands surrounded by red coral.

  Mistress’s room reeks of death. She knows who he is. She’s heard the stories from the old women in the camp. But she didn’t believe he really was a giant. His arms are like the branches of a tree, but his hands are gentle. Long fingers touch her pallid face.

  His warm grin is a doorway to kindness. But the young woman knows rage simmers just beneath the surface, like a geyser. He blows through his hands into her stunned face. Whispers words of hope. Since coming to this hell, she has always feared hope. But as she scampers from the homestead, she clings to it like sap to bark.

  Bloodied feet greet her first morning of freedom. By the fourth day she’s faint. Only dogged will moves her legs. On the fifth day she finally arrives at the camp. She’s gripped by fear. The old woman is tiny and grey. Then s
he sees it: eyes flickering with recognition. Mother and daughter embrace.

  The clever man’s heart sings. He wants to stay, to drink in their happiness. Their strength. But the water spirits beckon. The invaders have infected the mighty river with poison, driving the fish to lunacy. Pink flesh on grinding metal has no respect for ancient secrets that live in the waters. Withered faces of mangroves cry for their spirit kin.

  Do not fear.

  Your time will come.

  The business has begun.

  ‘Bub, bub. You okay?’

  Miranda’s head is a snow dome that’s just been shaken. Bile races to her tongue, but her body lacks the energy to run to the bathroom. She feels the rim of the bucket in her hands. Vomit stinks of wine.

  ‘Auntie Ethel.’

  ‘I’m here, bub.’

  It hurts to open her eyes. Everything hurts. But the physical pain pales in comparison to the shame.

  ‘What happened?’

  Images flash like a neon sign. Two bottles of sauvignon blanc in each plastic bag. Sitting in the darkness, music turned low.

  ‘You don’t remember calling me? You were crying. That fuckin’ Dan, I can’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Auntie.’

  ‘He didn’t deserve you, bub. But you can’t keep doing this to yourself. You’re better than that.’

  ‘Auntie, I’m going to get help. I promise.’

  Ethel takes the bucket and disappears into the bathroom. But the stench doesn’t leave the room.

  ‘Does Dad know?’

  ‘No. I told him I was visiting Shirley.’

  ‘And he believed you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Ethel looks over the room in disgust. Miranda can’t remember the last time she ran the vacuum cleaner over the carpet.

  Ethel stares at her, face awash with concern. ‘Will you be able to go to work tomorrow?’

  ‘I rang Andrew on Monday and we had a talk. He gave me the week off.’ Miranda laughs nervously. ‘I’m supposed to be checking out my options for treatment.’

  ‘What about AA? Worked for your dad.’

  ‘Hmm, sounds like another addiction to me.’

  ‘Well it beats drinking yourself to death.’

  Ethel’s voice bristles with impatience.

  ‘You’re right, Auntie. I’ll go.’

  ‘Why don’t you talk to Charlie?’

  ‘No way. I need to do this myself.’

  Miranda rests her head on the pillow. Ethel strokes her hair, the way she would when she first came to live with them.

  ‘I had the strangest dream.’

  ‘Really? Tell me about it,’ Ethel says.

  ‘It was back in the old days, this white family who lived on a station. And this huge blackfella killed them. The weird thing is, I’ve had dreams about him before.’

  Ethel places a glass of water next to the window. Miranda nods groggily and returns to sleep.

  Each yard is the size of a football field. Jason shakes his head at the sight of them. Some have artificial lakes, others have ponds with marble fountains in the centre. Long, winding drives are dotted with lampposts. The footpath is the width of the street. Hedges expertly pruned. Tradesmen’s vehicles are parked in the street. Drop sheets and other equipment linger outside like crumbs next to cake. The price of living in this street, it seems, is constant maintenance. The mansions are ageing starlets.

  Jason walks through the white arch-shaped gate of Lot number 144. Palm trees grow on either side of the lattice, resurrecting memories of Fantasy Island. He almost expects an eccentric host, dressed in white, to emerge from the pale blue stucco. Two imposing columns stand at the entrance to the house. In the centre is a dome-shaped window that reveals an internal staircase. There is no guard dog here. But security screens are on every window, even those on the second storey.

  He looks back at the street; children sit on their bikes, watching the commotion. An old man with a terrier stands behind them, mouth wide open. Murder does not happen here. Eight Mile Plains is a suburb of mixed fortunes, but Dian Street is the high-class end of town. Not just any wealth, conspicuous wealth. Residents wear their money on their homes, like royalty wear jewelled crowns. Gates are like the door to a castle, but these castles have intercoms and signs warning of dangerous dogs. Private security firms only one phone call away.

  The driveway is choked with police cars. Blue overalls from Scenes of Crime are working furiously, like bees constructing a hive. Doctor Thomas is standing outside his car. His face is grim.

  Jason hears Higgins from beyond the gate and turns around. He’s standing beside a television news van, letting off steam into sorry faces. The Commissioner won’t be impressed, but both detectives know that’s the least of their worries.

