Matthew Flinders' Cat

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Thank you, Marcus, do you think the papers can be dated as of six this morning?’ Billy asked. ‘Otherwise I’m breaking the law by harbouring someone wanted by the police for questioning.’

  ‘Good point, I’m sure that can be arranged.’ Marcus Eisenstein turned to Ryan. ‘Ryan, I need to talk to Billy about some legal matters. How would you like to go into the lounge and watch television?’

  After Ryan left, the judge turned to Billy. ‘Poor little blighter and so bright, how easily the lives of the disadvantaged young can be ruined.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Have you thought how we might go about the apprehension of these people, this network, Billy?’

  ‘Yes, certainly, Marcus. Your mention of the inquiry into police corruption is one of the things I wanted to raise with you. We certainly know one, possibly two, locations where this activity takes place, so we know from Ryan’s testimony and my own observation the where and some of the how. We also know who, in terms of at least the principals in the operation. My fear is that we cannot trust a police force already under investigation for protecting paedophiles to launch an operation against such a network.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly. We have a problem here, mate. Ryan’s experience with the German, Karl, may or may not suggest that he is a sex tourist and while under the Crimes Act the definition of sex tourism allows for the arrest of Australians who engage in sexual intercourse with a child abroad, it does not cover foreigners entering Australia for the purposes of utilising Australian children for the same purpose. In other words, the first example falls under the authority of the Federal Police and Federal Court while the latter comes under the authority of the state police and local jurisprudence.’

  ‘Yes, but can we trust the locals?’ Billy replied. Eisenstein laughed. ‘In part you’re asking if I can be trusted? I’m not sure I know the answer. One of my senior judges has already been made to stand down pending an inquiry. We are going to have to be very careful how we go about this whole matter.’ Marcus Eisenstein sighed. ‘There’s one thing we do know, paedophile networks have not been the subject of proactive law enforcement. The excuse is that there is a lack of resources, though privately I think there may also be a lack of will. We know that large profits are involved and that these networks are highly organised. You may rest assured that where such covert criminal operations take place with so little police intervention, there is corruption present on a considerable scale. This is not simply a question of mounting a police raid and bringing these people before the courts. First, we have to find men in the force who can be depended on to mount such an operation without leaking it, then we have to ensure a legal system that can effectively prosecute the offenders. So far, our record on both counts is abysmal.’

  Marcus Eisenstein rose from his chair, went over to a bookshelf and returned with a file. ‘Here are some of the current statistics, Billy. One in four girls and one in seven boys have been sexually abused before the age of sixteen. Available evidence shows that many of the so-called rings or networks are either run by economically advantaged, high-profile individuals, or their clients. In other words, important people in the community. We have absolute proof of the cynical and self-serving nature of these paedophiles who introduce children to addictive drugs and cult-like brainwashing so their under-age victims are too afraid, substance-dependent, or too ashamed to tell or to appear as witnesses. This manipulation of minors has become a legal trick of the trade.’

  The judge looked up from the file he was reading. ‘As the chief justice of this state, I am ashamed of our record. Less than one per cent of perpetrators are ever convicted. If it helps, and it doesn’t, the statistics are the same for the rest of Australia.’ Marcus Eisenstein was visibly upset. ‘Imagine a society, any society, with onequarter of its daughters and one-seventh of its sons struck down by a plague, a virus that isn’t immediately fatal but which has an incipient result that leads to suicide, persistent lifelong nightmares, intractable psychiatric disorders, drug and alcohol abuse, anorexia and depression, all of which require lifelong treatment. What do you suppose that society’s response should be? Yet that’s what we have here and nothing is done about it.’

  The chief justice was now totally wound up. ‘Sexual abuse of children probably accounts for more misery and suffering than any of the great plagues of history, if for no other reason than that it lasts a lifetime. That, my dear old friend, is what we are up against. That is truly why the law is an ass! A massive public-health problem like child sexual abuse demands a massive social response, yet there is no shout or even a whimper of indignation. There is no National AIDS Council equivalent, no National Heart Foundation, no National Quit Smoking program, no Anti-Cancer Council! Despite the glaringly obvious evidence in front of us, we do nothing! And evil men are allowed to trample the young seedlings of our nation underfoot!’

