On Cringila Hill

by Noel Beddoe

  ‘Well, then, how did you come by the knowledge that these things had been said?’

  ‘A friend of Jimmy’s said that he’d said it. I was in the classroom waiting for the teacher to arrive and a boy from a higher year stopped by and talked to some friends. Other boys. He spoke loudly, so that all could hear. And he told them that these things had been said. And I heard him.’

  ‘Have you told this to any of the other policemen you’ve spoken to?’

  ‘Persons.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Police persons. Some of the police personnel I’ve spoken to have been women.’

  ‘Of course. Have you mentioned any of this before?’

  ‘No. No one asked. It’s been more like, “Where were you on the night of the whatever?’’’

  ‘I see.’ He smiles at her. ‘And where were you … when you told Luz you’d heard this. Do you remember?’

  ‘On the benches in the playground at a break. I can’t remember which break. It gave me no sort of pleasure, please know that. I was upset about what had been said, but I felt it would have been weak of me not to tell her. So I told her, and waited to see if we’d still be friends.’

  ‘Did you fear you might not be?’

  ‘I did. Luz and Jimmy were … very close.’

  Her father speaks again in Lebanese. Yasemin shrugs.

  ‘But still you told her. And what did she do?’

  ‘She had a mandarin. I remember that. She put it down on the bench and covered her face with her hands. And she wept. Truly, I’ve never seen someone so wounded. It was as though her body was breaking.’

  ‘She felt humiliated.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I think she had real, deep feelings for Jimmy, and she was devastated about what he’d done. What I’d been told he’d done.’

  ‘Been told he’d done! So do I now take it that you feel that he may not in fact have said what it was that you’d heard he’d said?’

  ‘I have been really unsure about that for some time.’

  ‘And what did Luz do then, after you told her, and she was crying?’

  ‘Jimmy came into the quadrangle with one of his friends, that disgusting little boy they call Piggy. And Luz confronted him, and screamed at him.’

  ‘What did she scream?’

  Quietly Yasemin says, ‘I won’t tell you.’

  ‘Ah. Do you know why you mentioned this to Luz?’

  ‘I value her. I thought that she was making a mistake, about Jimmy.’

  ‘You weren’t jealous, for some reason.’

  ‘No. No, I’m sure.’

  ‘But, at the time, you believed this slur you’d heard. You believed it had been said.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And now, Ms Hindouie, you are far from sure that Jimmy Valeski ever said such a thing at all.’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t know if he did. I’d only heard it said that he did.’

  ‘So, the person who came into the classroom to talk to his friends and deliver this slur, ascribed to Jimmy Valeski, this person who did such damage to the relationship between these two young people, I guess that was Abdul Hijazi.’

  In a while, Yasemin says, ‘You’re very clever. Aren’t you?’

  Gordon raises his eyebrows. ‘Oh, no. I have had some experience of the world, that’s all.’ He looks down the hill towards the steelworks. ‘What do you think happened up on that hill that night? The killing of Abdul. Any ideas?’

  ‘Oh, if you’re wondering, “was it Jimmy?”, I can assure you that it wasn’t. It’s like nothing that’s happened on Cringila Hill in my lifetime.’

  ‘So people tell me. Anyway, thank you. May I ask your year at school?’

  ‘Year Twelve.’

  ‘Ah, important.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And next year?’

  ‘Yasemin will attend Wollongong University,’ her father says proudly. ‘Eventually she will be a lawyer. This will take a very long time, but this is what she will become.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I’ll probably not get the TER to gain entrance into the law faculty immediately,’ Yasemin explains, ‘but I’ll have enough to do some social science subject. Then, when my university grades are good, I’ll be able to transfer to a law degree. Seven students from Warrawong High School now have done this and several have graduated as lawyers. My brother already has reached the law faculty, having begun with a degree in history.’

  ‘And how long will this take?’

  ‘I should be able to finish in nine years.’

  To Yasemin’s father, Gordon says, ‘Your daughter will require great determination.’

