The Boundary

by Nicole Watson

  Madeline is a lioness, too protective, wants to wrap them in cotton wool.

  ‘Kylie just came home.’

  I check my watch, just after midday. ‘Has she come down with flu?’

  ‘She came home because she was upset.’

  ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Some of the girls at school were teasing her.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The article in the Queensland Daily about you. And Belinda Field.’

  That’s when I see the ice in her eyes, the hate.

  ‘I don’t care who you fuck, but you keep it away from our children.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound . . .’

  ‘Shut up! Just shut up! I have raised our children, mostly as a single parent! I have supported your career! But I will not allow you to destroy our children!’

  Payne’s laughter is thick, melodic. ‘Mate, I’ve always admired you.’

  Lesley stands with her back to us, pouring coffee, but I know she’s listening. She’d hear an ant crawling through the carpet.

  ‘Do you know why?’ he says.

  ‘I could suggest several reasons. Perhaps you should save time by telling me yourself.’

  Lesley chuckles softly.

  Payne smirks. ‘I admire you because you walked away from a multi-million-dollar practice to serve the people of Queensland.’

  ‘I’m not exactly struggling, Dick.’

  ‘But you can’t afford to holiday in Monaco.’

  ‘I can’t say I’ve ever felt a desire to go to Monaco.’

  Payne grins and lifts a suitcase onto the desk. It’s similar to Madeline’s old Louis Vuitton, but this one is brand new. ‘Mate, I think you should treat yourself. Take Madeline.’ He winks. ‘Or Belinda.’

  I open the suitcase.

  Must be a million dollars in here.

  The man’s footsteps are slow and laboured. ‘The black man has been ruined,’ he mutters. He stops at the Premier’s feet, shakes his head. ‘Ruined by welfare dependency.’

  The Premier gasps in disbelief. Payne’s waist is a forest of stretch marks that hangs above shrunken genitals. Spittle runs down the corners of his mouth.

  ‘The black man is a child, carried for so long on the back of its indulgent mother that he has forgotten how to walk.’

  ‘Dick, who are you talking to?’

  ‘The question of rights is preposterous. Deadbeat parents should lose all rights to their children.’

  ‘Dick, listen to me!’

  Payne claps his hands, mesmerised by a rhythm only he can hear. ‘Anathema a-n-a-t-h-e-m-a.’

  ‘Dick, please! I need to know. Am I dead?’

  Dick’s about to speak when Lesley runs into him, head crouched down, arms in front of her. She bounces off his buttocks and crashes to the ground.

  ‘He’s a comin’, ooooooh, bub – he’s comin’!’

  Built as he is tall. Arms are out of proportion with his body, hands lie on the ground like two ends of a scarf. A belt of leather clothes his loins.

  Dick glumly kneels beside Lesley. Both stare into the ground, as though waiting for something. They each hold a metal plate attached to a chain. The stranger stands in front of Lesley and grimaces at the hysterical woman. He takes the chain from her hands and places it over Lesley’s head.When the plate touches her chest, she screeches as though the metal is burning her.

  It’s Dick’s turn. He too is sobbing now. The stranger speaks to him in a foreign tongue. When the plate touches his breasts, Dick screams out gibberish and violently shakes his head, as though he’s unrepentant.

  Fathomless eyes turn to the Premier.

  He’s not real, none of this is real.

  It’s all in his mind. A mind that’s dying.

  Am I already dead?

  In public he always claimed to be a devout Catholic. But privately, the Premier was certain that death was the end. Accounts of bright lights and reunions with long-departed loved ones were simply the brain winding down. Heaven was an invention, designed to smother fear of death. As if reading his thoughts, the stranger shakes his head in chastisement. He points his hands at the Premier’s knees.

  The pain is excruciating.

  White goalposts stand at a distorted angle, rippling slightly in the air. Abuse hurtles from the crowd, drowned out by the referee’s whistle. Dad’s crouching over him, face all panic. In a few hours, a doctor will tell him that he’ll never play football again.

  He’s losing his mind. Is this what the brain does when you’re dying?

  He just wants one opportunity to say sorry to Madeline and the kids.

  After that, I’ll go.

  The smell isn’t unpleasant but sanitary, like the disinfectants used in his mother’s nursing home. The Premier can feel his family around him, but their bodies are distorted like amoeba.

  ‘Dad, I got a B- for English.’

  ‘Darren, sweetheart, it’s time to go.’

  Madeline’s beautiful voice. He smells her strong perfume.

  ‘Okay, I love you, Dad.’

  ‘Kylie, darling, it’s time to say goodbye.’

  ‘Bye, Dad. I love you.’

  His words bash the doors of his mouth, desperate to escape.

  ‘Darling, what’s that?’ Madeline leans in close.

  ‘Oh my God. Nurse, nurse! There’s something wrong!’

  Rubber soles screech on the floor. ‘Step away, please.’

  ‘What’s wrong, doctor?’

