The Boundary

by Nicole Watson

  She opens her apartment door and steps back.

  ‘What do you want, detective?’

  Jason’s tongue is gentle, lightly caresses. It happens so quickly that later she marvels at how easily he removed her dress. Knows she’ll never remember how they made it to her bed. Will always remember how good it felt to be desired.

  How good it felt to be reminded that things could still happen for her.

  EIGHTEEN

  The light fittings are ice cubes at the bottom of a glass, melting from the bonfire. They’re dressed in suits, but it’s pomp in a puppy pen. Hansard records more clichés than a trashy romance novel. Absorbs more punches than a world title fight. It’s like a schoolyard brawl; everyone wants to breathe the excitement, but no one wants to bleed.

  Elegant façades are everywhere around Parliament. Desks carved from precious wood. Gold jugs that quench hateful tongues. Blue and green carpets are like leaves on a forest floor, but without their cleansing scent. This place smells of pluck served cold. And road kill. Their words are claws, tearing away at each other’s humanity.

  The Speaker sits below the coat of arms, resting his chin in his hand. Every few minutes, he implores them to come to order. In a monotone voice, he orders them to refrain from using ‘unparliamentary’ language.

  Iron lattice houses the public gallery. Journalists fold their arms and occasionally chuckle. Schoolchildren watch with interest; their presence does nothing to douse the flames below. Public servants drift in and out. Among them is Lesley Tagem. She’s alternately muttering and glancing behind her, as though expecting someone or something to crash through the heavy blinds.

  The monitor on the wall informs the Premier that he has two minutes left on his feet. His face is a beetroot simmering in its own juices. Beads of sweat sit at the roots of his hair. They stare in amusement, willing steam from his ears.

  ‘As I stated at my press conference, I am committed to ensuring that the Dick Payne Memorial Program will be a success. In fact, immediately after my press conference I made arrangements for my Senior Indigenous Adviser, Lesley Tagem, to work directly with staff in the office of the Minister for Indigenous Affairs. They’ve formed a working group. Coconut Holdings is on standby. They want to employ sixty Indigenous people to work on the Meston Park site, by the end of the month. I am determined that will happen.’

  Lesley watches the tirade, like a punter at the races. She’s invested so much in this horse.

  What else will I lose before this race is over?

  The Premier retires to his seat. Ignores the smiles of his sycophants that have become as familiar as the gold trim on the walls.

  ‘Premier, that sounds very impressive. But how can Coconut Holdings possibly commence construction when their property rights are not being respected?’

  The Leader of the Opposition is a mere apprentice of thirty-two years. Tall and scrawny. His short black hair holds a cup of gel like a baby seal who’s just been rescued from an oil slick. Minute pieces of tissue are constellations illuminating the shaving cuts on his face.

  ‘For the past week, members of the Corrowa tribe have been living in tents in Meston Park. Their leader, the notorious radical Charlie Eversely, insists that Meston Park belongs to them. Surely, we cannot allow this anarchy to continue. The Federal Court determined that the Corrowa People’s native title was extinguished. I ask the Premier, when will the Corrowa People be forced to respect the umpire’s decision?’

  His confidence is flying and he wears the grin of the victim of schoolyard bullies who has finally turned the tables.

  The Premier grimaces at the young fool. ‘Like all other reasonable Queenslanders, I have been surprised and saddened by the refusal of this particular group to accept the Federal Court’s decision. My department is currently in negotiations with Coconut Holdings and representatives of the protesters, with a view to resolving this situation amicably. I have been informed that the negotiations are progressing satisfactorily. Indeed, I am confident that the dispute will be resolved by the end of the week.’

  Lesley suppresses the urge to laugh. She’s the one whom the Premier has entrusted to ‘negotiate’. But that mob in Meston Park won’t listen. Not to her. Not to anybody. Except that fuckin’ old coot.

  Ethel’s swinging her finger to and fro, like the chimes in a grandfather clock.

  Used to do that when we were girls.