  Mr Hindouie says, ‘She is a very serious person. My family, we are serious people. And it is just as well that this is the case, I can assure you.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you for your time,’ Gordon says. ‘We’ll be going now. And Ms Hindouie, let’s hope that the last of the snooker balls has stopped rolling. No more chaos.’

  ‘Well,’ she says. ‘We shall have to wait and see.’

  Yasemin watches the young detective trot down the stairs to the gate and wait with a look of impatience as his older colleague moves slowly behind, gripping the handrail.

  Chapter Seven

  Hassan Hijazi is a financial adviser. His suite of offices is up two flights of narrow, steep stairs that run from a laneway leading off from the Wollongong shopping mall. His title and credentials are stamped into a bronze plaque beside the entry to the stairwell, with lettering both in English and Arabic. Gordon peruses the plaque, frowns at the stairs. ‘David,’ he says, ‘can I talk you into going up and seeing if he’ll come down? Promise him coffee.’

  A few minutes later Hassan greets Gordon politely. Swarthy and well groomed, he is taller than Gordon, with the looks of an athlete. He wears college grey slacks, a double-breasted blazer in an expensive cut of cloth, a tie with blue, gold and maroon stripes, leather moccasins. Yes, he says, coffee will be fine, his shout. They walk a little way up the mall together, and settle under a weather awning at a table outside a café. When Hassan takes their orders, Gordon requests a mineral water as well, so that he can take a painkiller. The men share pleasantries about the weather, watch the seagulls strutting nearby. David proclaims the coffee to be not as good the one that Mrs Hijazi had served.

  ‘You got some of Mum’s coffee? Good, eh? Get some baklava? Yes? She makes that. The best!’

  The policemen agree, Mrs Hijazi does in fact make excellent baklava.

  Gordon begins his opening delivery. Hassan has already seen their identity shields in the laneway and he listens, nods, looks resigned.

  ‘Where do you live?’ Gordon asks, smiling as though to suggest that this is of personal interest and not part of an official enquiry.

  ‘Blackbutt.’

  ‘Blackbutt! Nice part of the Illawarra.’

  ‘Sure. Thank you.’

  Gordon asks, ‘Have you got a family, Hassan?’

  ‘Two little ones, and my beautiful wife.’

  ‘A Lebanese–Australian girl?’

  ‘Yeah. Her family’s been here about as long as Mum and Dad. I met her at TAFE.’

  ‘Where’d you go to school?’

  ‘Cringila Public, then Warrawong High.’

  ‘You were at TAFE part-time?’

  ‘I was. I worked in a cleaning business as well as in a caryard and a kebab van.’

  ‘What, you mean three jobs plus TAFE?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Gordon lifts his eyebrows. ‘Busy boy.’

  ‘Opportunities are there. Up to you if you take them. I always intended on having a family. I knew what I wanted them to have.’

  ‘Not Cringila Hill?’

  Hassan narrows his eyes and looks away. ‘Nothing wrong with Cringil
a Hill. We visit often. Makes me feel good to go back, feel the old place, you know?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Gordon. ‘Thoughtless remark. Sorry.’

  Hassan shrugs, he’s heard it all before. He sips his coffee, replaces his cup in its saucer and lays his hands on the table. Gordon peeps at Hassan’s wrists. On one Hassan wears a watch that is a gold Raymond Weil or a good replica; on the other is a thin-link gold bracelet.

  ‘Hassan, please accept our condolences at your family’s loss.’ Gordon has a way of saying such things that sounds sincere.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

  ‘Your house at Blackbutt, he stayed with you there for a time after his release?’

  ‘Yeah. Not long. Maybe four days. He’d been in Sydney, then he was with Mum and Dad but they found him – the papers, the television – there was all this … melee, you know?’ His brow lowers and he clasps his hands together. ‘It gets under your skin. I mean, who do they think they are? It’s like they think the media own the world, we’re all just there for them to use to create entertainment.’

  ‘Yeah, well …’ Gordon shrugs. ‘Maybe they’re just trying to survive, you know, the individuals involved. Maybe they’re not bad people if you get to know them.’

