A woman in a black suit pops out of a corridor and says, ‘You may go into Courtroom Eight now, thank you.’
Ray tells us to bow to the judge when we go in, which we do, but the judge’s chair is empty. A pair of glasses sit on the high bench, behind which is a computer and a microphone. In front of the bench there are desks with swivel chairs where somebody else’s lawyers are sitting. The police prosecutor is there, pouring glasses of water, and they chat like old friends.
A teenage girl sits alone in the front row, her headband very yellow against her straightened black hair. A nervous couple sit behind her in the third row and the yearning from them is almost palpable. But she’s in a bubble, a blank, switched off.
The rest of us take our places on black leather seats bolted to the green carpet in the pine-panelled courtroom. I count the chairs; seven rows of ten. Ray gestures that we’re to sit in the fourth row, and wait. The tattooed man sits in the back row writing in a notebook. The woman in pink and her sons are in the fifth row back. Their turn after us, I suppose.
Ray nods at our group. ‘There’s a matter before the court, and then it’s us. Dan and I will be back in plenty of time.’
There’s a woman sitting in a booth below and beside the judge’s bench. ‘Who is that?’ I whisper.
‘The court registrar,’ answers Theo.
The registrar picks up a telephone and says, ‘We’re all ready to go in Courtroom Eight. Vogel.’
A door behind the registrar opens and in comes the magistrate, a middle-aged woman with a gold brooch detailed with diamantes that say ‘K’ on the lapel of her tweed jacket. Or diamonds, for all I know. She enters through a loftier door than ours and ignores us from behind her high wooden bench.
‘All rise,’ says the court registrar.
We rise.
‘The Eighth Division Melbourne Children’s Court is now in session. Judge Karen Robinson presiding.’
Robinson’s no-nonsense hair is the colour of steel.
She takes her seat and picks up her glasses.
‘Please be seated,’ says the court registrar.
We sit.
The case before ours blossoms like a tumour. I bet the magistrate is wearing brown leather lace-up shoes. A longing washes over me not to be judged by a hair-sprayed stranger wearing brown leather lace-up shoes. I think about the judge’s shoes because I don’t want to think about the list of sad and hideous things the accused has done. According to the cops, her only explanation for the unprovoked violence was, ‘Because I can’.
‘She ran away from home at thirteen,’ her lawyer pleads in his stuttery way. ‘And became addicted to amphetamines and alcohol.’
Even now ‘the accused’ won’t have anything to do with her parents, sitting two rows behind her like scarecrows. They flinch when they hear what she called the fifty-one-year-old Sri Lankan woman she pulled off a train and bashed, but I can’t help wondering what they did to make her run away in the first place. It must have been something unbearable.
Mum wipes tears from her eyes. I look at the parents again. Maybe they just tried too hard.
The man shifts in his seat and glances over his shoulder at me and there’s a shadow behind his eyes that’s so creepy, I’m glad Vogel ran away.
The magistrate asks the accused to stand and she does, looking frail and innocent.
Judge Robinson takes off her glasses and grips the girl with her eyes. ‘You have heard the summaries before the court.’ Her amplified voice still seems quiet, her distaste palpable. ‘Seeing you standing there, it’s hard to believe you’re the same person described by the prosecution. But hearing this repetitive anti-social behaviour and knowing that you have walked out of this court not once, but twice before, promising to attend group conferencing, but instead embarked upon such appalling and criminal behaviour, does not give me confidence in your rehabilitation outside the guidelines of juvenile detention.
‘I take into account that you have pleaded guilty and show remorse. Up until now, the court has been fairly forbearing, but I seriously believe the best thing is to remand you. The community does not have to put up with this behaviour.’ The judge puts on her glasses and peers at the computer screen. ‘You can resume your seat.’
Vogel doesn’t cry, not even during the sentencing, but her mother does; and so does mine. Courts and police can take you away and lock you up against your will and the will of the people who love you and there’s nothing you, or they, can do about it.
The magistrate stands.
‘All rise,’ says the court registrar.
We rise. The judge ignores us, escaping through her private door. Keek helps me up. I’m crying. I want my life. I don’t want the fracture to be a ravine that I fall into and disappear – I want it to open up and let the light shine through. Yamouni was right; even if no one understands you, you’ve got to make beauty from pain. Maybe it’s impossible, but I want to try.
