Black Angels???Red Blood

by Steven McCarthy

  “Over my dead body. They’ve done nothing for this country.”

  Tim was glad he said that and walked straight up to the counter. He ordered a soft drink and while Mrs Bowrie was busy, he commented to the cockie, “Wasn’t the Mabo High Court decision great for blacks in this country? It finally recognises the true owners of this country.” Tim wanted to give him more but the cockie stormed out.

  Mrs Bowrie came back and smiled at Tim, “Some people don’t understand what it’s about. Please don’t be harsh on them, they’re only ignorant.”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs Bowrie, you more than make up for their ignorance,” Tim said as he picked up his jam and left.

  Tim felt good about not having plastered the cockies face all over the shop. That was the first time he confronted someone with that attitude without a clenched fist. To see him storm out made Tim glad. He walked back down the street saying g’day to anyone he saw, with a cheery voice. He headed towards Sherry and Alby’s to say hello and tell them of his plans.

  “We’ll miss you. You’ve been a great help with the kids and Alby and everything. What are you gonna do out there?”

  “I’ve got a few plans. Nothing concrete. I’ll wait and see.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BACK TO FRONT

  Tim finished his cup of tea and went to play with the kids for a while. When he left he forgot to take the jam with him and didn’t bother to go back for it. He went over to Elaine’s and Marion’s for yet another cup of tea and to tell them he was leaving. He went home the long way round to have a look at the bush. Back home he had a snack and then went over to say g’day to Shane and co.

  Aunty May was fixing lunch. Shane and Brendan had gone shooting for a ‘roo and Cassandra was lying down reading a book. He said hello to Aunty May, and Cassandra joined them when she heard his voice. Cassandra put the jug on for tea but Tim opted for cold water. Aunty May talked about the Centre and gave Tim some advice. “Stay away from grog and gambling and you’ll do alright.” Sound advice, Tim thought, as they were the only things that got him into trouble.

  Tim had come over to bum a joint off Cassandra and slyly motioned without Aunty May’s knowledge. When they finished chatting, Cassandra walked Tim outside and handed him a small satchel. He thanked her and went home.

  He rolled a joint, stuck it in his pocket and went to the river for a swim. He was swimming for about ten minutes when he heard what sounded like a group of birds approaching. He hopped out of the water and put his shorts on when he realised it was a group of people. They were Christians who were doing a tour of the outback. There were a couple of local kids in tow who had led them to this spot for a swim. It was a mixed group whose ages ranged from twelve to thirty. The kids went in for a swim while the adult minders preached to Tim. He finally made an excuse and left with the words “Jesus loves you” in his ear.

  Tim got home and smoked the joint and played guitar for an hour or so. He then lay down and thought about his relationship with Sylvia. Trepidation rose in him along with many questions, he put them all out of his mind and reaffirmed his commitment to his plan. He got up to dig a hole to bury all the rubbish and stuff he wouldn’t be taking with him. He dug the hole deeper than usual and threw some rubbish in. He left it open, preferring to fill it in just before he left. Shane appeared with a part of a leg off the ‘roo, which Tim put into the fridge.

  “Starting to pack up already?” Shane commented. “I came over to tell you that Cassandra and Brendan are leaving on Saturday. There’s a band coming to Sydney that they want to see.”

  “I’m ready to move anytime,” Shane said. They both laughed and Shane added, “Besides, I’ve got itchy feet anyway.”

  “A couple of cockies are in the pub running blacks down real bad. I think they’ve heard about our claim on this land. Wanna come up for a look see?”

  Tim quickly put on some jeans and boots and a loose-fitting shirt and went with Shane. They went back to Aunty May’s and picked up Brendan. Brendan told Tim that the cockies had thought he was a white man and had used several expletives to describe blacks. Tim thought Brendan was white, too, but after looking closely, the features came through.

  When they walked in, silence fell except for the big bloke who hadn’t seen them. He was soon reminded by a nuggety one that Tim knew wasn’t a ringer but a ring-in. I’ll take him, Tim said to himself. Shane ordered three beers and as soon as Brownie served them, he went out the back. Tim presumed it was to call the copper. The big bloke kept on talking and mentioned something about a smell. That’s not worth fighting over, get to the nitty-gritty, Tim thought.

  “The big bloke’s mine,” Shane said quietly to Tim.

  “They’re all useless. Good for nothing,” the big bloke said.

  Shane responded, “Yeah, them whitefellas ain’t got much going for them.”

  The copper walked in and Brownie reappeared behind the bar. The copper knew the big bloke and they said g’day. The copper did the sensible thing and ordered a beer and sat between the two groups. The big bloke told a joke to his mate, the quiet one, who Tim knew from a previous blue and was probably orchestrating the coming fight. “What do you call a whitefella that’s black on the inside?” his mate said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “A real fucking dip-stick.”

  It was a bad attempt at humour and nobody laughed. “I don’t know. We give them everything and the bastards still complain,” the big bloke said.

  “That’s enough, Bluey,” the copper said.

  “Don’t stick up for this type of shit,” Bluey said.

  Tim finished his beer and turned his glass upside down on the bar. The little nuggety bloke moved towards Tim and said, “I’ll take you.”

  He landed a couple which rocked Tim, who warmed up and aimed for the bread basket to slow him down. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Shane and Bluey at it. Then Brendan went at his mate. Tim drew blood out of the nuggety fella and knew he had the upper hand. He clipped him a few times to stand him still and then hammered him with a right to put him to sleep for a while.

