The Boundary

by Nicole Watson

  ‘Mrs Stanley, what did you see?’

  ‘A video camera.’

  ‘What else?’

  Higgins is yelling now. He and Jason are exhausted. Neither can remember the last time that he had a decent night’s sleep.

  ‘Children’s clothes.’

  Her confidence has dissipated. Now she’s afraid of eye contact.

  ‘Did you speak to Mr McPherson about it?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Did you ever see any children in the house?’

  ‘No, no, I would have said something then. I swear.’

  ‘You’re not being frank with me, Mrs Stanley. You knew bad things were going on in that house!’

  Mrs Stanley is cowering in her chair, like a newborn who’s heard thunder for the first time. But she’s on the hook now. Jason knows there is no way in hell Higgins will stop reeling her in.

  ‘What of his associates?’

  ‘You mean friends?’

  ‘Yes! I mean friends!’

  ‘I don’t know anything. Please, I can’t take this anymore.’

  Higgins glowers into fresh tears. Lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘Fuck with us and you won’t see a cent from McPherson’s estate.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Do you really want to take that chance?’

  ‘Prick!’

  Higgins rises from his chair. Jason watches with cool detachment as he kicks the screen door off its final hinge.

  ‘How dare you!’

  Higgins’ smile is an icicle. ‘If I were you I’d get that door fixed. In a few hours you’re going to have news crews all over you. Every man and his dog will want to interview the woman who colluded with a paedophile.’

  ‘Please, I beg you! Stop this.’

  She looks at Jason, silently pleading with him to intervene. But Jason has no sympathy for a woman who turned a blind eye to horrific crimes against young boys. He walks outside and tramples on the screen door. Higgins laughs cruelly and stands over the sobbing woman.

  ‘Tell me about his associates,’ Higgins says.

  ‘Dick Payne. I recognised him from TV,’ she whimpers.

  Two depressions scream from the centre of her forehead. Grey slithers in her eyebrows like old slugs. Miranda had been beautiful years ago. Men actually walked up to her in the street, to tell her so. Stale memories.

  When the zipper fully reveals its teeth, Miranda is relieved that it’s left her room to breathe. But when she looks back at the mirror, all she sees is an obese woman spilling out of a beautiful dress. The label read size eight. So why does she look so fat? At least the high heels make her feel a little better. Her squat legs always seem longer in these shoes.

  Why has she always been so desperate to marry? The answer makes her cringe. Marriage meant she’d become ‘somebody’. In her mind, a wedding ring would have signified the point when she began to really live. Love would erase the need to drink, see her move into a home that felt like one. But sobriety, even punctured by the odd drunken slip, has become a microscope to Miranda’s dark globe. It brings her confused axis into stark relief.

  She always gets caught up in the giddiness of romance. But who are these men? It’s only just beginning to dawn on Miranda that she never really knew any of her former partners. Never will. After that final call, each man had disappeared into the ether. The friendship that had supposedly underpinned the relationship disintegrated like burning paper.

  For so many years, she has been building houses without ever bothering to lay a foundation. Whenever a house collapses into rocky terrain, Miranda just moves on to the next frame without concrete.

  Why does she always travel the same route to the same toxic spill?

  I’m already somebody.

  I don’t need to do this to myself.

  Boundary Street bustles. On the footpath, an artist devours his canvas. He’s a rare and endangered species in this harsh, new world. Beautiful people with beautiful wallets have immersed themselves in the atmosphere. They want to be a part of it so badly. You can see it in the animated hand gestures, the vowels that roll off their tongues.

  When she was a child, West End had been a catchment area for those who were not welcome in Brisbane’s middle-class suburbs: immigrants, artists, Murris. From the shared experience of exile a vibrant community had been born. But those days are passing, suffocating under a gold blanket.

  His thick brown curls have been slicked back, and the white shirt highlights the contours of an athletic chest. He catches sight of her, smiles. She’s surprised by how excited it makes her feel.

  ‘Miranda, thanks for coming. I wasn’t sure you’d make it.’

  ‘Detective Matthews, you’ve made a great choice.’

  ‘Please, call me Jason. I did a search on the internet and checked out a few menus. I liked this one the most.’

  She smiles shyly, trying to hide how touched she is by his efforts. A bottle of sauvignon blanc sits in its cooler like a baby in a cot. Miranda declines. Jason pours himself a glass.

  ‘Are you seriously telling me you don’t drink? You must be the first lawyer I’ve ever seen refuse a glass of wine.’

  ‘Actually, I’m on a health kick at the moment.’

  I am capable of having dinner with a man without getting drunk. I can do this.

  She looks around. ‘I came here for dinner about two years ago. I’ve been meaning to come back. Guess I’ve been too busy.’

  Is he nervous too?

  ‘So, was the rally your first?’

  ‘Was it that obvious?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  I am so bad at small talk. Why am I only noticing this now?

  ‘I can imagine it must get pretty tough in a community practice.’