  Bossing everyone around, even then.

  ‘Lesley, you can’t mess with the business.’

  Lesley loosens the knot under her chin that’s holding the shawl over her head. She’s been losing clumps of hair for the past two days. Her doctor offered no solutions, only a referral to a specialist. Who can’t see her for two months!

  The Premier’s opponent clears his throat and resumes his attack. ‘Mr Speaker, I understand the police have been called to that camp several times in the past week. They’ve had to remove drunks and drug addicts in the interests of public safety. This has been to the dismay of many in the Queensland Police Service, which is already suffering from being short-changed by this government. Mr Speaker, sources within the Queensland Police Service claim that Taskforce Themis is being compromised by inadequate resources. Can the Premier please explain why his government has seen fit not to value their work?’

  The young man’s meteoric rise through the ranks of the Opposition owed more to a lack of talented competition than political acumen, but during rare moments of clarity, he can fight. All morning, he’s been like a Jack Russell with an invisible death grip on the Premier’s ankles. The Premier scoffs.

  ‘My government is the only one in living memory to provide the Queensland Police Service with sufficient resources to fulfil its responsibilities to the people of Queensland. Furthermore, such criticism from the Leader of the Opposition is a bit rich, given the legacies of former Coalition Governments. I should not have to spell out those legacies to the Leader of the Opposition. After all, the Fitzgerald Report is still publicly available. I can ask my secretary to download it from the internet for him, as I assume he didn’t have enough pocket money to purchase a copy from the first print run.’

  The chamber is awash with laughter. But the Jack Russell won’t be deterred. He’ll just pursue a different target, one that’s smaller and dim-witted.

  ‘Mr Speaker, murder is no laughing matter and neither is the granting of privileges to spoilt minorities. I ask the Minister for Indigenous Affairs, what is the Indigenous community doing to assist Taskforce Themis?’

  The Minister for Indigenous Affairs, Belinda Field, is a rabbit staring down the barrel of a gun. In spite of spending thousands on botox, her forehead is creased in fear. She’s sitting in a deflating lifeboat, which is being circled by great white sharks, in the face of an imminent tsunami. This is the first time Field has been asked a question in Parliament.

  At least the woman’s dressed for the occasion. In fact, she’s the only politician who can wear Prada. Some of the older women try, but the Prada just ends up wearing them. Belinda knows how to work it. Her long legs scream out from beneath her tight black dress. And those Jimmy Choo shoes just set the whole outfit off.

  How the press love her. Of course, she’s invested hundreds of hours into developing the right poses. Her favourite involves cupping her chin in her right hand and, through elegant Armani frames, locking her eyes in steely determination. But answering questions in Parliament? Well, that just isn’t her thing.

  Looking great is a different story. Why, that’s kept her well fed for most of her adult life. Not that she ever eats more than a few morsels. Starvation is just part and parcel of being a model. And it was modelling that brought Field here. That heavenly body gave her a public profile. Using it in a devilish way got her married to the horniest millionaire in Brisbane. It also brought her to the exotic world of Indigenous affairs.

 
In her first press conference following the announcement of her bid for pre-selection, Belinda was asked why she chose politics after retiring from the catwalk. She said she’d had a spiritual awakening while filming a commercial at Uluru. She’d engaged in telepathic communication with members of the Mutitjulu community, apparently, and was convinced she’d found her calling. Some dowdy journalist spread a rumour that the epiphany was actually the result of the empty wine bottles her former assistant had seen in her hotel room. But Field didn’t allow such pettiness to get her down. After all, she was on a mission.

  The Labor Party hadn’t needed much seducing. Field was already a minor celebrity and Labor was in short supply of glamour. But the movers and shakers weren’t prepared to make a huge investment in Field. After all, she wasn’t terribly bright. So they gave her a seat in the heart of conservative territory. But what Field lacked in intelligence, she made up for with enthusiasm. She knocked on doors until her knuckles were raw. She batted her eyelashes at every male in her path, kissed babies who smelt of diarrhoea.

