‘Why do they always have to show photographs from crash scenes on TV?’ Miranda shakes her head. ‘It’s so disrespectful.’
‘It’s what people want to see,’ Jason says, casually.
‘That doesn’t make it right.’
‘I didn’t realise you were such a big fan of our late Premier.’
‘I wasn’t. But there’s a principle at stake.’
‘Which is?’
‘We should be respectful of the family. This kind of footage must be distressing for them.’
‘They can choose to turn the TV off.’
Miranda doesn’t know if he’s being serious or not. Wonders if he’s always this flippant.
‘They practically ignored the fact that the Premier’s driver was killed too. His name was Harry Wilson. He’d been the Premier’s driver for ten years.’
Jason ignores her. She can tell he’s tiring of this conversation. Or perhaps he’s tiring of her.
She gazes around the bar, pretending to be preoccupied. On the walls are geometric plants in various shades of purple, black tiles underneath their feet. Miranda doesn’t recognise the music, but it’s soft. Predictable. A young man croons about his broken heart. Patrons speak of property, property, property.
Years ago, the air choked on smoke and spilt beer. This place was a graveyard for those who stopped living before they stopped breathing. But like the old geography of West End, the barflies are gone. Now the Melbourne Hotel caters for a more refined crowd that enjoys tapas with their boutique beers. She looks back at Jason.
‘I didn’t know you were a rum drinker.’
‘You’re hardly in any position to judge.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
His smirk is cold. They sit quietly, but the tension between them is like hail. She wonders what she did to make him angry. He’s stressed from work, that’s it. Bullshit. She’s back in the place she always ends up.
Why do I go out of my way to please men like Jason? Men like Dan? Why do I need to be with them?
Why am I always so reckless?
When she was three years old, Miranda ran into a department store lift while she was shopping with her mother. Carys scampered from floor to floor, frantically searching for her daughter. Miranda bided her time clutching the hand of a Good Samaritan, oblivious to her mother’s ordeal. When she was in her twenties, Miranda lived for the moment. She once drank herself into a stupor at the Regatta Hotel, and when she’d spent all her money, she casually announced that she was swimming home. Bystanders gasped in disbelief as Miranda plunged into the Brisbane River.
As she grew older, Miranda became more inhibited and she remained hidden in her apartment. But the carelessness remained. During her first week as a solicitor, one client broke down and threw a chair at her. Another threatened to attack her with a syringe apparently filled with contaminated blood. Miranda calmly responded to each incident by going home to another bottle of wine.
People ordinarily assume that she’s just brave. Auntie Ethel calls it ‘backbone’. But Miranda knows it’s recklessness born of self-loathing. If she truly liked herself, she wouldn’t take so many risks.
I wouldn’t be sleeping with a man I barely know.
Jason’s eyes see straight through her, like he’s stealing her thoughts. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he says.
‘Sure.’
‘Why were you afraid of the feathers in your apartment?’
She shrugs.
‘Had you seen them before?’
‘Maybe.’
Jason gulps down the last of his rum and coke, gestures to the barman for another.
‘Would you mind not looking at me that way, Miranda?’
‘Sorry.’
‘How long since your last drink?’
‘Six days.’ She’s surprised by the pride in her voice. She hadn’t wanted to make it so obvious.
‘Well congratulations.’
‘You’re not the most sensitive person, are you?’
‘Sorry.’
His sarcasm is a bitter aftertaste.
‘So tell me, why did those feathers scare you?’
‘Am I speaking to Detective Sergeant Matthews or Jason?’
‘Baby, why don’t you pick?’
The barman is an artist whose genre is hypnosis. She’s fascinated by the way he pours the champagne, so that only a thin layer of white floats at the top of the elegant glass.
‘Should I buy you a drink?’ Jason says. ‘I hear sauvignon blanc is a personal favourite.’
Miranda feels like she’s shrinking, she’s so embarrassed. She tries to turn away, but her eyes won’t leave the bar.
The barmaid is beautiful and vivacious, her storm of blond hair scooped up in a bun. She offers a flirtatious smile to Jason. Miranda feels the sting of humiliation when he reciprocates. She desperately wants to run, delete his phone number, never speak to him again. But she’s drawn to the crisp white wine in front of her.
The bar staff refuse to serve her. Even in her drunkenness, Miranda is horrified by the stares of the other patrons. Her legs are spaghetti. She grasps the metal railing as she slowly descends the stairs.
The cool night air bites her skin and she hopes it will propel her into sobriety. What did she tell Jason about the feathers on her father’s website? Did she tell him anything? She can’t remember. She needs to remember.
She hears the coins as they hit the ground, sees her make-up and brush strewn across the footpath.
Looks up into her dad’s face.
He’s sobbing.
TWENTY-THREE
Waves chatter as they break over the wreckage. Miranda’s arms are draped across the wood like a foam kickboard. The red dress is taffeta and clings to her like a layer of film. Perhaps she was a passenger on one of those massive cruise ships that holds a citadel in its palm. But if that were the case, where are the other passengers? It’s more likely she fell from a cliff and the head injury has wiped her memory clean, like it happens in the movies. The fin is a speck at first, which makes her conscious of her legs, exposed. The shark has the finesse of a semi-trailer. She’s blinded by the sheen of its teeth, smells its hunger.
