The Boundary

by Nicole Watson

  ‘That’s why I moved in. A lot of us were worried that Charlie would drink himself to death after Carys passed away. But he pulled through.’ Ethel is nodding now, her eyes staring vacantly into space. ‘Yeah, Charlie did alright.’

  ‘We couldn’t have pulled through without you, Auntie.’

  Glazed eyes turn to Miranda.

  ‘Bub, you mean the world to me. That’s why I have to tell you the truth. It won’t be easy for you to hear this, but you must. I did it, bub. I killed all of them.’

  It’s her calmness that terrifies Miranda. Has she gone mad? She really is crazy.

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘And why not?’ Ethel shakes her head in disgust. ‘People assume that just because I’m an old woman, an auntie, I don’t have the same feelings, the same desires as everyone else.’

  Miranda’s head is swimming, body wracked with pain. She’s desperate to wake up and leave this nightmare.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve had to fight my entire life, proving to people who I am. I wasn’t going to let them take my identity away from me.’

  Ethel forms a rock with her right hand and holds it to her chest. ‘My identity is all that I have.’

  ‘We’ve filed an appeal . . . we’re fighting this, Auntie.’

  ‘But we’ll never win, bub. That’s not what this native title business is about.’

  Miranda feels like she’s standing beside a dyke rifled with holes. She’s sticking a finger in each hole. But it’s pointless. Any minute now, the wall will come crashing down. Life as they know it will be under water. Disappeared.

  ‘What will God think of this?’ Miranda says.

  Ethel makes a raspberry with her mouth. ‘He forgot about us blackfellas a long time ago.’

  ‘But you . . .’

  ‘I still go to church, ’cause I’ve got a lot of friends there. Besides, we do good charitable work in the community. But I stopped believing in the big fella a long time ago.’

  The nurse glances at them as she walks past, but Miranda ignores her. Regardless of what happens in the future, her life will always be divided between before this moment, and after.

  ‘So when did you decide to tell me?’

  ‘Yesterday, after what they did to you.’

  Miranda feels a new jackhammer in the back of her head, as if her body is reminding her that it too has suffered.

  ‘Got even worse this morning, bub. The coppers carried out dawn raids on people’s homes. They put guns in kids’ faces, tasered people who weren’t even putting up a fight. They’ll keep hounding our mob, till they get what they want.’

  Ethel reaches for her black handbag on the floor. She rests it on the foot of Miranda’s bed and opens the zipper. Lifts out the knife.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ Miranda says, aghast.

  ‘Where you left it, bub.’

  The blood has dried, but it’s still on the blade. Miranda is shaking now. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Red Feathers,’ Ethel whispers.

  ‘You didn’t tell me about the knife!’ It’s Jason. He storms through the doorway, his body ablaze with anger.

  Ethel smiles at him. ‘I was going to, in my own time.’

  ‘Put the knife down, Ethel.’

  She looks hurt. ‘Do you think I’m going to harm my little girl?’

  ‘Just put the knife down.’

  As she hears the click of the handcuffs, Miranda notices the resignation on Ethel’s face. Insanity has been replaced by reason.

  She knew this was coming.

  O’Neill feels uncomfortable in a suit that smells of old sweat. It should have gone to the drycleaner this morning, but after he got the call, he put on the first suit he could find, straight from the pungent laundry basket. The Aboriginal Legal Service was run off its feet and in need of more troops. So he spent several hours in the watch house, taking instructions from the scores of Murris and other activists who’d been arrested.

  He’s been doing this for thirty years. Sitting next to clients who share their secrets. He doesn’t see any point in it. It’s the role of the police, the DPP, to produce evidence that will establish guilt beyond reasonable doubt. Why help them by confessing? He’s never met a compassionate prosecutor. Doubts he ever will.

  Ethel offers him a friendly smile. ‘How’s that lovely wife of yours?’

  ‘She’s fine, thanks.’

  ‘Good to hear.’

  He’s always known that she’s resilient. Could see her strength during the litigation, marvelled at how she kept everyone under control. Even when the Golden Tongue was ruthlessly interrogating her genealogy, Ethel remained calm. But this is the first time that her coolness has made him feel ill at ease.

  Ethel has never been in an interview room before. But she knows its harshness, felt it when she was arrested during the Commonwealth Games. The Magistrate’s Court was full of people that day. Unfriendly people. At least there were other Murris in the dock, their laughter bringing light to the darkness.

  Jason is finding it hard to breathe. He’s like a patient who has an ache that no doctor can explain. Each expert dismisses him as a hypochondriac, but intuition keeps telling him that it’s terminal. Not that he has much confidence in his judgment now. He’s been on stress leave since Charlie died. He was sitting at home, in front of the television, when he got Ethel’s call.

  ‘Jason, I’m at the PA Hospital.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘It’s Miranda.’

  He offered only silence. He felt ashamed. He knew that he should have called Miranda, to express his sympathy, but Jason didn’t have the strength for it.

  ‘She got king-hit by a copper yesterday,’ Ethel continued. ‘She blacked out.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Bub, I need you to meet me at the hospital.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because all of this has to come to an end.’