  Her opponent, on the other hand, had held his seat for so long that he took his electorate for granted. He didn’t knock on a single door, being content to leave that business to the volunteers from the Young Liberals. How he spent his time outside Parliament, no one knew. His wife often made cynical comments as he walked out the door each morning.

  ‘Going to work on another crossword love? Enjoy your nap in the office, Mike.’

  They both knew that she was more resentful over his lacklustre career than he was.

  ‘Mike is such a disappointment, he could have been Premier you know’, she’d confide to her colleagues on a Friday afternoon, over a gin and tonic.

  When the Premier rang to offer his congratulations for seizing victory in enemy heartlands, Field gushed about her spiritual awakening in the desert. So the die was cast. She was the only politician in Labor history who had requested the portfolio of Indigenous Affairs, a job the Feds had once likened to being a toilet cleaner on the Titanic. She was so thrilled by her appointment that she visited the Premier, to thank him personally.

  Since becoming a minister, Belinda has endured a few tumbles. Like when she asked an old pensioner at Manoah whether she preferred Prada or Chanel. It was meant to be a joke, but unfortunately some bitchy journalist overheard their conversation. The Premier dragged her over the coals for the gaffe. Now, he’s giving her the look he gives when she moans too loudly during their lovemaking. It only lasts for a few seconds, before he turns to his opponent.

  ‘How low is the Leader of the Opposition prepared to sink? I cannot believe he’s attempting to use Taskforce Themis for his own selfish purposes. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he’s stereotyping all Indigenous Queenslanders.’

  The Premier waves his finger in the air. ‘Dick Payne would have been disgusted.’

  The Opposition is a school of greedy toadfish. Mesmerised by the sight of fresh meat. The Leader of the Opposition snarls. ‘Why is the Premier answering a question that was directed to the Minister for Indigenous Affairs?’

  Suddenly Field stands, her whole body shaking.

  ‘Oh my God, she’s having a fit.’ Whispers echo through the chamber.

  ‘What should we do?’

  ‘Call an ambulance.’

  The puppies cease trading blows, all paws to the ground, to see the minister’s crumpled body, her svelte legs crossed demurely.

  * * *

  The Premier closes his eyes as his body sinks into the car’s plush leather. Savours the carbonated water gliding on his tongue. His head is pounding. His throat has been dry all week, his voice hoarse. It happens whenever Parliament sits. When he gets home, Madeline will attempt to nag him into seeing their family doctor, but to no avail.

  He chuckles as he reflects on Belinda’s performance. That woman will do anything for him – even fake a seizure. Christ, it was effective. Tomorrow, the state’s taxpayers will wake to photographs of paramedics fussing over Belinda. The press will forget all about the fiscal dilemmas of the police force, at least, for now.

  The Premier is on the nose with the electorate. Labor is as welcome in Queensland as a plague-carrying rat in a restaurant. People are ready to embrace change for the sheer sake of it. Only one thing stands between him and defeat – fear that the Opposition will turn out to be as incompetent as it looks.

  Fear is the Premier’s signature dish. Over coming months, he will bombard the electorate with a snowstorm of accusation and innuendo. Unable to see the road ahead, they will have little choice but to spend the bitter winter of the election in limbo, waiting for him to rescue them.

  He knows his cronies think he’s an enigma: a chameleon that seamlessly alternates between statesman and assassin. To his enemies, the Premier is out of control. Destroying careers, belittling journalists, feeding his advisers a diet of arrogance and sleep deprivation.

  The Premier believes he’s the same man he was before. But the demands of the job have required him to shed unnecessary skin. The Premier still has the same moral compass from his heyday of student politics, but its face has faded, so that it’s no longer legible. Morality is now an apparition whose presence is felt, but whose hands can never touch him. Over the years, he’s watched colleagues breathe in the air of ground zero, until it gradually enfeebles them. Bodies become heavy and slow, eyes lose lustre, speech a shell without its soul of conviction. But not him. The Premier never makes the mistake of peering into the aftermath of one of his explosions.