The registrar says other things after the magistrate leaves and people start moving around, but I can’t hear them. I feel as if I’ve fallen under water.
Mum says, ‘Ray and Dan are back.’
Keek’s voice is a rumble, my ear against his chest. ‘Is my dad with them?’
‘No, not yet,’ says Mum. ‘But they’ll be here, we have ten minutes. Do you want a drink of water? Clover?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go to the toilet.’
But I don’t go to the toilet. I rush down the stairs and out to the street, searching wildly until I spot the McKenzies sitting in their car. I run to Mrs McKenzie’s side, but it’s Dave who winds down the window. I yank Mrs McKenzie’s door open, shocking us both.
‘Matt’s dead,’ I blurt. ‘But Keek’s still alive – and he needs you.’
Dave says, ‘Now, come on—’ but I cut him off.
‘It’s not Phil’s fault, but it’s like you’re punishing him for it.’
Mrs McKenzie hasn’t moved a muscle, but I see a tear slide down her cheek. I bob down and put my hand on her arm.
‘Please, Mrs McKenzie.’
‘Clover?’ I stand. It’s Aunty Jean calling from the courthouse steps. She claps her hands when she sees me. ‘It’s your turn,’ she calls. ‘Quick!’
‘Go on, Clover.’ Dave opens his car door. ‘We’ll be there in a minute.’
Aunty Jean pulls me close in a one-armed hug. ‘I thought you’d run off,’ she says. ‘Your mother told me you’d never leave Keek to face all this alone.’
We have to go through the security rigmarole again and Mum’s waiting to hurry me up the stairs. I give her a squeeze. ‘I love you,’ I say.
It’s our turn.
At Ray and Dan’s gesture, Keek and I sit next to each other almost in the middle of the front row, my family flanking off to our right; his seats empty on the left, waiting.
Our lawyers hand papers to the registrar who picks up the telephone and says, ‘We’re all ready to go in Courtroom Eight. Jones and McKenzie.’
Too soon, the door behind her opens. ‘All rise,’ says the court registrar.
We rise.
‘The Eighth Division Melbourne Children’s Court is now in session. Judge Karen Robinson presiding.’
The magistrate takes her seat and picks up her glasses. ‘Please be seated,’ says the court registrar.
We sit.
The magistrate is reading something on her bench, glancing up now and then at the computer screen. No one says anything.
I can’t help glancing back to the door, willing Keek’s parents to arrive. The same door that swallowed Vogel in the company of two police officers, followed mutely by her broken parents. It opens, and in a shift of reality, there’s Mr Radshaw, ushering in Mark, Alison, Trung and – my blood turns to fizz – Katie. They smile and nod and sit in the row behind us. There are whispered hellos and thanks for coming. Mark pats Keek’s shoulder.
Katie says, ‘Have you heard about Ellen?’
The court registrar says, ‘Quiet, please.
’
Mr Radshaw hands Ray a manila folder. He glances in it and hands it to the court registrar, who takes it and hands it on to the magistrate, who smiles briefly at Mr Radshaw over her glasses, but doesn’t acknowledge us. Her eyes flicker over the contents of the folder, then back to the computer screen.
There’s a plastic bag caught in the tree outside. I see it through the tall glass panels that face the atrium. Well, that’s what Aunty Jean called it when we were downstairs. I can’t listen to the whisperings of my friends. I can only stare at it. Flapping, trapped.
The door opens again and we all turn our heads. Mr McKenzie bobs at the judge, his arm around his wife, who is wearing sunglasses and leaning on a stick. Keek’s leg keeps jiggling and his face is stony, and a blush creeps up Mum’s neck, but I feel like cheering.
Keek’s parents make their slow way to the front row and sit themselves beside their son. The judge watches them, then leans down to the court registrar and has a whispered conversation before sitting up and addressing us.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she says. She addresses my lawyer. ‘Yes?’
Ray shrinks slightly. ‘Plea of not guilty on the bomb hoax, Your Honour. Plea of guilty for all other charges.’
