‘Answer it. It might be Ethel and heaven knows I don’t want to get in her bad books.’
She studies the caller ID.
‘You’re right.’
* * *
The skylight is ugly, a relic of the loud and gaudy 1980s. It stands behind Meston Park like a rocket waiting, pleading, for take-off. The torches in the camp are fireflies on the wall of the city. Small enough to ignore, but never completely. The adults and young children have planted their roots in front of the fire. Teenagers are draping their bodies across the still warm cricket pitch.
The Corrowa’s camp is a circle of five canopies with stretched, white skin. Smaller tents surround them. Two days ago they were almost overwhelmed by a storm, but all that is left of that fury is a scattering of puddles. Birds are silent, so that now there is only the hum of traffic, but that too has died down to a lull.
They’ve just eaten dinner and the air is still heavy with sausage and fried onion. A billy simmers on the barbecue plate, holding enough water to fill the enormous teapot. A gust of wind shakes the trees, mingling with the softly spoken rumours that envelop the flames. No one mentions the names of the dead. But their suspicions are the same.
Clever man’s back.
Jason is nervous. The green young men want this too badly. The dim lights of the mansions across the street are mists that surround another world. A world he doesn’t know, but is surely less complicated than this one. Higgins is a phantom. Jason can barely see the grooves in his face, the lips curved in a half-smile. But the violence is glowing like a flare.
‘We don’t have to do this, you know.’
‘Matthews, if you have a problem . . .’
‘Listen to me. The killer knew the victims – they welcomed the killer into their homes. There were no robberies either. Higgins, this was personal!’
Higgins spits to the ground, points at the camp. ‘That mob takes this native title bullshit personally.’
‘Where is your judgment? Most of the people in that camp are poor. There is no way any of them move in the same circles as McPherson, Payne and Brosnan. And they’d have stood out in their prissy neighbourhoods – someone would have seen them. The killer is someone who passes through that world, unnoticed. Higgins, can’t you see that?’
Higgins throws his cigarette to the ground. Orange splinters vanish into his shoe.
‘Orders from above. You don’t like it – leave.’
Grass rustles beneath pounding feet. The mangy dog hears them first, its pained bark a distress signal. But it’s pointless. Negotiation has no place in the darkness. There is no discussion about the illegal fire. Not even the pretence of the time-honoured trifecta. Canopies are snapped, makeshift tables thrown from their legs.
Higgins’ hands are wrapped around a scrawny neck like a boa constrictor that’s pounced on a chicken. The boy is barely into his teens. His feet are just above the ground and he’s struggling in vain to be set free. He spits into Higgins’ face; it’s a match thrown into gasoline. Higgins slaps his face, sending him flying through the air. Others try to help, but they’re pummelled with batons. Bodies are piled into nearby police vans, like conveyor belts in a soulless factory. And Jason stands watching, wondering if he too is soulless.
Miranda smells the hurt before she sees the broken canopies. The remains of the barbecue are scattered throughout the camp. A mother tries to soothe the baby in her arms. She stands beside another woman, whose arm is in a sling.
Dad’s face is calm, too calm. He’s listening, but she knows he’s struggling to keep a lid on the anger. Ethel is standing behind him, her face full of anxiety. Miranda can’t hear what Jason is saying to them. But his solemn eyes tell her that the fragile peace has been broken.
TWENTY-TWO
‘Heart attack, eh?’
‘Hmm.’
‘What page did you say it was on?’
‘Nine.’
Ethel scans the Queensland Daily for a few seconds before she finds the article. It’s only ten lines, in the bottom right-hand corner above an advertisement for bank loans.
‘I’m surprised we didn’t hear about it earlier,’ she says. ‘Murri grapevine must be getting rusty.’
‘Well, she’d been out of the community for a long time.’ Charlie walks into the pantry and returns with a jar of honey. ‘Didn’t she have a daughter?’
‘Oh, I haven’t seen Alisha for years. Last I heard, she was working in Sydney.’
The crumpet hisses as Charlie smothers it with honey. ‘Who’s her father?’
‘Mitchell, his name was Mitchell. But I don’t remember anything else about him. He took off before Alisha was born.’
The morning light filters through the generous windowpanes. Ethel loves this time of the day, sipping milky tea, eating toast saturated with butter and vegemite. But this morning her mind is a construction site; so much is going on, she can’t hear herself over the din of voices. Thousands of spirits looking to her, to Red Feathers. Spirits that don’t understand how powerless they were to intervene last night. She heard them in the river this morning, whispering, mocking.
No, they don’t understand.
It’s all happening according to plan, but she’s surprised by how drained she feels. Crying for no reason, constant exhaustion, excruciating headaches.
‘Doesn’t say when the funeral will be,’ she says.
‘We’ll have to keep an eye on the funeral notices.’
She gulps her tea. Hopes that its warmth will soothe her pain. ‘It’ll probably be at Manoah.’
‘Expect many people to turn up?’
‘Probably. That mob at Manoah aren’t too political.’
‘You going?’
