The Boundary

by Nicole Watson

  ‘Lesley, the boss thinks you should take some time off. It looks bad for you to be here, when your people need to go through, what is it?’ Parkes tilted his chin, rubbing his whiskers in concentration. ‘That’s right, sorry business.’

  He wore the grin of the child prodigy who’d just bamboozled the maths teacher.

  ‘But isn’t the working group meeting next week?’ she said. ‘I should be at that meeting. After all, the CEO of Coconut Holdings knows me. We’re mates.’

  ‘Lesley, you should know better than to argue with the boss.’

  Now, Lesley looks around. Suits always appear busy, their conversations permanently important. And they have an alphabet of gadgets, from geospatial technology to heartrate monitors. They shoot the occasional glance at the old black woman sitting on the barstool. With her tiny frame, Lesley knows they think she looks like an infant in a high chair.

  She brings the blackfellas to the table and then the men take over. No one ever gives her credit. Not even Harrison McPherson gave her credit when they won. He wanted to disown her that day in his office. Would’ve kicked her out, had she not seen it.

  Death bird’s feather in his mouth.

  A man with a crown of silver sparks makes his way towards the exit, pauses at Lesley’s table. ‘Hello, my name is Roger Corbett.’

  She cautiously shakes his hand. ‘Hello, Roger.’

  ‘I just wanted to say that I’m very sorry for your loss. Dick Payne was one of the most articulate men I have ever heard. Your entire community must be grieving. He was such an amazing advocate for your people.’ His handsome face turns crimson. ‘I’m sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t rant, but, evidently, I have. I just wanted to say what a wonderful leader he was. This country will be poorer for his absence.’

  Ordinarily, Lesley would be touched. Roger seems like a good man, she thinks. But today her arteries are circulating dread instead of blood. She’s so damned tired. Last night she only slept in short bursts. ‘Thanks, luvie. That’s very kind of you.’

  As Lesley watches Roger disappear through the glass doors, she wonders what he, or anyone, really knew about Dick. As much as she loved him, Lesley had to admit that Dick didn’t offer new ideas. He dished out saccharine that made audiences giddy.

  Aboriginal people must develop a work ethic.

  Governments have to turn off the tap of sit-down money.

  Aboriginal parents have to learn to be responsible.

  But what did any of it mean? Empty words. His public life had been carefully scripted, from the Dorothy Dixer questions on Green and Gold FM, to the clothes he wore each day. Like all good actors, Dick kept his real self hidden in a fortress. But its walls were cracking. She’d heard of his exploits with Harrison, how they’d drunk to oblivion, snorted coke. How Dick had slept around. If he were alive, she knew the young fella would be unrepentant. His work was all about resurrecting pride in black communities. The problem was, the way Dick conducted his affairs left no room for pride.

  It’s all gone to shit. Maybe it always was. She’s got no one now. Not even Alisha.

  Names are cries of seagulls, heard between waves of applause. Eyes glisten beneath flashing bulbs. Must be a thousand people inside this hall. Alisha’s shoulders are too tiny for the black gown, can barely see the dress that cost the earth.

  ‘Baby, I’m so proud of you.’

  Everything I’ve done has been for you.

  Lesley feels the heat on her scalp as she steps into George Street. The blue scarf is wrapped tightly around her head. It’s become land that’s yielded too many crops. Barren with the exception of a few scattered thickets.

  Most people on the street avoid eye contact with strangers. So Lesley is surprised by the young woman’s smile. She’s pretty with honey-coloured hair and knee-high boots beneath a black skirt. Not a day over twenty. The same age as Lesley, when she first arrived from Manoah. One of the many black kitchen hands in the bustling public hospital. In those days, black women were allowed to prepare the patients’ food, but couldn’t give birth in the same ward. She never really thought about it at the time. After all, the white people at Manoah lived in separate houses, ate in their own dining hall. The work was dreary, but the other girls made her feel welcome. And she had Ethel, but Ethel was getting all political. Lesley didn’t care for politics back then. She lived for Saturday night dances. The old dilapidated hall in Turbot Street came alive that one night of the week for the sharpest black folk in Brisbane. But that too has disappeared, replaced by a car park.