  Hassan watches him doubtfully, then continues. ‘Anyway, when we sent him to Sydney we thought he’d be safer, give things time to settle down. But that didn’t work out. Then he was with Mum, then I had him, then he went back to Cringila. Bobbing around, you know?’

  ‘Whose idea were all the moves?’

  ‘His, always. He’d just say, “Do what you like. This is where I’m going.”’

  ‘Your dad says he was pretty beat up. Emotionally, I mean. Pretty used up.’

  ‘Shocking. Long before they let him out. Early days, he was, you know, “I can handle this,” tough-guy macho. Then he was just … broken.’ He shakes his head. ‘Something happened. I don’t know what.’

  Hassan turns his head away. He appears to watch the shoppers criss-crossing the mall, buying flowers at a stall, passing between the two premises of the David Jones stores. People come and go among the café tables. Near where they sit is a Flight Centre board advertising cheap prices for travel. Customers are welcomed to its door by a cardboard man who smiles at them optimistically. To Gordon, the pilot’s hat looks a bit small for him but the facial expression is confident enough.

  ‘You found the money to guarantee his bail?’

  ‘I did. So did Mum and Dad. I wanted just to do it but Dad said no, they had to play a part for their son.’

  ‘They’re battling. Your mum, in particular, looks pretty wounded … exhausted?’

  ‘Yeah. Their lives have been hit by a train, is how it feels. You’ve seen them, how they are. It hasn’t been easy for my wife and myself but we’re young. We can get it in the past. Mum and Dad, nothing’s going to get any better. What they had might not have looked a lot to an outsider but they could make a life out of it. Mum had her cooking, gossiping with her friends, making a big, good lunch for my family when we came around, watching those videos she likes about the young people in love. They had their mosque, Dad had his soccer on television, his friends to meet at the coffee shop. Now there’s nothing ahead means a lot, is how they see it.’

  ‘Maybe the deal that brought them here wasn’t altogether honoured.’

  ‘No, well, brought all this way to do jobs the Anglos wouldn’t do. Sacked and left up on that hill, living on benefits when someone found a way to do the work cheaper. Then there’s people want to say Australia’s just for the Anglos you know, maybe we shouldn’t be here at all. Little comments, maybe after a few beers at a barbecue, make it sound like a joke! It’s a rough game, Australia, you know.’ Hassan continues to peruse the mall. Two young women pause by the table, hold open their Myers shopping bags. Each peers each into the other’s bag.

  ‘You say Abdul was funny. Your father says he was a nice kid.’

  ‘He was, actually, when he was little. He was generous. He’d do some performance at a family gathering, goofy, really funny, you know? He was special to Mum. He could always get her smiling, get her laughing. He was born just before the start of the main steelworks downsizing. When he came back from the Detention Centre he said to me he thought he was the start of the bad luck for the family, being born. Nasty thing to believe. That’s not what he was like when he was younger. Probably we spoiled him a fair bit, you know? He was heaps younger than me. It hadn’t been easy for us. We wanted things to be easier for him. More pleasant. We thought he’d maybe cop a bit from Anglos because we were from Lebanon, and we sort of wanted to make it up to him before it happened, having him born here.’

  ‘And sometimes he did stupid things, your father told me.’

  Hassan nods, shrugs. ‘Yeah. Teenagers, you know? I’d say, “How could you do that?” Pointless stuff, you know? He’d shoplift a pen, get caught. I’d say, “Steal a pen!” He wanted a pen I’d have given him one, I’d of give him a good pen. But it’s not about the pen, you know? His mates took ’em so he did too. I’d say, “These kids, you know, they not true mates, they don’t mean nothing, why you care if they accept you?” And he’d say, “They’re what I got.” He was through listening to me, is where it was we got to.’

  ‘What did he think of your parents, as a teenager, before the heavy stuff?’

