The judge scribbles notes in a file. ‘Is there anything you wish to add?’
‘Yes, Your Honour,’ the lawyer says as Craggs sits down again. ‘I wish the court to know that my client has some extenuating circumstances that relate directly to his case.’
‘Go ahead,’ the magistrate says, leaning back in his chair.
‘It needs to be said that Mr Adams’s home life has been far from ideal, Your Honour. His father has a history of violent episodes involving the mother and the children. Police have been called on two occasions to attend domestic disputes at the home. My client left home recently in order to avoid these increasingly unpleasant confrontations. In his statement, my client indicates that he was not of clear mind at the time of the offences, stating that he, quote, “blacked out” and thought he was at home. “I thought he [the man] was my father.”’
‘Has a psychological assessment been done, Counsellor?’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’ He passes a document to the assistant, who passes it to the magistrate. ‘It indicates the possibility of a momentary psychosis due to previous psychological trauma and—’
‘I can see for myself what it indicates, thank you.’ After perusing it, the magistrate says, ‘One of its conclusions appears to be that the defendant is in relatively good shape, psychologically, given his history.’
‘Well, yes, Your Honour. I think that is what’s known as having a thick skin.’
Your Honour raises his eyebrows. ‘Is that the medical term for it, Counsellor?’
The lawyer turns red and picks up another file. ‘May I continue?’
‘You may.’
‘Perhaps more important is the fact that Mr Adams has an excellent record of performance at school—’
‘According to his file here, he was recently expelled.’
‘Er, yes, Your Honour, but I mean in terms of his academic performance. I have reports here from several of his teachers. And I am aware that these offences are very serious, but I ask that the court be lenient, given his age and his background. Mr Adams is said to be quite gifted in the area of mathematics, as well as having a higher than average intellectual capacity, according to the school’s files.’
Two people in front of me shift about in their seats and exchange a look.
‘I ask that the court allows this young man the opportunity to make the most of his talents, rather than feeding him into the juvenile detention system and losing that hope altogether.’
I don’t think I’ve taken a breath in the last twenty minutes. The lawyer shuffles files and sits down, while the magistrate writes things and re-reads bits of paper.
Finally, Your Honour sits up and speaks directly to Craggs. ‘Seeing that you are apparently of higher intelligence, I take it you understand that these offences are gravely serious.’
Craggs nods slightly.
‘You have caused the death of a man. Whether intentional or not, there is no doubt in this court that your violent actions were the direct cause of Robert Neville’s death. That is something you will have to live with for the rest of your life. Furthermore, this is not one offence but rather a series of offences, spanning nearly six hours and two separate properties.
‘Moreover,’ he turns to the lawyer, ‘the offender has already spent some time at Banksia Hill and it seems that, on release, he has almost immediately reoffended. As I have seen so many times before in this court, these offences are significantly more serious.’
Craggs is staring at the floor.
‘However, Mr Adams has pleaded guilty at the first opportunity and the court does take into account, to a certain degree, the social history of those before it.
‘I am especially interested in these testimonies from your teachers. It seems you are quite profoundly talented in some areas, Mr Adams. It is a great shame to see that you have chosen to pursue activities that have landed you in my court than rather than those that might get you into university.’
His chair squeaks in the intense silence as he sits back.
The girl with the notepad is scribbling feverishly.
‘My job here is twofold: to ensure that the public is protected from threat, and to enable the rehabilitation of those before me. With juvenile offenders, especially, I take this role very seriously indeed. Had you done this in three years’ time, Mr Adams, I would not be able to be at all generous.’
Craggs swallows.
‘I hope you are aware that when a Schedule 1 offence is committed, the Children’s Court has the authority to recommend adult incarceration. That means that you could go to an adult jail, Mr Adams, do you understand that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And while I will have to reconvene this court for final sentencing, I will say this: you will be removed from society to consider what you have done, and your sentence will be significant. I’m aware that at your age, Mr Adams, a long period of time in detention will be difficult, but I am hoping it will be long enough for you to realise what kind of life you will lead should you continue on your current path.’
Craggs doesn’t flinch.