  Bluey was by now on his knees and had given up, his mate likewise. Then the copper walked over to Tim and told him he was under arrest. “I saw you tip your glass upside down.” He put a hand on Tim and Tim knocked him out with one hit. Brownie was shaking his head behind the bar.

  They left the pub and went back to Aunty May’s. She upped them for being so stupid and said that it wouldn’t help anybody’s cause. They stood looking at the ground like school kids until she had finished with them. She got dressed and went to see Brownie to ask what damage had been done.

  “You’re gonna cop it when she gets back, Tim,” Shane said.

  “Why?” Cassie asked.

  “He knocked the copper out, too,” Shane replied.

  “Tim.” Cassie glared at him, then went and gave him a hug. They made a cup of tea and sat down to wait for Aunty May.

  Tim expected all sorts of things as punishment when he saw Aunty May coming in the distance. When she arrived she said, “They’re all back on their feet and not badly hurt. Why did you knock the policeman out, Tim?”

  “The heat of the moment, Aunty May,” Tim responded, looking at Aunty May and searching her eyes for mercy.

  “Well, the coppers are coming from Bourke to pick you up tomorrow morning and I said you’d be there to go with them.”

  “I’ll do that, Aunty.”

  Brendan, Cassie and Shane walked Tim home and they had a joint and made a few plans.

  Cassandra said they’d take his gear to Bourke as she and Brendan were leaving.

  Tim got up early next morning. His bags were packed and he double-checked everything. He then went over to say goodbye to everyone. Sherry and the kids first, then Elaine and Marion, and finally to Aunty May. “I’m gonna go straight to the Centre when they finish whatever they’re gonna do.” He then gave her a hug and left. Cassandra caught him halfway home and told him they’d take his gear
with them to Bourke. Then she returned to Aunty May’s.

  He saw them coming in the distance and put his tobacco down his jocks before they pulled up. One copper went through the motions of searching him while the other stood a distance away at the ready. They put him in the paddy-wagon and drove through town to the police station. The local copper got out and said to Tim before they drove away, “This’11 be the last time I’ll be seeing you, ya fuckwit.” Tim didn’t respond.

  He knew that it was a couple of hours to Bourke and he pulled his tobacco out after half an hour on the road and rolled a smoke. He thought about his childhood in what Caroline described as that “poky little town” and wanted to be a child there forever. It was good then, no grog or dope, only happy memories. His mind flicked over to adulthood. To the rhythmic clapping of sticks and the drone of the didjeridoo. Men painted for ceremonies bounded in and out of his mind. I suppose growing up isn’t all that bad, he thought. Being at a corroboree was a healing process and you always left feeling brand new. He hoped the black kids of Australia would all make it to a corroboree and learn their right to be fulfilled.

  He remembered all of his travels, almost being able to count the steps he took on the streets in Sydney. That was only seven years ago. How life had changed, he thought. The old man had told him that this job was for life. I suppose you just can’t say you don’t want to be a featherfoot, Tim thought, as he rolled another cigarette. When he lit the cigarette, it reminded him of “The Black Santa Claus” that only a few knew about. Always giving to and never receiving from a people who would never show gratitude. The spirits, the people, they’ll take everything that you own and come back to judge you when you’re in the pits. Get used to the loneliness for they prey on the weaknesses of people around you. “Until ya’ die”—the old man’s words echoed in Tims’ ear.

  It was hot in the back of the van but they were driving much faster than normal and he recognised some landmarks and knew they were only three-quarters of an hour out of Bourke. Tim rolled another cigarette and was going to put the tobacco back down his jocks when he noticed they were slowing down. The dust off the road came into the back of the paddy-wagon, and, ignoring the dust, Tim lit the cigarette as they turned left. He thought “this could be my last smoke”.

  There was an unmarked police car parked in the shade of a tree with three detectives waiting. “Well, that’s four,” Tim said as the wagon rolled to a halt. The constable got out and under instructions from one of them was told to open the door. He did this and said to Tim “Get out”. Tim laughed when he saw the size of them and the constable moved backwards quickly as if getting out of the road. Tim hopped out and the detective that he recognised from the description by the Mroodies in Bourke said calmly, as if giving Tim the last rites, “You can finish your smoke and then we’re going to kill you where you stand.”

  Tim threw the cigarette to the ground and said, “You know how you ugly bastards come about?” then answered, “Hitler dooried a pig!!”

  All three rushed him. The knees of the one on his left buckled as Tim caught him flush on the jaw with a left and then dropped him to the ground with a solid right. The feet of the one on his right were lifted off the ground after a vicious kick to the groin and an upper-cut to the nose. His lights were out before he hit the ground.

  “So the nigger can fight,” the remaining detective said, and then Tim walked in to trade blows with him. The copper lasted less than a minute before dropping to his knees. Tim raised his foot and slammed a heel into the copper’s face, breaking his nose. He turned to face the constable, whose gun was cocked and pointing straight between his eyes.

  He stared hard at the young constable, who after a few moments lowered his gun.

  Tim turned and started walking back towards the road. A lone pelican flew over, heading westwards, towards the storm clouds gathering over the western plains.

  First published 1998 by University of Queensland Press

  PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia

  www.uqp.com.au

  © Steven McCarthy, 1998

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

  Typeset by University of Queensland Press Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Sponsored by the Queensland Office of Arts and Cultural Development.

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  National Library of Australia

  McCarthy, Steven, 1960–.

  Black angels, red blood.

  I. Title. (Series: UQP black Australian writers).

  A823.3

  ISBN 978 0 7022 2963 3 (pbk)

  978 0 7022 5031 6 (pdf)

  978 0 7022 5032 3 (epub)

  978 0 7022 5033 0 (kindle)