Waves disappear into the arms of the ceiling fan. It’s on the maximum setting, too cold for Miranda. She feels around the bed for a blanket, but there’s only the thin sheet. Her head is a thunderstorm, her mouth a drought. Charlie’s kept the room much the same since she moved out fifteen years ago. Textbooks from high school and university are still on the shelf. The radio she played while doing her homework still sits in the corner. The footprints of old Blu-Tack remain on the walls. The smell of freshly cut grass wafts through the window, ameliorating the mothball smell.
She’s wearing one of Auntie Ethel’s T-shirts. It demands land rights in ’88 and Miranda wonders why she held onto it. Wonders why Auntie Ethel is such a hoarder and what does that say of her personality? Miranda comes from the disposable generation; she loathes clutter. Few things carry so much sentiment that they cannot be discarded.
The bathroom smells of lavender detergent that makes her even more nauseous. As she purges the sugary wine, Miranda feels relief. But she’s so dehydrated she imagines her body desiccated, so that she is only a bag of bones. Her knees ache. Both are grazed and speckled with dried blood.
Where’s Dad? He’s waiting, biding his time.
He’ll explode, she knows it.
Miranda waits to hear a voice, the sounds of the radio. Nothing. She returns to bed, to visions of taffeta and sharks.
Jason sips his third coffee this morning and grimaces. Cheap instant that’s so bitter he had to add three teaspoons of sugar. Two hours of sleep last night; his head is a lead balloon. He knows that his eyes are bloodshot, feels them reeling from the glare of the compute
r screen.
‘When was this website launched?’
‘Three days ago, Miranda said.’
Jason smells the spirits on Higgins’ breath. Higgins is a ticking bomb. The explosion is imminent. Jason knows he’ll take casualties with him.
‘What does Eversely have to say about himself?’
Jason clicks the mouse over one of the icons and leans in.
‘The usual – community activist, old-timer from the Bjelke-Petersen years.’
Higgins scoffs. ‘Someone give the man a fucking medal.’
The Corrowa Portal implores visitors to learn about their history and culture. News updates have links to various articles on the Corrowa’s native title claim, their impending appeal and the protest camp. The Resources Page contains a history of the boundary and a list of references for articles in historical journals. But it’s the logo on the homepage that’s got them intrigued – red feathers.
‘This is nothing,’ Henly says, shaking his head.
Higgins stares at him icily. ‘Bullshit! We’ve kept a lid on the feathers. There’s only one way Eversely could know about the feathers.’
‘I don’t think he acted alone,’ Jason says quietly, standing to face Higgins. ‘Miranda must have something to do with it.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘She knew all three victims.’
‘So did her father.’
‘I can’t imagine either the judge or McPherson opening their doors to Charlie Eversely. Can you? Miranda’s in a different category. They’d see her as a professional acquaintance, albeit a junior one.’
Jason can see the dead end Higgins is hurtling down, can smell the rubber from his burning tyres. He’ll keep trying to prevent the collision, however hopeless that might be.
‘Look, Higgins, we don’t have enough to make a circumstantial case against Charlie Eversely. Not yet, anyway.’ Jason looks across the table and feels relieved to see that sandbags are under Lacey’s eyes too. ‘Were you able to find anything that linked the Paradise Parrot to Corrowa tradition?’
‘I’ve spoken to Doctor Bernes a few times.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing. Even before the Paradise Parrot became extinct, it wasn’t common to south-east Queensland. It was more prevalent up north.’
Jason paces the faded carpet. Searches the crevices in his mind for something, anything. ‘I think we should question them all, including Ethel Cobb.’
Higgins scratches his stubble, but Jason knows he’s only pretending to muse over his thoughts.
‘I agree,’ Higgins says. ‘Finally, you’ve made a useful contribution.’
Jason ignores the rebuke, knows the old game play. He looks at Higgins squarely. ‘But we can’t have a repeat of what happened at Meston Park.’
‘Don’t play games with me, Matthews. You’re not so innocent.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You’ve spent more time with the charming Miss Eversely than anyone else.’
Higgins’ menacing eyes say it: they all know he’s been sleeping with Miranda. He’s only got himself to blame.
‘Once a terrorist always a terrorist,’ Higgins says.
‘What the –’
Higgins slams his hand on the desk, sending Jason’s cup of instant flying. The others watch in disbelief as streams of coffee run down the whiteboard.
‘Eversely was with that fuckin’ embassy in the ’70s. He’s nothing but a public nuisance, someone who should have been put away a long time ago.’
Jason heads for the door. He won’t have any more blood on his hands, hands that carry too much now.