‘I would like to consider placing you in a juvenile detention centre where you will be able to attend school and work programs. Kanginning Juvenile Detention Centre comes to mind. But there will be no early-release clauses in any sentence I hand down, in order to reflect the severity of the offences you have committed. However, this is just one of the options available to the court in such cases. I will review your case in the coming days to see what is the best course of action, but beyond that, Mr Adams, all I can do is wish you luck.’
He closes the file.
‘This court will reconvene on 10 August at 2p.m. for sentencing.’
As Craggs stands up to leave, he looks to the back of the court, where Dad and I are sitting. I see him scan the people and then his eyes fall on mine. His mouth twitches into a wry, pale grin. He jerks his chin at me, as if to say, Hey, Blowjoel.
I don’t know what to do. I raise my hand and half wave, half salute.
‘Next,’ calls the magistrate.
‘See ya round,’ Craggs says across the room.
‘Catch ya,’ I say.
This may be the last time I see Craggs for a very long time.
And in my sadness, there is a tiny pinprick of hope: I know for certain that I won’t ever find myself in one of these places again.
56
Afterwards, Dad drives directly to the Rose Hotel.
‘It’s 11a.m., Dad.’
‘I know, Joel. This is ... an emergency, put it that way.’
‘I’m under-age.’
‘Not when you’re with your old man. You can come in with me.’
‘Yeah, but they won’t serve me.’
‘They’ll serve me. And you can have a ... a Coke.’
I look at him. ‘Thanks.’
Inside, it’s warm and smells of pub. While Dad goes to the bar, I check out the other dudes who are here. One guy is playing pool against himself, there’s an older couple sitting in the corner, and a couple of middle-aged guys are having an early lunchtime beer.
Dad skolls his EB like he’s just returned from the Gobi Desert.
‘Aaaaah.’
‘Yeah, keep it down, will ya?’ I mumble into my crappy flat Coke.
‘Sorry.’ He draws in a long, deep breath. ‘Thank God that’s over. Well, nearly over. He’s not going to get off lightly, by the sound of it.’ After a pause, he says, ‘Are you travelling okay?’
I manage a nod.
He puts his middy down on the coaster. ‘Things will get better, you know.’
I don’t look up. Condensation dribbles down the side of my glass. ‘Things can only get better from where we’re sitting, Dad.’
He tries to hold back a grin and grabs my arm. ‘True, Joel. True.’
57
Dear Bella,
I’m leaving the shack today. It’s Day 92. I’m sitting at the wooden table where I’ve written all my letters to you. It’s the las
t thing I’m doing before saying goodbye to the mushroom couch, the possum-flavoured tank, and, of course, Foxy. Then I’m walking out the door.
I did it. Can’t believe I’m finally saying that. I couldn’t have done any of this without you. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t cut it, but it’s all I have, so I’ll give it a burl ... Thank you, Bella.
It’s sunny this morning and the birds are going crazy. Maybe they know I’m leaving! The place is theirs again. I’m outta here.
Joel xxx
PS: Huge luck in the Land of Gollum. Don’t let the snobby chicks anywhere near you! I’ll keep writing if you want, keep you up on all the Hammy High goss—just let me know your address.
PPS: Found this in an old mouldy book in the shack, scrawled in someone else’s handwriting. Thought for the week? Or a lifetime?!
‘You never know what is enough until you know what is more than enough.’
—William Blake
PPPS: I counted the packets on the Wall of Noodles this morning. I couldn’t leave without counting them. Ninety. Nine-o. Holy fucken moly. That’s a lotta noodles.
[after]
Sometimes, when I’m sitting around, I think back to the shack. Those few weeks after the court case ... they gave me time to sort of reclaim the place after Craggs had been there. It felt good to do it my way again.
I never scored any more lifts along the road. I guess the crew in town couldn’t forgive me. But Mrs Pritchard was incredible. When I caught the bus back to Perth, she came out of her shop with a steak and mushroom pie for me and wished me luck.
