On Cringila Hill

by Noel Beddoe

  They’re out of the wind. Sunlight falls warmly over them, protected as they are against brickwork. An Australian flag, ruffled by the breeze, flaps on a pole at the school’s highest level.

  Leon says, ‘We have a kid called Clint Phillips. At considerable expenditure of our scarce resources of person power, we’ve traced back to him a statement on our intranet where he says he knows the identity of the murderer of Abdul Hijazi. I mean, the statement was seen, someone came around and told me, we knew it would be him but we went through the procedure, just to be certain.’

  Leon fumbles in the inside pocket of his jacket, draws out a computer printout. He reads, ‘I know who killed Abdul Hijazi.’

  ‘Anything in it?’

  ‘No! Pure rubbish. Still, my good book says I report it so I’ve reported it.’ He smiles first at one detective then at the other. ‘So, here we find ourselves.’

  ‘You’re certain that there’s nothing in it at all?’

  ‘See, this kid’s called Piggy. Around here if I say “Clint Phillips”, not too many people are going to have any idea who I’m talking about. If I say “Piggy”, everyone’s nodding.’

  ‘Why Piggy?’

  ‘Wait till you meet him.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘He’s quite a kid, let me tell you.’ The principal smiles at the detective happily. ‘He worships the devil.’

  ‘Roll that by me again.’

  ‘He’s a self-proclaimed Satanist. He put that on the intranet last year.’ Leon blinks his eyes, grins, remembering. ‘“Come with me my little ones,”’ he intones. ‘“Follow me before our lord Satan. Enter under his protection,”’ he says. ‘There was a nice little picture of Lucifer scanned in under it, it was nicely lettered, all that. He did a very good publishing job. This message started popping up on computers from one end of the school to the other. It went over particularly big with the Islamic families. The Spanish and Portuguese Catholics down in Kemblawarra weren’t all that crazy about it either.’

  ‘Give you problems?’

  ‘Certainly did. There are people who believe that every individual act that gets carried out in the school, I personally approved of it. Took a bit of hosing down.’

  ‘Is he allowed to do that?’ David asks.

  ‘Is he allowed to do what?’

  ‘Encourage people to worship the devil?’

  ‘Not on our intranet. That’s my policy – full rights of religious observance but no use of school communications structures to promote individual beliefs.’

  ‘Yeah, but believing that. Is he allowed to do that?’

  ‘Who’s going to stop him? And how? The question is, is it good for him to believe that. Different question. I got in touch with Legal Branch. I got a very cheery reception, they thought it was a very interesting question: could I have him counselled Satanism is maybe not a very helpful belief to be following? The answer was, none of my business; he’s got the right to worship whomsoever he chooses, Satan included. I had him in and we talked.’ He smiles again. ‘I must say, he’s an extremely reasonable person to talk to, the young Clint. I pointed out how many religions we have in the school, how many languages are spoken in the homes, what a madhouse we’re going to have if kids start promoting and defending particular beliefs. He saw my point. Oh, he thought it was an excellent insight I was putting to him. So, he can believe what he likes but there must be discretion. Don’t, for example, create a coven here in school hours. No black masses, sacrifice of animals, that sort of thing. He saw my point. He agreed totally. We had a meeting of the minds.’

  ‘How many are there here in the school?’

  ‘What, religions?’

  ‘No. Languages in the homes.’

  Leon lifts his eyebrows. ‘I can tell you that,’ he says. ‘We just had a survey done. Sixty-three. Sixty-three basic languages. No doubt more if we included the various regional dialects.’

  David whistles. ‘Sixty-three,’ he says. ‘I didn’t know there were that many languages.’

  ‘Oh, yes. As to religions, I haven’t had a study done about that but I can’t imagine that there’s too many we don’t have. We’re getting African refugees at present. They have some I’d never heard of before.’

