by Jean Bedford
Coming home in the bus from school,past gardens where freshly mown lawns lay velvety green among ornamental shrubs and flowering bulbs,walking hurriedly up the long road to our gate through the tangy scents of the bush,our drive was like the dank entranceway to some Gothic castle of doom.The Lombardy pines seemed to drain all light and warmth into themselves;they were the essence of sunlessness and shadow.
We had no garden,as such;we had a yard,where the goats were corralled,and where the dog roamed moodily on his chain.There were several ancient lilac trees which never flowered,competing as they did with the tall pittosporums that sprouted all over the cleared land like weeds and grew unchecked,and there was a small patch of dusty grass at the side of the house,oil-spattered where my father parked the van.The honeysuckle that swarmed all over the tankstand must have seeded itself.I could never imagine that my mother had nursed a cutting to life.
My parents were working down at the vegetable patch when I got home that day.I remember the flooding rush of relief that I would have a small time to myself,at least while I changed my clothes to join them.I couldn’t dawdle too long,I knew,or there’d be an ugly scene,but at least I could put on my working overalls and shirt in peace and gulp a glass of milk without my mother’s silent condemnatory glare,or my father’s brooding watchfulness.
I never told you this as it really happened.You thought I came home and found the house already on fire,my parents inexplicably trapped inside.I couldn’t tell you the truth,because I had never told you about my sister.You didn’t know I had a sister;but then,no-one did.She wasn’t old enough to go to school,and I don’t believe her birth was even registered.She was what they would call today intellectually challenged or some such euphemistic rubbish.Severely retarded,that’s what she was,and probably autistic as well.A sweet child,though.I loved her and looked after her as much as I could.My parents treated her slightly less kindly than they did the dog;but until that day I’d thought she was safe from them.They really hardly seemed to notice her existence most of the time.She slept a great deal,or sat on the back step humming to herself.She would make an unpleasant high keening sound if my mother or father went too close to her,but she would come to me,and let me feed her and put her to bed.
That afternoon I looked for her,not very thoroughly,and called out to her softly.When she didn’t answer I thought she was upstairs asleep.Then,just as I was leaving the house I heard a rhythmic thumping coming from the passage.I unlocked the little door underneath the stairs and found her.She was in only a cotton petticoat,and there were fresh bloodstains on its lap.She was silent for once,not humming or moaning,but she was repeatedly banging her head bard against the wall.I lifted the shift and saw the blood smears on her inner thighs,spreading from her hairless,innocent cunt.I picked her up and took her to the bathroom.I washed her with a hot flannel and put her into a clean nightdress and tucked her into her bed.She closed her eyes immediately and went to sleep.I waited until I heard her soft snores,then I went to the shed and removed my father’s shotgun from its ledge and loaded it.I walked down to the plateau where we grew our vegetables,the gun held stiffly vertical beside my leg.
I had to shoot my father in the arm before he took me seriously,then they obeyed me.They walked together up the steep path and into the house,blood dripping on the ground behind them.I forced them both into the cupboard under the stairs and locked the door.I dragged one of our sturdy kitchen chairs into the hall and jammed it under the doorknob.They wouldn’t have much room to move,the two of them in that small space,but I never underestimated them.
I got petrol from the drum in the shed and doused the chair and the bottom of the stairs.I went back and drew another cartful and sprinkled the petrol around the kitchen and living room.By now they smelled it and my father was shouting at me,threats and curses.The cupboard door shook as he tried to break out,but the old house was solidly built,of good thick cedar,and he had fitted the heavy bolts himself.I thought I would have enough time.I went upstairs and looked at my sleeping sister,and picked up a pillow.When I had done what I had to do there,I carried her outside,remembering to pick up the petrol can.I laid her on a patch of grass and replaced the can in the truck.Then l realised what l was doing,and I took the can inside again.I tipped it on its side on the kitchen floor,as if it had fallen from the table.I went into the living room and took one of my father’s cigars from the forbidden drawer in the sideboard.I lit it from the matches in the kitchen,being careful to hold it away from any petrol fumes,then left it on a saucer on the edge of the table to burn out.I trickled the dregs of the petrol as close to the cigar as I dared and replaced the can on the floor.In the hallway the chair was rocking and the door heaved as if there was a mighty explosion inside the cupboard waiting to happen.I could hear my father’s loud breathing and my mother’s gasps and diminished cries.I hurled several lighted matches at the petrol trail on the floor before one finally caught.For a moment I watched,fascinated,as the flames crawled towards the pool beside the stairs;then there was a whoosh and a sudden blazing eruption,and l ran.I picked up my sister and stumbled down to the river,where there was a deep hole full of yabbies,and large rocks to pile over her.By the time I came hack,most of the house was gone and bright fire lit up the yard in the falling dusk.I raced around for a few minutes in a frenzy,whooping and howling out my revenge,then I turned and ran down the road to the township.