  Billy was truly confounded by the judge’s response. He’d expected a reasoned and sanguine reaction. Marcus Eisenstein was a man who cherished the rule of law, yet here he was decrying the very institution he was responsible for, and privately despairing at what had been his life’s work.

  ‘Marcus, you don’t sound very hopeful. Are you saying that there is nothing we can do about child abuse, specifically about Ryan?’

  ‘No, Billy, I am in a very small way exultant. I thank you for bringing this matter to me. This child has not been corrupted as a witness, he is bright and believable. While it may only be one small hammer blow where a thunderbolt is needed, we are going to make damn sure this one sticks. We will not rely on the Wood Royal Commission. Its terms of reference are too restrictive, too limited.’ Marcus Eisenstein covered his face with both hands and appeared to be thinking. When he looked up at Billy again, he said, ‘I’m going to need some time.’

  ‘How much time?’ Billy asked anxiously.

  ‘I don’t know. If we can get the Federal Police involved it could solve a lot of problems, but I don’t know if that’s possible. I dare say the German is back in Bavaria by now so that’s not an excuse we can use, though I’ll have the Department of Customs and Immigration check. We may be forced to rely on the locals, it’s a question of finding the right police personnel. Not all policemen are corrupt.’

  ‘Marcus, I have an idea.’

  ‘What is it, Billy?’

  ‘Well, when you think about it, who in the community would be most opposed to paedophiles?’

  ‘Their victims, I imagine,’ the judge replied.

  ‘Yes, sure, but what about their mothers?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘Policewomen. I’m sure there are several senior enough to head up a strike team.’

  Marcus Eisenstein hesitated briefly. ‘Billy, that is bloody inspired! You always were someone who could think outside the square, the legal profession has missed you.’

  ‘How do you think the police commissioner will react? Will he agree to an all-female operation?’

  Eisenstein thought for a moment. ‘James Bullmore is new, an Englishman, he just might buy it. No harm in trying.’

  Billy had followed the brouhaha that had occurred with the appointment of what the police union referred to as an unknown, untested foreigner. Bullmore’s appointment had unleashed a bitter controversy from senior police officers, politicians and the media and there had been a sustained effort to reverse the decision, the argument being that only a local would be able to do the job.

  Marcus Eisenstein laughed. ‘He’s got his job cut out, poor bugger. I recall being invited to a Police Officers’ Association dinner at Rosehill Racecourse in August to meet Bullmore. It was his first official social function. I sat at the same table with him and Tony Miller, the Police Minister. When Bullmore rose to speak to the three hundred and fifty or so officers present, there was barely a ripple of applause, truly the sound of one hand clapping. It wasn’t hard to tell he wasn’t being made welcome. When Jim O’Reill
y, the recently retired commissioner, followed him, the applause rose to a veritable crescendo with footstomping and cheering. The Police Minister, next to me, leaned over and said to Bullmore, ‘Bastards! See what you’ve let yourself in for, James?’ Though I must say, I liked the Pommie and now I see he’s appointed a woman to be his senior assistant commissioner.’ He leaned back. ‘He may just be our man, Billy.’ Marcus Eisenstein was in court when Billy picked up the papers for Ryan’s protected-witness status the following afternoon. He’d left a handwritten note for Billy to say that he would be seeing the police commissioner the following morning and for Billy to phone him at his chambers before lunch.

  Billy called him the following afternoon, having to go through the same routine as before with the protective and ever suspicious Doha Jebara, the judge’s personal assistant. Billy knew her name was Lebanese, although he wasn’t sure if it was Maronite Christian or Muslim, but thought it typical of the Jewish judge, who wouldn’t be concerned in the least about the ethnic origins of his assistant.

  ‘Hello, Billy, good news about the matter we discussed, I’ve seen the man. He’s agreed to the operation the way we discussed. It’s going to take a little time to organise. Call me in a week. I trust you are well?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, I’m still hanging in there,’ Billy replied.