  He smiles at Gordon. ‘Not that it matters to me. I mean, to me, it’s like, “Which superhero do you believe in? What are you, a Batman guy or a Captain America guy?” Anyway, to this day, young Clint hasn’t breached our agreement. And he seems to enjoy our conversations. He raises this matter, he raises that matter, but what about this point of view? Sometimes, in fact, I wonder what’s going on behind that dirty forehead of his. Sometimes I think he’s having quite a good laugh at my expense. Which is fine so long as he doesn’t stir up my school.’ He frowns. ‘Harmony. I believe in harmony. I tell them this is our good place. Any disagreements, they stop at the gate.’

  David says, ‘You must have learned a lot, working here.’

  ‘The main thing I learned was how to use an interpreter at parental interviews.’

  ‘How often do you have to do that?’

  ‘Virtually every week, sometimes more than once. There’ll be parents don’t speak English, or speak it a bit but not have faith they’ll understand something as important as an interview with the school, where the kid’s in trouble. Or maybe the father’s got a bit but the mother doesn’t and you don’t want him interpreting to her because they’ll maybe start to argue. Then this is what you learn – interviews with interpreters take twice as long as the other kind, which should have been obvious enough, but wasn’t, to me at first. I say a bit and the interpreter has a go and I’m sitting here composing my next sentence, and I think, “God that sounds elegant!” And the poor folks are sitting there, wondering, “What’s it going to mean for my child, this thing he’s done? Is he finished now in this country?”’

  Gordon says, ‘How do you know that’s what they’re thinking?’

  ‘They infer it.’

  ‘Infer it.’

  ‘Yes, you know, show their fears through their facial expressions, how they look at each other.’

  ‘You mean imply.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes. To imply is to send a message in several ways, without spelling it out directly in words. To infer is to reach a conclusion of what was intended through taking various unstated clues.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, what I’ve said they’re thinking is what I’d be thinking if I was in some new country and didn’t know the language very well, if at all, and someone was telling me my kid’s behaviour was unacceptable.’

  A bell sounds. They hear silence replaced by a sort of muffled roar, noises of furniture legs scraping on linoleum, people talking, lifting their voices in competition. Walkways, stairwells, quadrangles fill with hordes of young people carrying backpacks. Uniformly they are neatly dressed, green shorts or skirts, white golf shirts with badges embossed over the heart. Several girls wear headscarves in the Muslim manner. As individuals encounter for the first time in the day they embrace, boy to girl, girls with each other, they hug, each kisses the cheek of the other. Boys exchange intricate rituals of handshaking.

  ‘Come here, those girls!’ Leon booms out.

  Two young women pause, exchange glances, clearly consider ignoring the instruction before, scowling, they comply. They approach the three men. Leon points accusingly at their blouses.

  ‘Those are button-up shirts,’ he announces. ‘You are wearing them outside your slacks! Uniform policy is, if you wish to wear a blouse outside your slacks you wear the golf shirt! Tuck your blouses into your slacks!’

  Glaring with resentment the girls lower their backpacks, do as they are commanded. As they flounce away Gordon is confident that he knows where the blouses will be worn once they’ve vanished down a stairwell.

  ‘Shirts outside slacks,’ David says, his face expressionless.
‘Pretty big deal.’

  Leon narrows one eye. ‘It is to me,’ he says. The crowds thin. Gordon can hear the raised voices of teachers giving direction. The babble diminishes. Silence returns to the quadrangle. Warm sunlight beats down across the trio of men.

  Gordon says, ‘Luz Solomona is coming back.’

  ‘Is she? That’s good.’

  ‘There’s an incident in her past here interests me. It was an exchange she had with a kid called Jimmy Valeski. And, let me tell you, that’s a name I’ve heard a lot lately. Everyone knows Jimmy, it seems.’

  Leon smiles. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Jimmy. Everyone does indeed know Jimmy. Jimmy is a very, very cool customer. He knows how to smile and give you a warm greeting, ask after your health. Not too interested in doing any schoolwork but he knows how to roll with the punches. “No Conflict Jimmy” you could call him. Sails along through his days. He and young Clint are very close, for reasons that I couldn’t even begin to understand. If anyone knows why Clint does what he does, it’s Jimmy.’