  But the punishing hours are finally exacting their payment. He feels like he’s navigating a hulk through a cyclone. His patience is just as haggard as the torn sails and his body weak from constantly bailing water. At Madeline’s urging he will make an effort to take an interest in the children’s milestones over dinner. Kylie recently triumphed in her school debating championships. Darren, on the other hand, was caught smoking pot in the bathroom, again.

  ‘Thank crikey this week’s over, eh?’

  Even though he studied with the finest minds at Oxford, the Premier is careful to avoid any hint of intellectual prowess. Tall poppy syndrome can be fatal.

  The driver does not respond, preferring to raise the volume of the radio. The reggae music is like a mating call to the jackhammer in the Premier’s head.

  ‘Change stations. I want to listen to Alexander Johns on Green and Gold FM.’

  The driver tilts his head, he’s speaking, but not to the Premier. His voice occasionally breaks into laughter, but it’s otherwise inaudible.

  ‘I said, change stations.’

  His demand is met once again with cool indifference.

  Who the fuck does he think he is? I’m the Premier! This guy can’t take a piss without asking me first! Harry knows that.

  Ordinarily, Harry drives him everywhere. Old gold, reliable Harry, who barely murmurs a word, other than to remind the Premier that his dear old mum was a Labor voter. But Harry rang in sick this morning.

  The driver’s neck is thick and long. The Premier imagines the rest of him must be enormous. Woolly brown curls have been cut to the edges of his scalp. He’s never had a black driver before. The latest stunt at employing Aborigines in the public service? Isn’t the Dick Payne Memorial Program enough for those people?

  An old woman breaks into a run. She makes it to the safety of the traffic island, but she’s clearly in pain, rubbing her back with one hand, making a fist with the other.

  ‘My God, man! You could have killed her!’

  The Premier expects a profuse apology, at the very least an explanation. But he’s ignored. Again.

  ‘Are you deaf? I said you could have killed that woman. You listen to me, boy. From now on you will do exactly as I say!’

  The driver sways his head to the rhythms of Bob Marley. His movement is weightless. He’s oblivious to the Premier’s an
ger, or more likely, contemptuous.

  ‘That’s it! I’ve had enough. Pull over now! If you don’t stop this vehicle, I will personally see to it that you never work in this state again!’

  The Premier feels for the mobile phone in the pocket of his suit coat, but finds nothing. He rifles through his briefcase as the car increases its speed and he hurtles back into the seat. His heart sinks as they pass his street.

  ‘You fucking coon! Stop this car!’

  The car finally slows at some traffic lights. Adrenalin rushes, the Premier inhales deeply.

  This is his chance.

  His head spins when he discovers that both doors are jammed tight. The Premier bangs on the window like a dog that’s been caged in a pet shop for too long. Only a young boy notices him. The child’s mother is preoccupied, blustering into a mobile phone. That’s when the Premier sees a million stars.

  NINETEEN

  Adelaide Street yawns. The city’s manic pace grinds everything to exhaustion. Council buses are old draught horses. Voices deep as they haul their restless cargo. Lesley cringes into the empty plate. There are only crumbs left of her fifteen-dollar ‘breakfast’ – one stingy piece of sourdough with avocado and feta. Four little mushrooms on the side. Four! And they serve rocket with every bloody thing these days. The café is called ‘Insect’. Lesley figures she’ll be a stick insect if she continues to eat here.

  Concrete floors speak understated wealth. They mutter and groan whenever cutlery drops, chair legs shift. Bulbs encased in gigantic black eggcups hang parallel to rows of smaller lights that remind her of a film studio. It’s casual dining that only the rich can afford. And Lesley. She’s down to her final ten dollars. Payday isn’t until tomorrow afternoon. But she’ll have a big win on the pokies tonight. Can feel it in her bones.

  She thinks back to her conversation with Parkes yesterday and cringes at the little twerp.