  Back then Lesley would never have spent fifteen dollars on one stingy piece of toast. Probably could have lived on fifteen dollars for an entire week. She barely knows this city anymore. Brisbane is following in the footsteps of its sophisticated siblings, Sydney and Melbourne, she thinks. They’ve got too much choice – that’s their bloody problem. Coffee is a kaleidoscope: latte, flat white, cappuccino, caramel mocha, extra hot! What happened to plain old black or white?

  Smiles and laughter ripple through the chic markets. But the wares inside the stalls are a foreign language that has no meaning for Lesley. Certified organic orange juice. Organic rye sourdough. Organic chocolate spelt muffins. Lesley breathes in the scent of butter melting on corn. Grimaces at the price.

  It’s all gone to shit since he died. But he hasn’t really left her. Came again this morning.

  ‘How are you, darl?’

  The security guard is in his early sixties. Leather face offers a smile. Eyes are genuinely warm, in spite of what they must have seen.

  ‘Oh battling on, bub. Battling on.’

  The stench of disinfectant invades her nostrils as she reaches the top stair. But it quickly evaporates into the familiar excitement on her tongue. Every room, every corner is dim. Neon lights in the ceiling are snakes of orange and green. Lesley can see snakes everywhere, even in the faded blue carpet.

  Naked and surrounded by red dust.

  Crying and waving his hands in the air like he’s trying to warn me, but I can’t hear him.

  There’s more scrub on the perimeters.

  No swings or wooden seats stuck to the ground.

  The old mansions above the hill wear fresh paint.

  No sports cars parked in the kerb; no cars at all in the dusty street.

  Black women in white dresses are outside the wooden fences, baskets dangling on their hips.

  They cower in fear when they see the men on horseback. They draw their horses to a standstill at the top of the hill.

  Ethel’s wearing that sour face she’s had since we were girls.

  ‘I told you, Lesley. Didn’t I tell you?’

  I want to tear her hair out, but they’ve broken into a gallop.

  They’re coming for us.

  The bar is a wasteland. Last New Year’s Eve Lesley was one of hundreds in this place, dousing failed expectations with alcohol and synthetic laughter. There were so many people on the dance floor that her arms were pinned to her sides, as she swayed to the music. But now it’s just Lesley and the jaded waitress.

  The waitress has the virus. Lesley can see it in the boredom that’s taken hold of her face like cement. The virus doesn’t just live in people. Even the plastic palm fronds in the main gaming room are being slowly deprived of oxygen.

  She enters one of the catacombs for the living dead. Motorbikes are suspended from the walls, offering the ultimate freedom. Freedom they lost long ago in their glass tombs. In the mornings, this room is like a school bus that’s almost come to the end of its run. There’s only a few passengers remaining and each has claimed a buffer zone of several seats.

  Lesley recognises the woman in the far right corner. They’ve never spoken, but they exchange the occasional smile. Sometimes, she comes with a friend, but most of the time she’s alone. Lesley doesn’t know her story, only
her name. Mavis.

  Mavis lives in blue jeans and a red parka that she wears irrespective of the weather outside. When Mavis is with a friend, she’ll rub her hands together, and say, ‘Right, let’s win some money.’

  Mavis’ eyes are glued to the machine. Three coffee cups and a discarded bag of potato chips sit on the table beside her. Lesley figures that Mavis has been here all morning. Once, both she and Mavis stayed in this room for ten straight hours, with only toilet breaks in between.

  The cowboy’s face is rugged handsome, and he wears a white hat with an exaggerated brim. The Indian is mostly naked apart from his headdress and leather pants.

  This is it. I can feel it in my bones.

  The phone in her slacks vibrates, and she reads the caller ID.

  Alisha.

  Oh thank God. My baby has finally called.