  ‘Better talk to both the boys. And Luz was suspended before she suffered that terrible attack. Are you allowed to tell us what that was all about? Protocol allow for that?’

  Leon tugs down the corners of his mouth. ‘Don’t see why not,’ he says. ‘Murder investigation. The fact of the disclosure, that will remain between us?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The principal takes a mobile telephone from his coat pocket, stabs a finger at numbers. ‘Kerry? Can you see if we still have a Luz Solomona file? And could someone bring it down? I’m in the courtyard with a copper. And, as well, Clint Phillips and Jimmy Valeski – could someone dig them out too and bring them down?’

  In time a woman emerges from a stairwell holding a green suspension file, which she hands to Leon. He removes a form headed ‘Incident Report’, reads the contents, raises his eyebrows. ‘Ah yes,’ he says. ‘I remember.’ With his head still lowered he conducts a little scan of the quadrangle from beneath his brow. No students are nearby. He raises the sheet and reads from it. ‘Luz approached Jimmy Valeski in the quadrangle. She was distressed, in tears. She shouted at him. These, I think, were the exact words: “You don’t love me, not even love my cunt. You love the way your cock feels when you’re fucking me.”’

  He smiles at the detectives.

  ‘I remember this now. Plainly something had happened that had upset poor Luz. Afterwards, I recall, we requested a statement from Jimmy but he found himself unable to assist us. He was quite puzzled, I recall, convincingly puzzled. Incident? Was there one? How strange. He had no memory of this matter of any kind. Luz, having offered this observation, had departed the premises so discussing the matter with her was not possible. On the basis of what was before me, and having full confidence in the testimony of my colleague who’d been conducting playground supervision I decided that it was not appropriate that we be seen to condone such outbursts. It seemed to me that, if the two were in the school together and encountered each other, we may witness an occurrence that was even worse. I contacted the home to tell folk there that it was appropriate that Luz should experience a short suspension while we considered our plan to respond to what had happened. After that was the assault and she didn’t ever come back.’

  ‘Should I bring Clint?’ the file bearer asks. ‘Jimmy isn’t at school today.’

  ‘Sure,’ Leon says. ‘Let’s get it done.’

  When Piggy arrives he is wearing a uniform, golf shirt and shorts, but his clothes are rumpled and stained. Leon moves so that there’s room for the boy on the seating between Gordon and himself. When Piggy sits between them, Gordon is reminded that poverty has a particular smell.

  ‘Clint, these gentlemen are detectives who’d like to talk to you. Mr Winter and Mr Lawrence. How are you today? Have you had something to eat yet?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Piggy says. ‘Mum made me a nice big hot breakfast.’

  ‘Sure. Still, have you room for any more to eat? Your Year Patron could give you a chit for the canteen.’

  ‘No, thanks, Sir. I’m fine.’

  ‘Ah. Now, as I said, these nice men would like to chat to you. You don’t have to do that here, of course. Up to you. In the end they can compel you to do it somewhere, at least hear their questions.’

  Piggy looks enquiringly at the file bearer. ‘They can make you listen, Clint,’ she says. ‘You don’t have to answer. You can do this here or go to the police station.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And if you go ahead,’ Beckett tells him, ‘you are entitled to a support person. Would you like someone to go and get your mother?’

  Piggy smiles, as though at his own secret joke. ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘It’s cool.’

  ‘Do it here?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, Detective Winter, over to you.’

  There’s a bubble of mucus emerging from one of Piggy’s nostrils. He wipes it away with the back of a bare wrist.

  ‘Clint,’ Gordon says. ‘Someone put something about the murder of Abdul Hijazi on the school computer network. Do you know who did that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘And why did you do that?’

  ‘Because I know who did it.’

  ‘And who was that?’

  ‘My dark Lord.’

  ‘Your dark Lord?’

  ‘Yeah. My Lord Satan. He called Abdul to him and Abdul must go. And now Abdul rests at the service of my dark Lord.’

  ‘I see. And how do you know this?’