Bella kept the faith and has been writing since she went to New Zealand. She’s sent me a couple of photos of her standing in front of mountains, with a woolly beanie pulled over her head and a snowboard wedged under her arm. She even reckons the private school isn’t that bad. But her letters are kind of newsy and breezy these days. The Bella–Joel thing: it’s gone, but, hey, no surprises there. I realised I just had to get with the program. So I let it go. I let her go. And it’s all right.
Sometimes I feel a hundred years old when I think of the fuck-ups so far, and other times they make my heart kick all over again, like the thought of me and Craggs running through the streets in the early days, our footsteps in our ears, trying not to laugh, trying not to drop any of the gear we never even really wanted.
It all seems so long ago, all that.
The judge took into account a few things, like the truth-in-sentencing laws, which meant Craggs’s sentence was reduced by one-third. He got seven years, but after truth-in-sentencing it was reduced to four years and seven months. No parole, but apparently the lawyer might appeal that. Four and a half years. It could have been so much worse. He’s written a couple of times and it’s been pretty evil reading, me sitting at home while he’s out there in the sticks doing hard labour. It gives you some serious perspective, that’s for sure. It’s awful to say, but there’s nothing like seeing how bad things can be to make you appreciate what you have.
Craggs is doing school out there. He’s a year behind, but given everything he sounds all right, you know? He sounds okay.
Sometimes I think back to when we first met, when he snatched Mario Ripelli after school that day and everyone thought he was funny, and I try to figure out when it changed. But you can’t separate things, there’s no start and finish, it’s not a straight line. Things go forward and back, cut in and out, and the parts blur into one another, they blur together until you can’t separate anything; the good and the bad will always seep towards each other.
Very yin–yang, Bella, right? Very yin–yang.
It’s hard to believe it now, but I often find myself missing the shack. Having that space to myself, hiking down to the swimming hole for ball-crunching plunges, Foxy’s visits. On my last day there I emptied all my snacks out into a pile for Foxy on the kitchen floor, knowing he’d have a Last Supper on me. Weetbix crumbs, stale biscuits, the works. He was a good little mate. And the letters from Dad, from Bella—I’ve kept them all. Those freezing nights when I lay in bed with the crazy weird noises outside and thoughts of Bella. Being out in the world on my own.
Just Joel.
I reckon I’ve got a much better handle on him these days. I don’t think about ‘which Joel’ anymore. There’s only ever been one Joel. I can’t even remember now why it got so fucking complicated back there, to be honest.
Just Joel. Simple.
Acknowledgements
I most wish to acknowledge the generous collaborative effort behind this book. Everyone involved has made a significant contribution to the final product. Cate Sutherland did two things: she took a leap of faith in taking it on; and she shaped the loose early drafts (and the loose early Joel) into something with spine. Amanda Curtin, editor and writer extraordinaire, pulled me up—in the nicest of ways—and drew this thing together. Designer Allyson Crimp turned a ratty manuscript into a visual treat. My loving thanks to Georgia Richter for her involvement in the original mouldy version of this book, direct from the cloud forest of Costa Rica, and then every new draft every year thereafter. More importantly, though, I thank her for her generous, shoulder-to-shoulder sharing of so many pieces of writing, editing and life. My thanks in spades to Stew. I hope he can see the fruits of our labour; the rewards of his bold and brave and crazy vision. Enormous thanks are due also to Tara Wynne at Curtis Brown for her stamina in representing me. Any attempts to thank Van Ikin are feeble given his enormous early support, influence and guidance—and his belief in me. Mum, Dad and Mike, your pride in me is all the reason in the world, though, having said that, I apologise for some of the contents of this book. And thanks, Mike, for your generous access into the minds and lives of the kids in your classroom. Thank you Fiona, Pete and Mazz, for your enthusiasm and support. And my little ones, Jerry and Pippa: you two will need to show me your driver’s licences before I give you access to this little number.
Quote from Carl Sandburg, from ‘Prairie’, Cornhuskers (1918).
Lines from ‘Take It or Leave It’ (© Casablancas, Warner Chappell Music) used with permission.
Quote from William Blake, from ‘Proverbs of Hell’, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (1790–93).
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