  Diatribe finished, Higgins walks towards him, through the gate. He looks like someone who’s spent days lost in the wilderness. Badly needs a shave. Shoulders are slouched; he looks exhausted. Body fuelled by cigarettes and coffee, no doubt.

  ‘Don’t take this personally, Matthews, but I’m sick of seeing you.’

  ‘The feeling is mutual, my friend.’

  The living room smells musty. A huge grandfather clock sits next to a portrait of a young boy. He looks like something out of a fairytale, with long blond ringlets and white stockings. Jason suspects his blue eyes might have a story to tell beyond the canvas. On the opposite wall hangs a velvet curtain.

  Higgins looks around with mild disgust. ‘Hard to believe only one person lived here.’

  ‘You know, statistically, Australian homes have increased dramatically in size over the past thirty years. But the average number of occupants has decreased over the same time.’

  ‘Matthews, I’m beginning to think that you don’t have a life.’

  ‘Check this out.’ Jason points to a replica of an ancient goddess at the foot of the staircase. ‘Themis, the Greek Goddess of natural law . . .’

  Higgins has already lost interest. He takes the stairs, follows the sounds of cameras flashing.

  The room conjures imagery of plantations from another time, another place. The four-poster bed is draped with white curtains, the pillows seem soft and generous, the satin sheets inviting. Jason figures the antique dresser is a family heirloom, as is the portrait of the woman above it. The geometry of the black and white rug has been overwhelmed by blood and feathers. He’s lying face down, arms stretched as though making one final, desperate bid to escape.

  ‘I always said I’d like to kill him,’ Higgins says, side-stepping the body. ‘But I never thought he’d end up like this.’

  Harrison McPherson’s courtroom antics were the stuff of legend. Someone told Jason he once kept a rape victim in the witness box for four days. By the end, she was adamant that she’d endured a second assault.

  Higgins snorts. ‘Always assumed he’d outlive us.’

  Jason tries to remember the man. He never had so much as dark circles under his eyes. Always smug, James Bond of the legal profession. He looks around at the bars on the windows. ‘Beats me how anyone would break into this place. It’s Fort Knox.’

  ‘It’s our man,’ Higgins says.

  Their differences never cease to amuse Jason. While he tends to mull over his thoughts, seldom jumping to conclusions, Higgins charges like a bull. Jason looks sceptically at his partner.

  ‘The press doesn’t know about the feathers, Matthews – it can’t be a copy cat. It has to be the same guy.’

  A uniform enters the room. Early twenties. Keen to please. ‘Higgins, it looks like we got a footprint, in the back garden.’

  Jason picks up a packet of sugar-coated pastilles from a basket beside the bed.

  ‘Thanks, officer. What you got, Matthews?’

  Jason selec
ts one with his gloved hand. The texture is wrong; lollies wear a dark coat. Sweet mingles with another scent: medicinal.

  ‘I want to take another look at the living room.’

  Beneath the velvet curtain they find a door.

  Jason attacks the latch. ‘I need help here – it’s locked!’

  The secret room is the size of a walk-in robe. It’s bare apart from the tiny lounge suite and the entertainment unit. The plasma and DVD player are turned on at the wall. They recognise the baritone voice, but it’s joined by crying. Child’s crying.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘People, before we begin, I just want to say that I appreciate your efforts. I know some of you haven’t spent time with your families for days.’

  Higgins is trying to wear a brave face for his colleagues, but Jason can see it’s about to crack. Higgins has just spent an hour being grilled by the Commissioner, who’s under pressure from the minister, who just happens to be the Premier. To make matters worse, the media really are having a field day. One trashy current affairs program even paid for some ex-FBI agent come reality-TV star to fly out from Los Angeles. His offer of assistance was promptly declined, resulting in even more scorn from the tabloids. Everyone, from the lady at the newsagent to the barman at their favourite watering hole, has an opinion on the murders. Yet all Higgins can offer is a blank face. What he cannot disclose to anyone is that the police are up shit creek without a paddle.

  Higgins looks unwell at the best of times. Today he looks like hell. His eyes are usually bloodshot, but now they’re red almonds. Jason tries to pinpoint when his transformation into premature middle age began, but can’t remember – it’s like his skin has always been mottled. When Higgins removes his jacket, everyone notices the pools of sweat underneath his armpits. Last night’s alcohol and this morning’s greasy bacon are abandoning his body like it’s a sinking ship, and who could blame them?

  As Higgins scrawls on the whiteboard, Jason reflects on the shambles that is their investigation. In years past, a single strand of hair and even carpet fibres from the boot of a car led the police to their suspect. Where there’s been a struggle it’s common to find the killer’s DNA beneath the victim’s fingernails. Yet they’ve found no such evidence from any of the crime scenes. Absent were signs of forced entry. Did all three victims know their killer? So far, there’s only one link between them. A nebulous link, taunting them to provide definition.