  The twang of coins flooding the receptacle could have come from an angel, creating precious melodies with its harp. Lesley feels faint when she reads the numbers on the screen.

  Two hundred thousand.

  She hears sobbing and yelling and then realises it’s her.Moments ago, only an earthquake would have shifted Mavis from her seat. But now, she’s next to Lesley, alternately hugging her and throwing fists into the air. They’re performing an impromptu dance that requires no music, no choreography. The dance of the faithful.

  I’ll take the money.

  Make a fresh start.

  Not like the last time.

  She pauses for a final lingering glance of the catacomb. But this place is no longer coated in misery’s dust. It’s vibrant and kind. Oh so kind. Where else would an old woman down on her luck, down to her final ten dollars, make so much money?

  I’m not like those other blacks.

  I have a go.

  I never give up.

  I’m a doer.

  The image is vivid; she can taste it. Sees it every morning as she walks to her bus stop. Massive two-storey house of grey and white opposite Orleigh Park. Half the top storey is on stilts. Its wall-length windows look onto the huge old grandfather trees and the river. Lesley has spent hours sitting in Orleigh Park, imagining waking in that house. How it would feel to sip her tea on the ample balcony, drinking in the sights and sounds of wealth.I’ve worked my entire life. Ethel and the others are clinging to broken dreams. But not me.

  I always have a go.

  That’s why I took the money from Coconut Holdings in the first place. If you don’t take advantage of an opportunity, you’re a loser. They should listen to me, but they never do. No one does.

  I’ll show them all.

  Adrenalin is soaking Lesley’s body like a sponge. She expects to see sparks when she places that coin in the slot.

  ‘Oh my God! Another fifty thousand.’

  Mavis’ eyes are ping pong balls. ‘You’ve had your turn, Lesley. Let someone else try that machine.’

  Lesley glares at Mavis, her voice resonates poison. ‘Now, you listen to me. I’ve spent more time sitting right here than you’ve had hot dinners. I’ve earned this. You just fuck off!’

  Mavis shrinks. Lesley doesn’t even notice her leave.

  ‘Oh my Lord! Another twenty thousand.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus! One hundred thousand.’

  The cardigan she wore here is now overflowing with coins. The knapsack that held her lunch box is full, as is the lunch box. The scarf that was hiding her balding head has also become a makeshift bag. One cup of Lesley’s bra is packed with loot, the other waiting.

  That house is mine. I deserve this.

  The chill is eating through her. Lesley wants to empty her bra of the cold money, but there’s no way she’ll let go. She’s determined to cling to every single dollar.

  Lesley looks around and wonders why she’s the only one here. Ordinarily, other punters are drawn to winners, in the hope that luck is contagious. At the very least, someone from management should have come over by now, to either congratulate or interrogate her.

  She knows the laughter behind the doorway.

  ‘Why can’t you let me have this?’

  Hears the spill of coins, but Lesley can’t move.

  So it’s true.

  The cold air on the Premier’s skin tells him it’s night-time. His teeth chatter in unison with trees that are shivering violently. He knows a storm is brewing. Noises abound but he has no idea what or who is making them. Animals. Wind.

  When he opens his eyes, he knows he’s far from the city. Night’s fabric is lined with stars and there are no skyscrapers to dull its gemstones. He rubs his hands up and down opposite arms, knees against each other. But nothing will breathe warmth into his body. Fear lives behind the chill and it’s so much worse.

  It hurts to swallow, his mouth is so dry. He blinks slowly. It’s like he’s regaining consciousness after an operation. The anaesthetic has taken him to a protective fortress and he’s still in the throes of the journey to present.

  I’m going to die.

  He’s naked, in the foetal position. When Katie was a baby she would cry for hours, and sometimes all through the night. They took her to different experts in order to find out what was wrong with her, but no one knew.

  Katie’s hairdryer roars from behind the bathroom door.

  Mobile phone screeches.

  ‘Parkes, what now?’

  ‘It’s Coconut Holdings. They’re losing patience with the protesters.’