  ‘Sometimes, but surely no more stressful than Homicide.’

  ‘I love my job. Can’t imagine doing anything else. I’ve seen some horrific things. But I’ve also helped to give closure to grieving families.’

  She breathes in his aftershave. Musk. Athletic.

  ‘How about you? Did you always want to be a lawyer?’

  ‘Sure. I grew up in the seventies, when the Aboriginal legal services were being set up. That really inspired me.’

  ‘Could you imagine doing anything else?’

  She shrugs. ‘If I could have my life over again, I’d probably do something different. Health, maybe, or education.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The longer I stay in the law, the less I care for its blunt instruments.’

  ‘Are you concerned about the law’s instruments or the individuals who operate them?’

  She realises why he’s really here. Taskforce Themis. She looks down at her menu, conceals her disappointment.

  A handsome man like Jason would never invite me to dinner, unless he had an ulterior purpose.

  The waiter is not a day over twenty. Hair wears a net. Crooked smile wears attitude.

  ‘Are you ready to order your mains?’

  Their faces suddenly become question marks.

  ‘I recommend the banquet,’ he says, wryly.

  ‘Okay.’

  The waiter nods indifferently to the echo.

  Silence wraps itself around their throats like invisible boas. Miranda eyes other tables, desserts encased in glass, even the till.

  Anything but him.

  ‘Your Auntie Ethel is a very special person.’

  ‘She is indeed.’

  Miranda stares longingly into her empty wine glass.

  Snap out of it.

  ‘Ethel moved into our house when I was eight, after my mother passed away. She practically raised me. Dad was pretty active in different community organisations back then. He didn�
�t really have time to be a single father.’

  ‘So she’s been a big influence on you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘From what I’ve seen, she’s a very important person to your entire community.’

  ‘Hmm, I think Auntie Ethel’s got a soft spot for you. Usually she never speaks to police.’

  ‘We don’t always do the wrong thing, you know.’

  His defensiveness is static electricity moving through her, exciting her. ‘I agree that not all police should be painted with the same brush, but most have a bad habit of exercising their discretion to our disadvantage.’

  ‘Some of us believe you can only change the system by working inside it.’ He’s surprised that he’s swallowing her bait so easily. He’s too shrewd for this.

  ‘Some of us believe that the criminal justice system is inherently racist.’

  ‘How can you practise law if you don’t have faith?’

  The arrival of a platter of dips and flat bread defuses the moment. Miranda is trying so hard to look poised but fails miserably when a large blob of eggplant falls on her chin. She’s about to cry when he laughs. It’s a warm laugh that puts her at ease.

  ‘Sorry. I skipped lunch today. I’m starving.’ She knows her face is undeniably the colour of embarrassment.

  ‘Miranda, I know you do incredible work for your community. I want to help you. That’s why I thought we should talk here, rather than at Headquarters.’

  ‘Thanks. Greek cuisine is much nicer than those sterile interview rooms.’

  ‘Yeah, we need to do something about that. Do you think more people would confess if we painted the walls lilac?’

  ‘You don’t strike me as someone who takes an interest in decor.’

  ‘There’s a lot about me you don’t know. Just as I’m sure that there’s a lot more to Miranda Eversely behind the lawyer’s mask.’

  ‘I guess you’ll just have to find that out for yourself.’

  ‘I intend to.’

  He’s intrigued by a neck that’s long and graceful. Her honey skin is beautiful in that green dress that fits like a glove. But he’s troubled by what’s lurking below still waters. Jason has battled self-loathing for longer than he can remember. It’s the enemy that never sleeps, never depletes its ammunition and never tries to broker peace. Now he’s watching the war within Miranda. The sadness behind her eyes, the trepidation in her fingertips.

  It surprises Jason, his concern. And for the first time in the job, he has no idea what his next move will be.

  The banquet is sumptuous. He gorges himself with souvlaki and meatballs. It’s such a change from his usual bland fuel for the gym. Miranda seems to examine every portion before placing it on her fork. After the final course, Jason looks at his watch. Cringes.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eleven. I’m usually in bed by now.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Old age really does suck.’

  She smiles, lowers her head.

  ‘I guess we should get down to business.’ She looks up but he can’t read her expression. ‘Miranda, this is going to be a private conversation between us. But we may need to do a formal interview in the fullness of time.’

  She stares at him. For a moment her eyes seem empty behind the blue.

  ‘Miranda, we need to talk about the real reason we’re here.’

  ‘Then we should get on with it. I have a busy day tomorrow.’

  Jason feels the sting in her voice and briefly regrets his change in tack, before reminding himself that he’s speaking to a person of interest.

  ‘Okay. Dick Payne.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You never explained why he called you that night. Several times, in fact.’ Jason raises his hand, as though fanning her inevitable protest. ‘I remember what you said – that the conversations were about the appeal. But I don’t buy it.’

  He pauses. Jason rummages over his words, grimaces as though he can’t find what he’s looking for.