  ‘Good man, cheerio,’ the judge said and Billy heard the receiver at the other end click back in its cradle. Marcus Eisenstein was back to a few well-chosen words.

  Ryan seemed to have enjoyed his first days with Maria, although he felt a little restricted not being able to leave the house, being accustomed to coming and going as he wished. But he soon settled down, even, Billy suspected, enjoying all the attention. One of Con’s daughters, a local hairdresser, had come up with a possible solution that would allow him a little more freedom. He was going to spend the afternoon of his third day as a protected witness at the hair salon where she worked, having his hair and eyebrows dyed blond. After which he was being taken to Kmart to get new gear. This second suggestion wasn’t as much to his liking, he was a skateboarder and his white-on-black ‘Independent’ T-shirt, his Vans shoes and his suspended dog chain were important to his perception of himself. He nevertheless agreed, understanding the necessity to alter his appearance. Maria hadn’t left it at that, she’d persuaded Voula, the oldest of Con’s nieces, who was conceivably old enough to have an eleven-yearold child, to have her hair blonded as well. Ryan’s Italian skin tone matched her own Greek ancestry almost exactly and later Billy would coach them both into developing a cover story if they were ever questioned.

  Billy found a room in a boarding house at the back of the Rocks so that he could be close to the G’day Cafe and his AA meetings. He’d decided against living in Newtown but, instead, Con brought Ryan into the New Hellas at five-thirty every morning and Billy would meet him there and they’d slip into the Botanic Gardens for an hour and a bit when Billy would tell him the ongoing saga of Master Mariner Trim before Billy attended his morning meeting. Con would then send Ryan home in a taxi.

  That week, waiting for further news from Marcus Eisenstein, Billy spent much the same as usual, sticking to his routine, the afternoons at his disposal to spend at the library researching Matthew Flinders and writing Trim’s story. Each morning he would tell Ryan about Trim and, as he was rapidly getting to the end of his second tale, he now had to finish the story of Trim’s capture on the Ile de France in a hurry.

  Billy enjoyed this time spent in the library and he almost resented the fact that he had promised to contact Morgan’s partner, even though he thought she might be Caroline, Trevor Williams’ daughter. On the third day after the meeting with the judge, he called her from a public telephone just before doing mynah-bird duty.

  A female voice answered and he asked if he could speak to Kartanya.

  ‘She’s still asleep, call after two o’clock,’ the voice said, whereupon the woman abruptly hung up.

  Billy called again at two o’clock, and this time a different female voice answered. ‘May I speak to Kartanya, please?’ he asked. ‘Who’s speaking?’ the voice asked.

  ‘My name is Billy O’Shannessy and I have a message from Morgan for Kartanya.’

  The voice asked him to hold on and he was almost at the point of hanging up when he heard a woman say, ‘Kartanya speaking.’

  Billy explained why he was calling and asked if they could meet for a cup of coffee. There was a moment’s hesitation before Kartanya agreed that they could meet at the coffee lounge at the Darling Harbour casino at four o’clock that afternoon. ‘It’s the one at the top of the escalator with the waterfall,’ she directed. ‘I must go now.’

  Billy sensed that she was anxious to get off the phone. ‘How will I know you, Kartanya?’ he asked hurriedly.

  There was another slight hesitation. ‘I’m wearing jeans and a blue shirt, I have dark hair down to my shoulders, thank you for calling.’ This was all said in a single breath before she put down the receiver. Billy thought she must have been taking word-miser lessons from Marcus Eisenstein.

  Billy arrived at the coffee shop on time and positioned himself at the table nearest the door and then waited a further half an hour. He was on his second flat white when Kartanya appeared at the top of the escalators. Billy had no problem recognising her and stood as she entered. ‘Kartanya?’ he asked.

  The woman in front of him was very attractive though painfully thin, which Billy put down to her addiction. She looked older than twenty-eight, more like her mid-thirties, though this again could have been because of the heroin. She wore no make-up apart from a little lipstick, and he wondered if she had a cold as the base of her nostrils seemed a little inflamed. Her mother had been right, her mouth did seem a little large for her face but, if anything, it added to her unusual looks.