No-one ever questioned it.No-one wondered why I wasn’t still in my school clothes—no-one even noticed,I suppose.And I was lucky.There was paraffin stored under the stairs,which exploded,and the whole of the bottom floor of the house was virtually reduced to ash before the fire brigade arrived.It seemed that my parents might have been on the staircase trying to get out when they were overcome,that the fire had started and burgeoned downstairs before they realised,and then they were trapped,probably overcome by smoke,the firemen said knowingly.Beams had fallen on top of them,which further confused things.No-one doubted me when I said that my mother sometimes used to sleep in the little room beside mine where there was a narrow made-up bed.My sister’s few clothes were too damaged for them to realise they had been cut down for a child and besides,no-one had the faintest idea of her existence.The world outside was more innocent then,more trusting of the obvious;no-one saw any need for a real investigation.
And l was the youngster in shock.Such a terrible thing.It was a wonderful thing.I have never felt again the sheer transcendent joy of those moments when I saw the fire take hold and heard my parents’ screams begin.I only hope the smoke didn’t suffocate them too soon.I hope they writhed and shrivelled and watched their own hands and feet become sizzling claws of bone.I hope they turned savagely on each other at the last,scrabbling to escape.I hope they died howling and cursing in agony.
PART 2
SPRING-SUMMER
Who’s Killing Our Children?
by Noel Baker
OFFICIAL FIGURES HIDE CHILD MURDER
The real number of children murdered at home is about double the official figure, according to a new study by an expert on child deaths.
In yet another report tabled last week it was revealed that many parents are getting away with murder by passing off a child’s death as accidental when closer investigation would reveal the children had been killed by systematic abuse.
It’s become slightly unfashionable lately to care much about abused children. We’ve become blasé; we’ve gone back to refusing to believe it can be as widespread as it appears. A social worker I spoke to actually said that she thinks ‘a lot of people have just jumped on the child-abuse bandwagon, people who want to draw attention to themselves’.
If this is what the people in the field think, no wonder the rest of us have turned our backs. But whether it’s fashionable or not, it still goes on.
Among the horrific cases in the past couple of years, a five-year-old boy was found dead with his neck broken: an 18-month-old girl died two months after being plunged into scalding water, and a six-year-old boy was killed aft
er having his head struck repeatedly with a hammer.
In one case, the mother asked Department of Community Services officers to take her five children into temporary care because she felt violent towards them.
They were left at home — no doubt a decision made by someone who thought she was ‘attention-seeking’ — and a few weeks later she and her partner killed her son.
There were 33,448 notifications of child abuse or neglect last year in NSW. It is now known that up to twenty children a year are killed by someone in their families.
About half this number were in families under the eye of government agencies, and should have been saved.
Many more children whose deaths had been put down to natural causes would be found to have died of abuse if proper investigations had been carried out.
NO FOLLOW UP
In many cases, welfare officers have been repeatedly alerted to problems, have visited the suspect homes several times, but have failed to act on complaints or on pleas for help from traumatised parents or family.
(continued page 27)
Noel sits at the back of the crowded courtroom waiting for the sentencing of Gus Farrell. Her bag and jacket are on the chair next to her; she’s saving the seat for Sharon, nodding and giving an apologetic smile whenever anyone asks if it’s taken. Just as they all rise for the judge, Sharon slips inside and edges past her.
‘Thanks,’ she whispers. ‘Got caught up.’
They sit down and Noel looks over to the raised dais which Farrell shares with two guards. He seems calm, not even apprehensive, though he’d broken down when the jury brought in the guilty verdict.
‘Would he be on sedation?’ she asks Sharon.
‘Who knows? Not supposed to be ... but they wouldn’t want a repeat of last week’s scene.’ Sharon was here, too, the day the jury returned, and Noel had heard her triumphant hiss:‘Got you,you bastard.’ Noel has been following most of the trial, to Rafferty’s annoyance.
‘The story’s dead, you told me so yourself,’ he said. ‘It’s a waste of time.’
‘It’s dead for now. I still think there’s something there.’ She’d persuaded him that if anything ever did come of it, this trial would be useful texture.
Now she lets her mind go blank as the judge begins her summing up. On the evidence there was no other possible verdict, and the prosecution had been very careful with the coroner, Albert Spinks, allowing him to express his doubts, but subtly pressing him to be specific. He admitted in the end that he couldn’t state without any doubt that it was unlikely for Farrell to have murdered the child. The defence didn’t seem to know what to make of him; they’d hardly cross-examined at all, concentrating on attacking the purely circumstantial nature of the case.
Noel scans the small room, wondering if Tony Voulas is there. She’s seen him a few times, gone out with him twice in a casual way. He’d lived up to her expectations in court, giving his evidence clearly and confidently — more confidently than he actually feels, she suspects, but he won’t admit it. She notices him standing in the doorway and when he sees her he winks at her. She turns her head back to survey the other people in the room. Artists from the tabloids are rapidly sketching the scene, most of them concentrating on the almost posed tableau of Farrell and the guards, his defence lawyers lined up at the narrow bench slightly below him. All the press drawings she’s seen so far have made Farrell look like a gnome, emphasising his protruding ears and sharp chin, but in fact he’s not a bad-looking man, she thinks. You’d meet him at any gathering and not think twice about him.