‘Not sure.’ She feels the tears running down her cheeks; Charlie hands her a box of tissues. ‘I just don’t want to be a hypocrite.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All that mob will be singing Lesley’s praises. No one will be talking about the bribe she took from Coconut Holdings.’
‘Well, we don’t know for sure that she took a bribe.’
‘I don’t know, Charlie, why do they do it?’ she says, throwing her hands in the air. ‘Why do they turn their backs on us?’
‘We can’t judge, Ethel. I learnt that a long time ago.’
‘Why not? You spent your life fighting, Charlie, and then someone like Lesley comes along. She didn’t believe in anything.’
‘People like Lesley never have any credibility in the community. I felt sorry for her. Imagine what it would be like to be a pariah among your own mob?’
‘But that was her choice.’
‘And she ended up wasting precious years because of that choice.’
He finishes the last of his crumpet, seems to savour the honey. ‘You and I are the lucky ones. We can walk into any community meeting and we’ll be welcome.’
Charlie stands at the doorway to the study. ‘I’m giving my interview now. I’ll be free in about an hour.’
‘What, you’re not going to the studio?’ she says, surprised.
‘Too busy. I need to stay in today. Besides, I want to see how many hits are on the website.’ He offers her a wink.
‘Oh, I didn’t know you could do that.’
Charlie looks at his watch.
‘Gotta go.’
‘Alright, bub.’
‘Good morning to our wonderful audience. My name is Huey B and you’re listening to Black and Strong. This morning our guest is Charlie Eversely, Chair of the Brisbane Aboriginal Legal Service and a longstanding advocate for the Murri community. Good morning, Charlie.’
‘Morning, Huey.’
‘Charlie, I understand you were at Meston Park last night.’
‘Yes, Huey, that’s right.’
‘We’ve hear
d that police conducted a raid on the Corrowa camp just after nine. What can you tell us about the raid?’
‘I didn’t arrive until the police had left, so I can’t give you an eyewitness account of what happened during the raid. But I can tell you I was shocked by what I saw. It looked like a cyclone had gone through that camp.’
‘Were there any arrests?’
‘Huey, I do know that fifteen people were arrested and charged with trivial offences, like trespass and committing a public nuisance.’
‘Police are still arresting people for trivial offences?’
‘More often than not it’s our people they’re arresting.’
‘Charlie, do you know the reason for the police raid?’
‘This raid was clearly an attempt to intimidate our people, so that Coconut Holdings and the State Government can get on with their grubby deal, and desecrate our land by building a multi-million-dollar eye-sore.’
‘Charlie, can you tell us what’s in store for those who were arrested last night.’
‘Huey, the Legal Service is attending on them as we speak. They expect to be making bail applications in the Magistrate’s Court this morning.’
‘Were you surprised by the raid, Charlie?’
‘No, I wasn’t surprised. But I was disappointed. Last night was a clear example of police abusing their powers in order to intimidate our people. We fought against these kinds of practices thirty years ago. It sickens me to think that so little has changed.’
‘Charlie’s still got it,’ Ethel says, her eyes glowing. ‘I know, bub.’
Even though she can see only Red Feathers’ reflection in the window, Ethel feels his sadness.
‘Everything will be alright.’
She wearily shakes her head.
‘Yes, it’s easy for me to say, but there’s no point in worrying about things we can’t change.’
Ethel takes the dirty dishes to the sink, watches the suds bloom in hot water.
‘What’s that, bub?’
‘I’m sorry too.’
She smiles lovingly into the window.
‘I wonder what our girl is doing.’
The psychologist said to call her Gina, but Miranda’s not sure that she wants to know her on a first-name basis. She appreciates the irony. Over the coming months, Miranda will open her soul to this woman. In this room, her secrets will gain a life of their own, far from what they are now, which is dust on her brain. But she’s still clinging to the security of formalities.
‘I don’t believe in therapy for the sake of it. I don’t want to be coming here indefinitely.’
Gina speaks slowly, in a voice that’s both friendly and judicious. ‘Then you’ll be pleased to hear that I have very few long-term clients. Judging by what you’ve told me so far, I’d say we can cure you in eight sessions.’
Miranda doesn’t like the word ‘cure’; it sounds too perfect. Life is never perfect.
‘I think the best treatment for you would be Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing Therapy, or EMDR.’
She hands Miranda a brochure.
‘This mentions post-traumatic stress disorder. Do I have that?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m recommending EMDR because it’s effective and it works quickly.’
The chairs are old and the upholstery is torn, a desk in the corner is piled high with manila folders. Miranda knows the windows stare into the street, but the blinds are down. In the movies, the neurotic client is reposed on a couch, but Gina doesn’t tell her to lie down.
The hour passes quickly.
When she walks out into Boundary Street, Miranda feels the tears welling, tears of joy. She’s proud of herself for making it through her first counselling session. But her happiness fades when she realises there are no messages on her phone.
As she climbs the faded carpet of the stairwell that leads to her office, Miranda’s mind is a carousel.
He hasn’t called since yesterday.
He saw me there last night. Why did he ignore me?
Angela seems happier than usual. She follows Miranda into her office, her hands folded behind her back.