Robinson turns to Keek’s lawyer who says in a louder, bored voice, ‘Plea of not guilty on the bomb hoax, Your Honour. Guilty for all other charges.’
She nods and takes off her glasses. ‘Now, I’ll have the charges.’
The police prosecutor begins with, ‘My submissions are that there is one charge of theft, withdrawn.’
The judge swings her glasses on to refer to the computer screen and says, ‘And that leaves – eight charges.’
‘Yes,’ says the police prosecutor.
‘Seven, for Jones, Your Honour,’ pipes up Mr Rahid.
‘That’s right,’ says the police prosecutor. ‘Only McKenzie is being charged with possession of a drug of dependence.’
The judge nods, folds her specs and gestures to him to proceed. He launches into the horrible list of our crimes: public nuisance, affray, bomb hoax. Reckless behaviour. Causing public fear of explosion. Attempted criminal damage and using a drug of dependence.
I feel myself shrivelling. In a flat, storytelling voice, the police prosecutor recounts our supposed rampage. Refers to us as ‘the accused and the co-accused’. I can’t believe he’s even talking about us. I hear my friends and family drawing in their breath; they’ve probably all changed their minds and are sure we should be locked away. Especially me.
‘The accused and the co-accused were subsequently interviewed and offered no reason for their behaviour.’
Unlike my mother, who has clutched my hand and is breathing heavily, the magistrate seems unfazed. ‘They are the matters?’ she says.
‘Yes, they are the police matters.’
Robinson peers over her glasses at Keek’s lawyer.
‘The accused and the co-accused come before the court as first offenders,’ he says and Ray nods. Dan tells them our ridiculous story, emphasising that we had no intention of being a public nuisance, causing affray or sparking a bomb hoax and that the whole evening was a series of unfortunate choices, entirely out of character for the pair of us. ‘They are accompanied today by their respective parents and close family.’
The judge interrupts him to glare. ‘Parents who should be aghast.’ Mum shrinks. Mrs T takes her hand. The judge takes off her glasses. ‘What sort of children use a symbol of global pain for their entertainment?’
Dan says, ‘Yes. But thoughtless, Your Honour. Not malicious.’
‘They are remorseful, Your Honour, and show a clear understanding of the issues,’ pipes in Ray.
Robinson wipes her lenses with a tissue. ‘Am I right in thinking the substances of addiction cited belonged to the co-accused’s mother?’
‘Prescription, Your Honour,’ says Dan.
The judge ignores him. ‘You want to say something, Mr Rahid?’
‘Thank you.’ He indicates Mr Radshaw. ‘Your Honour can see the upper-school coordinator of Fernwood Secondary College, here to support the accused and co-accused.’
Who could have known I’d ever genuinely want to hug hairy old Radshaw?
Robinson indicates the row behind us with her pen. ‘Schoolmates, I presume?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
‘There are letters of support,’ Ray reminds the judge.
Robinson says, ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Rahid,’ but she may as well have said, ‘shut up’.
A silence.
The air is heavy. Judge Robinson is deciding. She looks up from her files, glances at me, at Keek, adjusts her glasses and peers into her computer. My whole life is suspended in the faint glow of that screen.
The magistrate asks us to stand. We stand and Keek takes my hand. Then the sky cracks open and the light shines through.
Parting the hanging fronds of the weeping willow, free in the sunlight, I feel a . . . reverence. But melancholy, too. There’s a sign up; the block’s been sold. They’ll probably chop down this old tree. I feel guilty for hoping I’m gone before it happens. I don’t think I could let it be killed without a fight and I’m afraid of getting capsicum-sprayed again; of falling into the clutches of the police. I give the tree a hug. ‘But I will, if I have to,’ I whisper.
I press my cheek against the trunk and feel relieved to be able to, and sad, imagining what Vogel is doing today.
Katie says, ‘You always were a weird one,’ and feeds a piece of cracker to Alison’s new rat, who’s made a nest on Al’s shoulder. ‘We should do something to celebrate.’
Keek reaches up to grip the branch above his head.
‘Let’s go to the movies.’
‘Yes.’ Alison grins. ‘And I can sneak Hilbert in.’
‘I can’t believe your mum let you get a rat,’ I say.