  Now, across the table, Jason looks squarely at Ethel. ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Jason Matthews.’ He gestures towards her.

  ‘My name is Ethel Irene Cobb.’

  ‘My name is Andrew James O’Neill.’

  ‘Ethel, do you agree that you have come here of your own free will?’ Jason says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you understand that anything you say could be used against you in a court of law?’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  The interview was the easiest he’d ever done. Ethel made full confessions. Now, they have only to take her to the crime scenes, where she will deconstruct each murder.

  O’Neill looks exhausted. Jason should feel victorious. At the very least, he should be relieved that a dangerous killer has been apprehended. Grieving relatives might now begin to move forward, even though the ache will never be pacified. But something niggles.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  There’s a new spark in Ethel’s eyes. Jason is incredulous. After everything that’s happened, she still wants to challenge him.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t play games with me. You want to ask me something.’

  ‘Ethel,’ O’Neill says anxiously. He too has seen the demon in her eyes.

  ‘Shut up.’ She laughs to herself; it’s a boastful laugh. ‘Go on, boy – fire away.’

  Jason has never been one to decline a challenge, but he too is fearful. ‘Alright. I don’t believe any of the victims allowed you into their homes, especially Bruce Brosnan. I think he would have been very alarmed to find you on his doorstep. I think he would have called the police.’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Ethel, hold on.’

  She glares at O’Neill; it’s a blowtorch on his
confidence. O’Neill shrinks into his seat.

  She turns to Jason. ‘What else?’

  ‘I also think you had an accomplice.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’ Jason gasps.

  ‘Gee, you’re deadly.’

  O’Neill almost chokes when she offers Jason a wink.

  ‘I had a co-worker. He got me through each door. He also told me about their dirty little secrets. How Bruce Brosnan was fucking Sherene Payne, while her husband was filling his nose with drugs. He saw McPherson taking those boys to his house. Oh, I knew about all of it.’

  Ethel is a starlet of the stage, breathing life into a part that has been written just for her. Jason wonders if she’s plain forgotten about O’Neill, whose face is an explosion of nerves and sweat.

  ‘Who was your accomplice, Ethel?’

  ‘Red Feathers.’

  ‘Who is Red Feathers?’

  ‘You know, I told you already.’

  She gives him a quizzical look.

  ‘That day at Meston Park, you know. I told you then that he’s your mob.’

  ‘Who is Red Feathers, Ethel?’ Jason says, anxiously.

  ‘My grandfather.’

  Jason frowns, confused. ‘But he must be well over a hundred years old.’

  Jason and O’Neill exchange uncertain glances, but Ethel is unshaken.

  ‘Where is Red Feathers now?’ Jason says.

  ‘He’s standing right next to you.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Six months later

  The real estate agent is a crocodile with an angel’s voice. Miranda is taken back to childhood, listening to Ethel read Little Red Riding Hood. The agent’s long, pointy jaw reminded her of a wolf’s.

  ‘Yes, I’ll be buying,’ Miranda says. ‘I’m just not sure when.’

  As Miranda ends the phone call, the reality that the house now belongs to someone else finally hits. But in her heart, Miranda knows that Charlie would not be angry with her. That place holds too many painful memories for Miranda to ever live there again. The same goes for her old apartment. For the last few weeks she’s been renting a studio apartment in the city. Everything but her clothing is in storage.

  She stares at the old battered sign across the street. She imagines O’Neill and his crew inside, frantically rowing against the current. Doing everything they possibly can to keep the dream alive. But that dream is no longer Miranda’s. Perhaps it never was.

  O’Neill’s face had been sincere when she told him her decision, but he too knew it was time.

  ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘are you sure you want to go?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘And the appeal?’

  ‘There’s no point in seeking a new trial – Ethel was our most important witness.’

  ‘How is she?’

  She shrugged. ‘I visited her yesterday. I don’t think she even knew I was there.’

  She gave a final lingering glance at her old desk.

  ‘What happens now?’ he asked.

  ‘We go on and do what we’ve always done. West End, Meston Park, they’ll always be in here.’ She pointed to her chest. ‘That’s where our real strength is.’

  Miranda shakes her head and walks away. She can never go back to that office. That life is already her past.

  An hour ago, her bank account swelled with more money than she earned in ten years of practising law. She isn’t ready to retire, but she’s not sure what to do next. One minute, she’s enrolling in a bridging course to get into medicine. The next it’s overseas travel, perhaps to Europe. About once a month, she considers applying to become a foster parent.

  She’s dating again and, for the first time, Miranda is embracing the experience. Once a week, she enjoys a delicious meal and good conversation. Meeting men in their forties is exciting. Her dates have travelled, achieved, have a story to tell. And they want to know Miranda’s story. But she’s still writing that manuscript, uncertain of what pages she should reveal.

  When she reaches the café, she finds he’s beaten her there.

  Jason watches her approach the table. Miranda’s physique has become athletic. But there’s something else. She seems more at ease with herself.

  When he stands, she gives him a half-smile. Not quite friendly, not quite antagonistic. He catches a waft of her floral perfume, it’s familiar.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Miranda.’