  ‘Hi, you must be Billy,’ she said, extending her hand. In the flesh she sounded quite different from the anxious voice he’d heard on the phone. As though reading his thoughts, she said, ‘I apologise if I sounded abrupt on the phone, I take a whole heap of time to wake up.’

  They had hardly been seated when the waiter, without taking her order, placed a short black in front of her. ‘Thank you, Carlo,’ she said and, not waiting, took a long sip from the small glass. ‘That’s better,’ she said, ‘my first coffee hit of the day.’ She opened her bag, took out a packet of cigarettes, then put it back again. ‘Damn, I forgot, you can smoke in the casino but not here.’

  ‘Do you work nights, Kartanya?’ Billy asked. Kartanya shrugged. ‘I’m sure Morgan told you, I’m a prostitute here at the casino. He’s a big mouth, he’d have told you I’m also a heroin addict,’ she added. ‘It’s an easy way to feed an expensive habit and the boys bring in cocaine as well.’ She shrugged again. ‘You sleep with the high rollers, they tip well. Smack and cocaine are always available.’ She said it all in a matter-of-fact voice, not caring if he took it or left it. Billy could see that under her soft-looking exterior she was tough, perhaps ‘hard’ might be a better word. ‘Well, how is Morgan?’ she asked, though not with a great deal of interest.

  ‘He’s doing really well and seems determined to make it,’ Billy replied.

  Kartanya gave a short little laugh. ‘That’s our Morgan, he can’t stand being out of the limelight, he’ll clean up his act just to get his ego reinflated.’

  Billy wasn’t quite sure what she meant but, taking a punt, said, ‘Well, I guess he’s an actor.’

  ‘And a good one when he isn’t showing off,’ Kartanya said. ‘I’m glad he’s getting clean, I’m to blame for his addiction. He wanted me and I came with a habit. If he comes out clean, I won’t let him back into my life.’ She paused. ‘I’m bad news, mate.’

  Billy didn’t try to comfort her. ‘All addicts are, Kartanya. We share that in common and I understand what you’re saying.’ Billy changed the subject. ‘Morgan tells me you’re a singer, a very goo
d one.’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘Do you still sing?’

  ‘Sometimes, when I’m high or pissed, but professionally, no, I gave it away, the junk was too important.’

  ‘That seems a pity,’ Billy replied.

  Kartanya sighed. ‘It was all a long time ago, about a thousand hits ago, mate.’ She suddenly sounded a little impatient or perhaps she expected a lecture and didn’t want any of the usual bullshit.

  Billy didn’t quite know how to broach the subject of her family but finally decided that as she’d answered his questions directly, there seemed no point in trying to be overly tactful. Besides, he felt she was getting close to the edge and could easily walk away. ‘Kartanya, what about your parents?’

  Kartanya was silent and Billy thought she was about to rise, but she remained sitting. ‘That’s not a question you ask someone like me, Billy. Addicts don’t have parents!’ Suddenly she lost her cool. ‘What is this? The fuckin’ Salvation Army?’

  Billy thought he’d blown it, but persisted anyway. ‘You don’t think you’re causing them a lot of pain by staying away from them?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s any of your business,’ Kartanya said, starting to rise.

  Before she could do so, Billy said, ‘Do you have a scar, from a snake bite, a King Brown, on your left Achilles, Caroline?’

  Kartanya looked startled. ‘How do you know my name, my old name?’ She added quickly, ‘And the scar, the bite?’

  Billy told her the story of Trevor Williams, then he handed her the letter he’d received from Bridgit Williams.

  Kartanya had hardly begun to read before she started to sob. Reaching for a tissue in her bag, she continued reading and by the end of the letter could no longer contain herself. She buried her face in her hands and wept. Somehow the letter had managed to penetrate the hard exterior. There was still some softness there, Billy decided.

  He wanted to comfort her but was afraid. He hadn’t physically touched a woman for so long that he thought it might be seen as obscene if he placed his hand on her shoulder, though he ached to do so. ‘They both love you very much, Kartanya, they’ll take you any way you are.’