She laughs. ‘She didn’t. But it was love at first sight.’ Al pats the rat. ‘Wasn’t it, Hilly? There wasn’t much she could do about it, especially after I convinced Dad he helps me study – and now, as an added bonus, having the cage in my room keeps her out of there. She can’t stand it.’
I’d forgotten what a wicked laugh she has.
‘She carries it everywhere,’ Trung complains.
‘Him,’ Alison corrects, righteously.
Mark strokes Hilbert’s nose with an enormous thumb, but his eyes slide to Trung. ‘Jealous are we?’
Trung remains unimpressed. ‘You could at least have called him after a mathematician people have heard of.’
Alison screws up her nose. ‘Not Einstein.’
‘Yes, Einstein.’ Trung offers the rat a crumb. ‘Isn’t that right, Steiny?’
The name is a trigger. ‘I’m going to Steiner,’ I rattle out. ‘The one up the mountain.’
Everyone looks, except Keek.
Katie says, ‘How will Sutcliff ever live without you?’ and laughs, but our chins wobble with lurking tears. She hugs and then shoves me. ‘God, don’t make me cry, you’ll wreck my make-up.’
Mark adjusts his back against the willow’s trunk. ‘Do they take criminals on good behaviour bonds?’
‘Without conviction,’ Alison adds, kindly.
‘Apparently, they do.’
Alison looks at Keek who hasn’t moved, hasn’t said a word. ‘How far away is it?’ she asks me.
‘About half an hour, by bus. Maybe longer.’
Trung says, ‘Longer.’
‘I’m scared shitless, but it’s got small Year Eleven and Twelve classes. Lots of art.’ I slip my arm under Keek’s and around his waist, knowing I’ve been a coward to not wait until we’re alone. ‘It’s not that far. Bring your bike on the bus. It’s not, like, England, which was my mother’s other bright idea. And look.’ With my spare hand, I reach into my pocket and brandish my new smartphone. ‘Not that I have a clue how to work it.’
‘Give me that,’ says Trung, and Alison, Hilbert, Mark and Katie hang over his shoulder while he attacks the screen
with his thumbs.
Keek looks at the phone. Finally, he looks at me. ‘Well, that’s definitely it, then.’ He pulls away from me and reaches for his bike.
‘What’s definitely it then?’ I want to know, a sudden ice-cream headache in my chest.
‘Time to learn to ride, CB.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I’m not dinking you up and down freakin’ mountain country.’
‘I will. I promise.’
‘Done.’
We shake on it.
He wheels the bike out from under the willow fronds with one hand and leads me with the other.
‘Now?’ I say.
Keek nods. He kisses me once, on the lips. ‘Calmly, easily.’ He kisses me again, more than once. ‘Now.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Love and thanks to my beautiful daughter, Georgia, and Leigh Wilson (aka Seao) for keeping me on the straight and narrow, and to Tasha, the quintessential old black staffy.
Thank you, thank you, Allen & Unwin publishers and design team – particularly my editor, Jodie Webster: your kindness and experience has made publication a joy as well as a privilege, and your deft, sensitive touch has brought out the best in the book.
Many thanks to Cath Crowley, Ali Arnold, Sophie Cunningham, Clare Renner, Sally Rippin, Dr Olga Lorenzo, Ania Walwicz and Penny Johnson for your wisdom and encouragement; and to the lovely folk at Varuna, the writers’ house, especially Catherine Therese and Maria Katsonis; to the RMIT PWE cohort 2008–2010, chiefly my dear Jacinda Woodhead, Benjamin Laird, Elizabeth Reichhardt (& Stu), Scott Marriott and Rose Hudson; the writers’ conversation: Kaye Holder, Jennifer Hansen, Ann Bolch, Lu Sexton & Rowan McKinnon; and those gorgeous writerly women: Trish Bolton, Lucy Treloar, Kate Richards, Jenny Green and Dana Miltins.
Heart’s gratitude for the love and support of friends and family, especially Sally, Jacci, Jenni, Leah, Joey, Dawn and Carolyn, my sisters Julie, Paula and Denise, and my darling Mum & Dad xxx.
And thanks Clover and Keek for carving your lives into my imagination and revealing your story to me.
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