  Her face is luminous. The dark circles under her eyes have vanished.

  ‘Have you had breakfast?’ he says. ‘They have amazing pancakes here.’

  ‘Great. I had my long run this morning – I’m ravenous.’

  ‘Long run?’

  ‘I’m training for the Noosa Marathon. It’s going to be my first.’

  ‘Wow, I’m impressed.’

  ‘I’m not doing it to impress you.’

  He’s deflated but then shakes himself out of it. After all, he didn’t expect Miranda to run into his arms.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks, Jason. I can order myself.’

  Miranda gestures to the waitress.

  ‘How’s Ethel?’ His face is earnest.

  ‘She’s deteriorated very quickly.’ He nods sadly, but Miranda shakes her head. ‘I can’t wallow in self-pity. Other people have suffered too. The Brosnans, Sherene Payne and her daughter.’

  ‘I never believed Ethel was solely responsible, and I certainly didn’t buy that story . . .’ His words shock him. This meeting isn’t supposed to be about the investigation. But it lives on his brain like invisible ink.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘There’s no point raking over it.’

  Jason’s surprised by her resolve, but says nothing.

  ‘So are you still Detective Sergeant Matthews?’

  ‘I am, but I’ve taken leave.’

  ‘How long for?’

  ‘Twelve months initially.’ He pauses, uncertain of how much he should tell her. How much is too painful for her to hear. ‘They’ll do whatever they can to intimidate me into changing my story. I won’t be able to go back after Charlie’s inquest.’

  Miranda grimaces into her coffee. She doesn’t want any part of this conversation. ‘It’ll just be another whitewash.’

  ‘You’ll get the truth, Miranda. I promise you that.’

  ‘And what of Higgins?’

  ‘Desk duties.’

  She laughs bitterly. ‘The Royal Commission studied ninety-nine black deaths in custody. Not one copper was held responsible. Not one!’

  Dad died alone, without anyone to tell him that he was loved.

  Why, why did it have to happen to him?

  She’s about to yell, but the epiphany hits. Bitterness may not have made her an alcoholic, but it kept her there, for too many years. She looks into Jason’s crimson face; he’s struggling.

  ‘I asked you to come here so that I could apologise,’ he says. ‘I’m truly sorry for what happened to Charlie.’

  ‘I forgive you.’

  He’s stunned.

  ‘I know you tried to save him.’

  A lightness comes into his eyes. ‘Miranda, please believe me when I say this – I won’t be intimidated by anyone. Besides, I have no reason to lie at the inquest. My career’s over.’

  ‘Mine too.’

  Miranda laughs into his confused face. ‘Best thing that could have happened. I think I was the most miserable lawyer in Brisbane.’

  Jason laughs softly and shakes his head. ‘Look at us. Burnt out and we’re not even middle aged yet. We’d make a good couple.’

  Miranda wriggles in her chair. She’s still attracted to him, but too much has happened.

  ‘Can I write to you?
’ he says.

  ‘Sure. But I can’t promise a reply.’

  ‘Good enough.’

  Jason watches her disappear into Boundary Street. He’s never been in love, probably wouldn’t know if he was. But right now he wants her more than he’s wanted any other woman.

  Then it hits him. Miranda’s perfume – he smelt it in Brosnan’s kitchen that night.

  Jason starts driving but doesn’t realise where he’s heading until he turns down the familiar street. He sits in the car outside the house for a long while. He knows the place could not have possibly shrunk. But it has. The soil in the flower beds seems dry and rocky. Even the macadamia trees have lost their magic. As a boy he’d spent hours hitting a tennis ball across the wooden planks of the garage, but it too seems somehow smaller.

  He reflects on the last time he was here, but the memories are jumbled. Dad hovering above the Weber, a bird protecting its eggs. Mum’s gentle laughter over the dinner table. Words spoken that he never meant, but can’t take back.

  A huge fist seizes his chest and he knows that knocking on that door will take everything he has.

  But Mum has pre-empted him. She’s standing inside the doorway. Her hair now a silver sheen and much shorter than he remembers.

  Jason hears himself whimper. Hugs her tightly.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  A cool breeze says goodbye to summer. Meston Park seems to Miranda like an island in the midst of a bustling port. They’re surrounded by traffic at all hours, but it’s always ‘out there’, on the periphery. The grass has been freshly mown, rubbish picked up. Lone bottles are like buoys in the ocean.

  Construction has begun in the north-western corner. The Coconut Holdings earthmover reveals a smile of silver teeth each time it makes a deposit into the white truck. It stands on top of a sink that holds all of the Corrowa’s tragedies and achievements in its plug. But something has changed in Miranda. Before, her eyes felt the bitter taste of defeat. Now, she knows they are stronger. Every day they wake is a victory.

  For so long as they believe they are Corrowa, they will never swallow defeat.

  Their lodgings are simple: white tents gathered in a circle. In the centre are some plastic chairs and tables. The abandoned playground has come alive with children, their precious laughter carried by the wind. The Corrowa will stay here until their bodies are dragged away. In a week. Perhaps a month. But it will happen. When it does, they will dust themselves off, salve their wounds, return.