‘I have some news,’ she says. Angela’s cheeks are rosy, face brimming with excitement. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Miranda quickly offers a heartfelt embrace. ‘Congratulations. That’s wonderful news. Paul must be thrilled.’
‘We’ve only been trying for a few months. I thought it’d take longer. After all, we’re not exactly young.’
She wants to remind Angela that twenty-five is not old. But Miranda resists. This is, after all, Angela’s moment.
‘Miranda, I’m so lucky. You know, I’ve got friends in their late thirties who are going through hell trying to get pregnant.’
Angela checks her watch. ‘Ouch, I’ve got to be in court in half an hour.’
‘Will I see you when you get back?’
‘Probably not. I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon.’
‘Okay, well, once again, congratulations.’
As she takes her seat, Miranda reflects on Jonathon’s relationship, Angela’s pregnancy. They’re good people who deserve to taste life’s fruit. But the pain niggles inside her.
When is it going to be my turn?
O’Neill bursts through the door like a gust of wind. ‘Mate, how did it go?’
‘Good, thanks.’
He perches himself on the chair facing her, reminding Miranda of a parrot. ‘I know a few people who’ve been to see Gina. She helped them through some really tough times. And given that her office is only a block away from here, it makes sense for you to see her.’
His face is suddenly sheepish. ‘I don’t expect you to tell me the details . . . unless, you want to.’
‘I’ll be fine, thanks.’ Miranda can feel her cheeks burning. So much is happening, she craves time alone.
‘I just wanted you to know that I’m proud of you,’ he says.
O’Neill has never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve; it makes the gesture all the more touching.
‘Thank you.’
Her voice seems to be disappearing, drowned out by human traffic. She’s an island, watching other people’s lives speed ahead.
Jonathon’s in love.
Angela’s having a baby.
‘To be honest, I’m exhausted. I didn’t get much sleep last night and then there was this morning’s business.’
She can’t yet use the word ‘psychologist’ in relation to herself.
‘Is it okay if I work from home this afternoon?’
‘Do you have any appointments with clients?’
‘No. I have to draft some affidavits. If I work from home, I’ll have fewer distractions and get them finished.’
‘Okay, mate. You do what you think is best.’ He’s about to leave, when he pauses. ‘Mate, you heard Angela’s news?’
She smiles into uncertain eyes.
‘Yes, it’s wonderful.’
Boundary Street is a universe of smells – curries, noodles, espresso, kebabs. Miranda is suddenly ravenous; she hasn’t eaten since early morning. There’s some cold pizza in the fridge; she’ll zap it in the microwave. She walks past the old flats next door. Tegan’s husky voice mingles with the sounds of the guitar. Her door is always open, something Miranda would never do. She empties the mailbox, only bills and brochures.
Her knapsack is heavy with files. All for family law clients. She’s thinking she might get out of family law. Miranda gains little satisfaction from the work anymore. In fact, some of her more difficult clients have made her fearful for her safety. But she’s not sure where to go to from here. She’ll need to discuss it with O’Neill.
Miranda suddenly feels exhilarated. This is the first time she’s con
sidered the possibility of making a change in her life. A light bulb has been switched on – she doesn’t have to stay mired in the quicksand. It’s a choice.
Miranda places the knapsack on the couch. She’s opening her telephone bill when she sees the feathers. They’re arranged in a circle beneath the kitchen table. She hears the scream. Her own.
‘Miranda!’
It takes her a moment to realise that Jason is pulling her arm.
‘Miranda, listen to me! You need to follow me. Now!’
The bottles are different shapes and colours, from turquoise to incandescent red. The orange light behind them is a sun, wielding the power to give warmth and take it away. Miranda studies Jason’s reflection in the huge mirror above the bar, his chocolate skin, slender nose. The rebellious curls on his forehead that have escaped the grasp of hair gel. Her own face appears a little thinner than usual, and her skin seems to have gained a healthy glow.
Jason is rummaging over the mess that his seemingly structured life is rapidly becoming. Yes, he should have made the call. Yes, Miranda’s apartment should be searched. She should be questioned. Before last night, he wouldn’t have hesitated. What he saw bombarded his usual instincts with glue.
Jason knows that he is far more than a casual observer of Higgins’ violence; at times, he’s been complicit. But last night was different. Those people were not paedophiles. They were not killers. They were simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
‘How’s your father?’ he says, cutting his own thoughts dead.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him today.’
‘Did you speak to him at the camp last night?’
‘For a little while. After you left.’
Neither one of them wants to raise the fact that he ignored her last night. Jason just wasn’t up to dealing with her at the time. Is never quite ready for dealing with any woman.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘I’m taking a break from drinking.’
‘Oh yeah, sorry. I forgot.’
Jason nods at the bartender, orders a rum and coke.
The chandelier above them is a colony of light, imprisoned in crystal and silver. It sits uncomfortably with the flock of slender television screens that stare down at them like gargoyles. Each news program is flashing the same photograph – the Premier smiles into his daughter’s eyes. His arms are wrapped around his wife’s waist. Their son’s long hair is unkempt, but stylish in the way that youngsters wear it now. The photograph vanishes, replaced by a pummelled car.
The Boundary Page 23