  ‘Oh, he loved them, I’ll tell you that. He loved them, I don’t doubt that …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Yeah. After a while I don’t suppose he thought they were …’

  ‘Valid.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe that’s the word. He didn’t want to be them. You could see that, after he got into his teenage years. He was … impatient with them. He didn’t think what Mum and Dad had was any way for him to live his life. And the way we are these days, with television, the ads, the movies selling us this version of living a life … he knew what he wanted to be. He just had no idea how to get there.’

  ‘And, then, there you were doing all that work, making something of yourself, but it was hard work. And he wasn’t as bright as you are?’

  ‘Oh, he was bright. He wasn’t crazy about discipline. That’s not what he saw in those movies he went to with his friends. The way I lived wasn’t exciting. And I thought he was as bright as I am but maybe he didn’t. He was into exciting. He was into this stance, like the movie honchos, imposing his will this arrogant way. That’s what he wanted to be seen as being. He was just a kid. He didn’t have any way to know yet this life he was chasing was all a fantasy someone made up to sell movie seat tickets. And then, you know, he was this gentle, funny little kid. He was never very strong. So he hung out. He hung out with the wild boys who said they were tough guys. Then, you know, it was groups with cars, hanging out at night at Town Beach, drinking whisky to show he could. Mum would be in tears, he’d be getting out of bed at noon. I’d say, “This is not the way, read your Qur’an, go to the mosque and listen to the prayers.” No good talking to him.’

  ‘Did his mates come around after he got out?’

  ‘Yeah, most of them, give them that.’

  ‘Not the Valeski kid?’

  ‘No. You know, that was sad. They’d been so close. Really close when they were little. The thing with Luz finished them. At first, when I heard he was dead, it came into my mind, Jimmy’s killed him.’

  ‘I’ve heard a couple of names for him, the Valeski kid. Some people call him Dimce.’

  ‘It depends when you met him. When he first came home with Abdul he said his name was Dimce. Later his grandfather started calling him Jimmy, and it’s a big thing, what old Lupce says.’

  ‘So I’m told.’

  ‘I said to old Lupce, “What is it with this Jimmy?” He said the boy was going to live his life in Australia so best he should use a name Australians know about.’ Hassan smiles, for the first time in their conversation. ‘
So I said to him, “Well, Lupce, what am I supposed to call you?” And he said, “Maybe better call me Lou.” And we had a good laugh then.’

  ‘You’re not afraid of Lupce Valeski?’

  ‘No. Not many people are. I’ve never crossed him, got no reason to be frightened. But I’ll tell you what – if ever he saw me as a threat in some way, I’d be plenty frightened then. Even at the age he is now.’

  Gordon can feel the painkiller rolling through his brain, shutting down pain receptors. Strong stuff, he thinks.

  ‘In the end there was bad blood between Jimmy and Abdul.’

  ‘Oh, yeah!’

  ‘Jimmy didn’t like what happened to Luz?’

  ‘There was more to it than that. You know, the Solomonas only came four or so years ago. Refugees or something, I don’t know. Then the fact Luz was here really went off like a bomb, even back when she was young. I mean, she’s a gorgeous looking kid, but, then, more … the way she walks, looks at people, the sound of her voice, little remarks she makes, real insight, you know …’

  ‘You sound like you were a bit susceptible yourself.’

  ‘Maybe I was, in a way, just looking on, thinking, “That’s a really lovely girl to look at,” just admiring, you know, nothing untoward, nothing disrespectful. Anyway, Abdul became obsessed. He’d talk about her, his eyes would glaze over. He got photos out of some school publication, got them blown up, taped them to his wall. He’d come to my place to watch the soccer, keep talking about her and I’d say, “Abdul, it’s not your time, it’s not time yet. Meet some good Islamic girl, is all that’s going to work.” He wasn’t hearing any of that. He didn’t want to know any of that.’ Hassan sips his coffee, ‘Got to be difficult for a beautiful girl like that.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. Probably they’re okay if they get to their thirties with no harm done, handle the scene, think it’s funny. Might be easy if they’re young and the family’s got lots of money. Young and poor and remarkable like that, it must be hard to know who to be, how to handle the pressures that come. I’ve known men my age, men of substance with real assets make life confusing for beautiful young women. Men who should of known better.’