  ‘My Lord sent me a vision.’

  ‘Does that often, does he?’

  Piggy smiles happily at the detective. ‘From time to time,’ he says.

  ‘I see. Is there anything else you think you should tell us?’

  Piggy snuffles up mucus that goes rumbling down his throat and into his belly. ‘Nah,’ he says. ‘That’s sort of it.’

  ‘Thank you. Detective Lawrence? Anything to ask?’

  ‘No, thanks, Detective Winter. I think I’ve pretty much got the scene.’

  Piggy stiffens. Someone has walked through the quadrangle gateway, is standing within the school precinct. He watches the little group, allows himself a small smile. He is a tall boy, broad-shouldered, slender, so good-looking as almost to be beautiful. Gordon notices that he stands with his head slightly to one side, his big hands down by his thighs. He is struck by how relaxed he looks, poised. Also, he has no school pack of any kind – clearly, applying himself to study is not what’s on his mind today. Gordon also notices that Piggy gives the newcomer a nod so slight as nearly to be imperceptible.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Gordon says. ‘I think that Jimmy Valeski has just joined us.’

  ‘Pig … Clint,’ Leon says, ‘would you be kind enough to go across the quadrangle and sit on those seats just over there, where I still can see you?’ Then, calling, he says, ‘Good morning, Jimmy. Welcome to your school today. Might you be kind enough to join these two gentlemen and myself?’

  Gordon notes the confident stroll. As Jimmy gets closer, Gordon can see the veins broken in the bloodshot eyes, the dark staining beneath the skin at the top of his cheekbones. Smile or no smile, he thinks to himself, this is one beat-up kid.

  Jimmy ignores the principal’s gesture to sit. He stands beside David Lawrence, as tall as the detective, who backs away a little to give himself some space. Jimmy smiles down at Gordon, his thumbs hooked into the pockets of his pants.

  ‘Should I call your mum?’

  ‘Nah. She ain’t home, gone shopping. Nah, les jus’ do this. I’m fine.’

  ‘Good,’ the principal says. ‘And by the way, Jim, I can’t begin to tell you how bloody dreadful you look. Are you well? Should you be at home, in bed?’

  ‘Nah. Went fishin’ with my grandfather last night. Didn’ get too m
uch sleep.’

  ‘What did you do to your arm?’ The detectives look at the swollen, discoloured limb.

  ‘What, did it get hit by a truck?’ Leon asks.

  ‘Nah.’ Jimmy smiles, amused. ‘Not a truck. I’m fine. This thing these men wanna do. Let’s get that done.’ Composed, he blinks, nods. He’s ready.

  ‘Jimmy, I’m Detective Winter. We’ve come to your school to see what we can learn about the death of Abdul Hijazi.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Now, Clint has put on school computers that he knows who the killer is. Have you got any ideas why he would write that?’

  ‘Exactly that? Nah, carn tell ya why he did that, exactly. Tell you this, though. He’d be thinkin’ about it, a lot, the Abdul killing.’

  Gordon’s eyes narrow. ‘And why would he be thinking about it?’

  ‘Cos he saw Abdul get shot.’

  The three men are very still. In tall gum trees next to the carpark beyond the school walls a magpie gives its confident warble. The sound rolls slowly through the morning air.

  Gordon says, ‘And how would you know that, what Clint saw? Did he tell you this?’

  ‘Nah, I was standin’ next to Piggy when it happened. I saw it too.’

  ‘And where was this?’

  Jimmy gestures his head in the direction of the houses next to the school grounds.

  ‘Jus’ up there, on the footpath.’

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘Abdul walkin’ down the hill. Was rainin’, light rain. Then a van come down the hill, pull up next ta Abdul, arm comes out. Pow, one in the head an’ Abdul’s down. Then two more, where he’s lyin’. So Piggy saw that, very shockin’ thing for Piggy to see. Prob’ly sent him a little crazy.’ He smiles even more broadly from his tired face. ‘Course,’ he says, ‘Piggy is always pretty crazy.’