  ‘So am I. Get on to the Commissioner. Now.’

  Why didn’t I say goodbye before I left?

  As he rolls onto his back, the Premier hears the chatter of pebbles. His body is an orchestra of pain, especially the drums in his back. But it’s not as bad as the cold.

  Why didn’t they leave my clothes?

  He knows that smell. Pungent whiff of the dam on his farm, when it hasn’t rained for months. His haven. He’s spent weekends fencing, travelling along its boundaries on his rider mower. Years ago, he and Madeline had a picnic beside the dam and made love on their old rug, while the children were at riding school. If he was on his land, he’d know it. He’d feel the touch of its memories. Taste its welcome.

  He surveys his body. No gashes.

  His head vibrates like a beehive when he stands. Shoulders are an abacus whose frame has warped. With each step another bead shrieks in pain.

  What kind of drugs did they give me?

  The Premier’s mind is a light bulb going dead. It flickers back to what happened just before he got into the car.

  Parkes’ voice has become a thick growl.

  ‘Boss, I spoke to the Commissioner. They’re ready to move on those blacks.’

  ‘Good work, Parkes. Tell the Commissioner to do whatever it takes. But he needs to keep it in mind that I’ve got a fucking election to worry about.’

  ‘Don’t worry, boss. They’ll do it tonight. There’ll be no journos lurking around.’

  He hears the crunch of stones, but the Premier is no longer moving.

  ‘Who is that?’

  Nobody responds.

  ‘I know you’re there. Show yourself!’

  The blow to his head is so powerful he becomes airborne. Darkness drains his mind before it has an opportunity to tally the damage.

  He knows the box is wooden. He feels the splinters in his toes. Smells some kind of varnish. Then searing pain all over. There must be bull ants in here.

  Jesus Christ!

  Something stings at the nape of his neck. The pain is so intense he imagines the poison seeping into the bone. Darkness.

  Woken by the heat on his feet. He’s taken back to the camping trips of his childhood. In spite of his mother’s scolding, he loved to feel the breath of the campfire on his feet. The heat grows in intensity. Tongues of fire are shoo
ting up from below.

  If there is a God, I beg you, kill me quickly.

  The inferno is suddenly gone. As though it never was.

  What have they done to me? Who are they? What do they want?

  How much of this is real?

  He’s bathed in luminescent red. It coats his skin, even beneath his fingernails. Cool to touch. It’s a kind of rain. It falls on his tongue – tastes of a creek bed. He could be back where this misery began. He can see the trees shaking, gemstones in the sky. But the ring is new. Its edges are like a saucer, smooth as ceramic.

  She’s standing with her back to him. Naked with only mud covering her.

  ‘I’m deadly. I’m deadly. I’m deadly.’

  The voice is soft, almost soothing. A voice he knows.

  ‘Is that you?’

  ‘I’m deadly. I’m deadly. I’m deadly.’

  ‘Lesley, it’s really you.’

  TWENTY

  The waiter smiles at her for just a little too long. Higgins feels slighted, but he too is a little mesmerised. Sherene’s eyes are amber charms, nose delicate. She is too refined to be anywhere or with anyone common.

  ‘Thanks for making time to see me.’

  ‘I’m glad to help, detective.’

  Then why did it take you three days to return my calls?

  ‘How are you?’

  The Sherene who found her husband’s body had a face squeezed of life. Long grey and brown hair was knotted, wet. Body hidden in a tracksuit and sneakers.

  ‘I’m alright. Thank you for asking.’

  Sherene’s hair is now shorter and tousled. The grey has vanished into a rich dark brown. Her clothes are elegant. White silk blouse tucked into a black skirt with knee-high boots. Perfume is smooth and sensual. Expensive.

  ‘To be honest, I’ve never been busier. I’ve had so many invitations to become involved in different causes.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Yes, the Minister for Indigenous Affairs asked me to chair the working group for the implementation of Dick’s program. Belinda’s an old school friend.’