  The darkness begins to fill the Premier’s mind. Suddenly he’s drowning in darkness.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The light is dim, the smell musty. Walls are mostly bare, with the exception of faded posters advertising long-forgotten political rallies. The hard plastic chairs argue with concrete whenever anyone moves. The urn in the corner occasionally hisses, as the passion boils over.

  Ordinarily, Charlie would be conscious that he’s the only black person in the room. He’d expect distance, protective body language from the others. But not here. Most have been coming to these meetings since ANTaR was born in the grubby furnace of the Wik debate. Charlie has no time for the name ‘Australians for Native Title and Reconciliation’. Native title has been little more than a poisonous diversion, and reconciliation, well, who the hell really knows what that means?

  But he admires them nonetheless. For so many years, they’ve been meeting in this church basement. Writing letters to politicians demanding that they implement the recommendations of all but forgotten enquiries, raising money for health campaigns, turning up to demonstrations and community meetings. Most of the time, they receive little thanks for their efforts.

  He’s old enough to know that for these few hours, those in this room will only ever reveal one side of the prisms that are their hearts. Charlie will never know what kind of partners, parents and siblings these people are. He will never know if they are kind to their colleagues or welcoming of their neighbours. But he cherishes the sincerity in the room, drinks it until his body can hold no more.

  ‘If one of my relatives had their wages taken away from them by the government, I’d be furious. I wouldn’t be satisfied until they were fully compensated.’

  Janet is five years younger than Charlie, but her heart knows the same fire. She’s been wearing the same mini-skirts for the last thirty years. Hair has stayed the same angry shock of red. She was one of the early volunteers at the Aboriginal Medical Service. And a friend of his late wife, Carys.

  ‘And as for opposing your native title claim, well that just beggars belief. Why should you have to prove who you are anyway? What happened to land rights? I just can’t get over this Labor Government. Is there any difference between them and the conservatives?’

  Jim’s been a me
mber of Labor since he was a teenager. Now he’s leaning on his walking stick, fury dancing in those hazel eyes.

  ‘Charlie, what I want to know is, how do you keep fighting? I mean, it must be so frustrating to survive decades of conservative governments, only to be fucked over by Labor.’

  ‘Language, mate, language!’

  ‘Sorry, Janet.’

  The students in the front row giggle. Charlie suppresses a grin. He wants to tell them that anger is a virtue. But the true test of courage is an enduring belief in the goodness of others, even when the past gives you no reason to believe.

  ‘Charlie, where have you been?’ Ethel stands at the back of the room. ‘Charlie, I’ve been trying to call you!’

  His phone is turned off, as it always is during meetings.

  The pan of leek and garlic releases the shrill laughter of a coven. The aroma of the vegetable lasagna in the oven is intoxicating, its warmth melding with the night breeze that enters through the old windows above the sink. Classical music drifts from the dining room like exquisite perfume. This is the life Miranda had imagined would belong to her by now.

  Jonathon is standing behind the granite bench, slicing a loaf of olive bread. The black T-shirt caresses toned muscles in his chest. Jonathon’s skin is luminous as are his blue eyes. Miranda refuses to envy her dear friend, but she craves his obvious happiness. His vitality.

  Why do I hold onto pain much more than other people do?

  It’s not as though Jonathon has never known pain. You don’t live into your late thirties without making its acquaintance. But whereas people like Jonathon allowed pain to wash over them, Miranda clings to it, allows it to overwhelm her until she douses it with alcohol.

  ‘Is this the first time you’ve been here?’

  ‘I think it is, yeah.’

  They’ve been friends for twenty years, but rarely have they been in each other’s homes. Miranda is loath to invite anyone inside her apartment, apart from Ethel and Charlie, and that’s only because Ethel insists. She’s embarrassed, but not by the broken furniture or dusty carpet. She’s ashamed of the smell of defeat.

  ‘It’s beautiful here.’

  Jonathon’s house is a little smaller than Charlie’s, but it hails from the same era. The walls have been recently painted eggshell white. The smell of paint still wafts through the airy rooms.

  ‘How are Charlie and Ethel?’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  ‘I imagine the press must be hounding Charlie?’

  ‘Yeah, but Dad’s been doing this for thirty years.’

  ‘You know, you’re pretty lucky.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘My father has no interest whatsoever in social justice. He thinks my practice is a joke.’

  She’s tempted to talk about her strained relationship with Charlie, but decides against it. Tonight is for good conversation, laughter.

  Instead, she says, ‘I think all families are complicated.’

  Jonathan smiles. ‘You’re not wrong.’

  He pours some balsamic vinegar and olive oil into white triangular dishes. ‘Here, dip the bread into this. It’s delicious.’

  ‘Where did you get the bread?’ she says.

  ‘That organic bakery down the road.’

  ‘The new one that opened a couple of weeks ago?’

  ‘Mmm, it’s fantastic.’

  Jonathon takes a bottle of red wine from the cupboard. Miranda isn’t familiar with the brand. The organic logo suggests it’s expensive. He pours himself a glass and offers one to Miranda.

  ‘No, thank you. I’m taking a break from drinking.’