‘Matthews, sit the fuck down! You want to stay in this job then you better sit the fuck down!’ Higgins’ eyes are a lighthouse beacon. The ships in this dim room follow his light without question. Only Jason will risk crashing into the rocks. Because Jason finally knows what Higgins’ eyes are saying. Jason is just another fuckin’ coon who’ll get promoted beyond his capabilities soon enough. Their friendship is over, if it ever existed.
‘We don’t know what kind of weapons are in Eversely’s house,’ Higgins says, ‘but we all know he’s a dangerous man.’
Jason watches helplessly. He smells the napalm but he’d give anything to pretend that it’s not hanging in the air, poisoning all of them. He knows that Higgins’ treachery is most potent just before the violence is unleashed. This is the time when he’ll lie, blackmail, bend the rules until they fracture.
Miranda wakes to the sounds of his footsteps in the hallway. The gentle light behind the curtain informs her that it’s late morning. The thunderstorm in her head has settled to a lull, but she still feels exhausted. Miranda prepares herself. She’ll offer nothing in defence; she has no excuse.
He’s swimming in his old land rights T-shirt and black board shorts. When did Dad lose all of that weight? And he’s exhausted. There’s no scorn in his eyes, only sadness. Charlie sits on the bed, combs strands of hair away from her forehead with his fingers. She can’t remember the last time he touched her. ‘When you were born you were the most beautiful little girl in the maternity ward. Mum and I used to take you to all our community meetings. The aunties would make such a fuss over you. But true God, you had a temper. Still do. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
They both laugh gently, but uncertainty lingers.
‘Darlin’, I know I haven’t always been a good father to you.’
‘That’s not true.’
Charlie smiles sadly, shakes his head. ‘I had no business bringing grog into our home. No business at all.’
‘Dad, I know you had a lot of problems back then.’
‘I just need you to know that I love you very much and I have always been proud of –’
‘Dad . . .’
‘For once in your life, Miranda, don’t interrupt. You need to start looking after yourself, not for me, not for Mum or Auntie Ethel, but for you.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’
‘You got nothing to be sorry for. When your mum passed away, I turned to grog. That’s how I taught you to work through your problems . . . and I never, ever wished that you’d died instead of her.’
Tears roll down her cheeks, she feels the lump in her throat. ‘I know.’
She cherishes his words, desperately wants to savour them. But the bashing on the front door drowns out everything.
‘Police!’
Charlie waits, uncertain.
‘Police! Open the door!’
‘I’ll get it, love.’
He tries to sound calm, but he knows that something is wrong. Miranda stands behind her father when he opens the door to a smug Higgins. Jason is standing beside him. Miranda tries to make eye contact with Jason, he resists.
‘We have a warrant to search the premises,’ Higgins says.
Miranda snatches the piece of paper from his hands. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Just let us do our job, Miranda.’ She hears the unease in Jason’s voice, but she knows he’ll do nothing to help them.
Police ascend the stairs, a silent procession enters the hallway. All ignore the two dumbfounded faces. Miranda wonders why the hell they’ve brought their guns, tasers.
‘What’s going on?’
Ethel is dressed in her power-walking suit of black lycra. Sweat drenches the hair on her forehead.
‘Miss Cobb, we need to speak to you too.’
Ethel ignores Higgins and turns to Jason. ‘Boy, you should be ashamed. How can you do this to your own mob?’
Jason refuses to look into her eyes, grits his teeth. ‘You people are not my mob!’
They hear a series of thuds from the study. Drawers are being ripped from the desk, thrown to the floor. Miranda turns but Jason st
ands in her way.
‘Don’t you touch my daughter!’
Higgins’ laugh is cold, taunting. ‘Old man, it’s way too late for that.’
‘You bastard!’ Miranda slaps Jason’s face.
He stares at her coldly and grasps her shoulders. ‘Listen to me. You just do what we say and everything will be alright!’
‘Let go of me, you bastard!’
She kicks his feet, and the other officers chuckle.
In his youth Charlie took so many strikes from police officers but he had always found some way to resist. Once, he even forced his fingers down his throat, so that he would spoil the wax on the car his face was being bashed against.
We fought so hard.
Can’t go on like this forever.
When is this going to stop?
‘What do you think you’re doing coming into my house?’
Higgins seems to relish the opportunity to confront Charlie. He draws so close, Charlie can smell the rum on his breath.
‘Just do it. Go on, boy!’
‘Back off, Higgins!’
Higgins grins at Jason’s nervous face. Higgins wants Charlie’s blood. He must have a hundred tactics up his sleeve and Jason knows he’ll use every single one of them if he has to.
‘Why don’t you handle Miranda, Matthews? You seem to be good at it.’
‘You prick!’
Higgins turns to Miranda. ‘That’s one count of obscene language. You’re coming with me.’
‘You’re not taking my daughter anywhere.’
‘Old man, I’m afraid you don’t have any say.’
Charlie knows the copper’s gone too far. He won’t see Miranda in a watch house. Won’t allow anyone to lay a finger on his baby girl. Charlie’s left hook connects with Higgins’ jaw. He sees a spurt of blood, feels the electric current of the taser enter his body.
The Boundary Page 24