  ‘Were you having an affair with Dick Payne?’ he says, finally.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Miranda scoffs, incredulous. ‘Payne wanted to meet in his office that night. I declined. He wasn’t used to people saying no to him. Hence the numerous calls.’

  ‘Why did he want to see you?’

  Miranda shrugs, looks towards the register.

  ‘I’d prefer you told me in plain words. Body language is open to different interpretations.’

  ‘I’ve already told you – our appeal.’

  Jason offers a cynical frown.

  ‘Look, I have no idea.’

  ‘You should try harder.’

  ‘I really don’t know. Maybe he wanted to humiliate me.’

  ‘Why would he want to do that?’

  She raises her eyebrows. Is she mocking him?

  ‘People in our community despised him, and for good reason. Dick’s so-called reforms were all about blaming the victims of poverty, rather than building something positive. We’ve had that before, during the protection era, when this street was a boundary our mob couldn’t cross at night.’

  Jason knows he’s losing the lead, lets her take it.

  ‘I take it you hadn’t heard of the boundary. My point is that Dick was all about treating our people like they’re a problem to be controlled. And then, there was his lack of remorse over defeating native title claims. It’s because of lawyers like him that the goalposts have been shifted beyond our reach.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  The waiter greets Jason’s frown with a sarcastic grin.

  ‘None for me. Miranda?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  Jason looks around. The other tables are being stripped of dirty dishes, and he’s been watching the other patrons leave for hours. He knows he’s lost her interest in Dick Payne.

  But he’s just getting started.

  ‘I would have thought that someone who’d achieved as much as Payne did would be seen as a role model.’

  ‘A role model for whom?’

  ‘Kids, adults, everyone. After all, he succeeded in the corporate world and I imagine he could have spent his life making money on the backs of wealthy clients. Instead, he put his mind to solving problems in Aboriginal communities.’

  She rubs her eyes, and he knows it’s genuine fatigue.

  ‘Regardless of what Dick set out to do, by the end he was the poster boy for the new assimilation agenda.’

  ‘That still doesn’t explain why Dick wanted you to meet with him in his office.’

  She sighs deeply. ‘Payne took differences of opinion personally.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why he would want to humiliate you. He’d just won the Corrowa case and the government was backing his reforms. What else did he have to prove?’

  Her laughter ripples with bitterness. ‘You didn’t know Dick.’

  ‘And you did?’

  ‘I’d heard the stories. Dick expected people to worship him and when they refused, he held a grudge. His grudges were the stuff of legend.’

  ‘Obviously, you didn’t worship him.’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘What about Ethel?’

  She wears the expression of someone who’s just swallowed a lemon whole.

  ‘Auntie Ethel hated the guy! But she was never rude to him. At the beginning, he tried to persuade all of us to withdraw the native title claim in exchange for a pathetic compensation package. Apparently, our young people would get token jobs, building a shopping centre on their own land. Ethel told him very politely that we would stand our ground.’

  Jason draws his chin into his palm, processing every word, every gesture. He knows she’s not being straight with him.

 
He breathes in deeply. ‘Where were you on the night that Dick was killed?’

  ‘I was at home.’

  ‘Was anyone else with you?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘Where were you last Wednesday night?’

  ‘I was at an exhibition.’

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nine o’clock, I guess.’

  Miranda unhooks her handbag from the back of the chair.

  ‘What did you do after that?’

  She unzips her purse, throws a fifty on the table and looks at Jason squarely.

  ‘I went home.’

  As Miranda welcomes the cool night air on busy Boundary Street, she feels a sudden tightness around her wrist and looks up.

  ‘Miranda.’

  ‘What are you doing here, Dad?’

  ‘I saw you come out of . . . What’s wrong?’

  ‘Ah nothing, I . . .’

  ‘Miranda, why are you lying to me? Tell me what’s wrong.’

  Her anger at her father has always been suppressed. But now it’s coalescing with fear that’s given it legs.

  ‘Why would I talk to you about anything? You’ve always been there for everyone else, but never me!’

  ‘Miranda, that’s a horrible thing to say.’

  ‘No, Dad. The horrible thing is that you wished it was me who died, instead of Mum.’

  As he watches her disappear into the night, Charlie allows the tears to flow. A group of Murris are nearby. Ordinarily, they would stop and say hello. But tonight they know better. The brother is in a world of pain.

  Miranda stares at the bottle in her hands, as though she’s waiting to hear its voice.

  Her mind is a cacophony of imagery: schoolmates huddled in front of a bonfire, excitedly watching airborne corks. University parties where cocktails were served from plastic bins. A decade ago, her old drinking buddies changed, their lives bore fruit. Their careers brought wealth. Partners gave them children who filled their homes with laughter. But Miranda remains locked in her grim inertia. No longer cute in her drunkenness, she drinks alone.

  She hears a knock on the door and wonders who the hell it could be. She quickly places the bottle in the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink. She knows it’s ridiculous to still be hiding alcohol at her age, in her own home. A home she shares with no one.