  ‘Good for you. By the way, you look great at the moment.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  This morning she got up at six, feeling refreshed, was even excited to go to work. Jason had left at five-thirty; she’d felt the gentle press of his lips on her cheek.

  ‘Would you like a glass of mineral water?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Miranda welcomes the bubbles on the roof of her tongue. Jonathon raises his glass of wine.

  ‘A toast – to the law.’

  ‘And what’s so great about the law?’

  Jonathon smiles, his mind ticks over. ‘Alright. To the noble people who try to inject compassion into the law.’

  ‘Do you really think that’s possible?’

  ‘You can never afford to lose hope, Miranda.’

  ‘Speaking of hope, it’s a good thing we got the notice of appeal filed in time,’ she says.

  He sips his wine, shakes his head. ‘What a terrible time, hey? I was shocked when Brosnan was murdered, but then, to see Payne and McPherson as well. What the hell is going on?’

  He takes another sip. ‘Have the police been in touch with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Oh really? Who interviewed you?’

  ‘I can’t remember his name. That’s terrible, I’m usually pretty good at remembering names.’

  Jonathon removes the lasagna from the oven; they inhale the luscious sauce and eggplant.

  ‘It was some Aboriginal detective.’

  ‘Oh right.’

  Miranda has never been good at disguising her feelings, but right now she’s doing everything she can to remain a closed book.

  Jonathon frowns, his eyes projecting concern.

  Oh no, he knows.

  He’s going to think I’m such an idiot.

  ‘Did that detective mention anything to you about taking precautions?’

  Of course we’ve been taking precautions.

  ‘What precautions?’

  ‘Miranda, the murders are obviously related to the Corrowa claim.’

  Exasperation rings in his voice.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we need to be careful. Perhaps you should stay with Charlie and Ethel until the police catch this guy.’

  ‘Why do you assume that it’s a man?’

  ‘Miranda, don’t change the subject. I don’t know if it’s safe for you to be on your own right now.’

  ‘Actually, I am being careful. I’ll be fine.’

  Jonathon pours himself another glass of wine. He’s nervous tonight, too anxious to fill any potholes in their conversation, too willing to admonish her.

  They take the dishes into the dining room. It’s tastefully furnished and understated, with a cabinet holding wine glasses and china dishes. The huge mahogany table consumes most of the room.

  ‘This is beautiful.’

  Miranda is emphatic. She’s so proud of him, for having a successful career, an elegant home.

  ‘We like it here.’

  ‘We?’

  Jonathon’s smile seems anxious.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have a new partner.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news.’

  Miranda tries to sound excited, will do anything to hide her disappointment, her jealousy. Over the years, Jonathon has dated several women, each beautiful and brilliant. When every relationship ended, he seemed to move on easily. Jonathon was rarely one to hold on to past. He surely tasted bitterness, but he never swallowed it whole.

  ‘And does this partner have a name?’

  He offers her the bowl of rocket and parmesan salad.

  ‘Why so secretive?’

  ‘You’re on a mission. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Well I’m not about to let you off the hook.’

  ‘Okay. His name is Rod.’

  ‘Oh right,’ Miranda says too quickly, betraying her awkwardness.

  ‘That’s all you can say – “Oh right.’’’

  ‘Okay, I’m a little shocked. Just give me some time.’
>
  They smile into each other’s eyes for a few moments before she’s able to break the ice.

  ‘To be honest, I’m shocked you didn’t tell me sooner.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m your friend. I could have supported you.’

  ‘Miranda, you know I love you dearly. But to be brutally honest, you’re not exactly capable of offering emotional support to anyone.’

  ‘That’s a little harsh.’

  ‘Harsh but true. You, my dear, don’t even like yourself.’

  ‘Ow! I’m wounded.’

  He plays with his lasagna, while musing over thoughts.

  ‘I’ve seen self-loathing in my own community, Miranda. I’ve carried it too, but I can’t anymore. It’s destructive.’

  ‘You? I don’t believe that. You’re the most together person I know.’

  ‘Life is never easy, for anyone. But you . . . Miranda you live as though you’re waiting for some magic cure that’s going to take the pain out of life. Trust me – it doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Just hold on a minute. I’ve known you for almost twenty years, and only two minutes ago you tell me for the first time that you’re gay. Now you’re subjecting me to psychoanalysis. Jonathon, you need to slow down.’

  Miranda is simmering inside. She knows he’s speaking the truth. But how do you change something that’s been with you forever? Where do you begin?

  ‘I told my family a few weeks ago. Now it’s your turn. I want you to meet him.’

  ‘I already know he’s amazing. Only someone incredible could possibly deserve you.’

  Jonathon smiles at her lovingly. ‘He’s one of the good guys.’

  ‘So how come Mr Good Guy isn’t here?’

  ‘Rod’s a doctor, works gruelling night shifts at the PA Hospital.’

  ‘A doctor, huh? I’m impressed.’

  He places his hand over hers, runs his fingers over her knuckles.

  She feels a sudden emptiness. ‘I’m sorry for not being there for you.’

  The grating beep of her mobile phone goes off.

  ‘I should have turned that off.’