There’s a familiar-seeming woman with pale hair near the front of the court. Noel nudges Sharon. ‘Isn’t that ... whatsername? You know, she was at that picnic ...’
Sharon looks where she’s pointing. ‘Tess. Judith Harbin’s girlfriend.’
‘What’s she doing here? Judith wasn’t prosecuting this.’
‘Be quiet,’ Sharon says. ‘I want to listen to Mary-Claire. I haven’t heard all this stuff before.’
Noel knows the evidence thoroughly. She returns to studying the prisoner. What is he thinking? she wonders. If he’s guilty, is he feeling remorse, or only wishing he’d covered his tracks better? But what if Albert Spinks is right, and Farrell hadn’t killed his stepdaughter? Does he have any sense that he is being punished for what hehad done? Or is he seething with injustice and anger? Impossible to tell from that bland face. His wife, Belinda’s mother, hasn’t come to the trial at all, and she isn’t here today. Probably saving herself for the magazines and the big money, as Rafferty said when she’d refused to speak to Noel.
Judge Mary-Claire Cody finally puts down her sheaf of papers and takes her reading glasses off. Everyone sits slightly straighter.
‘That didn’t take long,’ Sharon whispers. ‘I’ve known her to spend most of the day summing up. She must be pretty convinced.’
‘There’s Rosa, too,’ Noel says suddenly. ‘Tom Thing’s wife.’
‘She works in Mary-Claire’s chambers, I think. Here it comes ...’
‘... the maximum penalty I am allowed to pronounce. No parole.’
Outside, Tony Voulas is waiting for them, grinning, in a group of uniformed policemen slapping him on the back. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I’m on a break. Come and drink champagne.’ He frowns at the expression on Noel’s face.
‘What’s the matter? You don’t still think he’s innocent, do you?’
‘No ... I don’t know.’ She shakes her head, confused.
‘She’s feeling sorry for him,’ Sharon says. ‘Now he’s the underdog. Isn’t that right?’ She gives Noel a friendly elbow in the side.
‘Sort of.’ They walk down the passage through bustling gowned lawyers and police; civilians — witnesses and families — spilling in and out of the courts, and they go up some steps to a back door opening into the street.
‘He won’t have all that good a time in prison, will he?’ Noel says.
‘Be lucky to last a year,’ Tony says, unconcerned. ‘He’ll be in isolation, but someone’ll relax, one day, and someone else’ll be waiting with a sharpened spoon.’
‘Where are we going?’ She and Sharon are following him down Liverpool Street.
‘The Hilton, where else?’ He takes her hand loosely as they cross at the lights and Sharon gives her another dig with her elbow.
*
On Sunday morning Noel wakes when she hears the whistle of the paper delivery. She tries not to groan as she gets out of bed — she’s got a hangover from the retsina Tony pressed on her the night before. She puts on a T-shirt and some knickers, accidentally knocking the glass of water from her bedside table and swearing, but it doesn’t wake him. She can’t restrain an affectionate grin at the sight of him, mouth loosely open, one arm up over his eyes. He was unpredictably tender, making love, and they’d laughed a lot. They’ve only been asleep a couple of hours.
She collects her newspapers from the foyer and meets Paddy as she climbs back up the stairs. He’s hovering on her landing.
‘You look shocking,’ he says. ‘Had a good time?’
‘Great,’ she laughs. ‘Are you coming or going? Want a coffee?’ She doesn’t think Tony will wake for some time and she hasn’t seen Paddy for a while.
‘Love one. I wasn’t goingor coming, I heard you go down and thought if I hung around you’d give me breakfast.’ He looks as if he’s been up all night, baggy-eyed and grey under his tan, with stubble over his chin.
‘That’s stretching it, but I can probably do you toast and vegemite ...’
He follows her into her kitchen and she leaves him there while the coffee perks. She goes into the bathroom and looks at herself in the bathroom mirror. Mascara is streaked below her eyes, making her look like a raccoon, she thinks, and her hair has sprung up in whorls on one side of her head and lies flattened on the other. She splashes herself with hot water and makes a few passes with a brush. When she goes into the bedroom to find her track pants, Tony opens his eyes.
‘What day is it?’ He pulls her over to the bed with a long arm and kisses her. ‘Why are you up and about? Do I smell coffee?’
She runs her finger lightly across the silvered scar under his left eye. ‘Shall I bring it in to you?’
‘That’d be heaven on wheels. Very strong, very black. Two sugars. Can I smoke, too?’
‘Of course.’ She tosses him his cigarettes from the dresser.
‘And will you come back to bed?’ He pats the space beside him.
‘No, I’ve got company.’ She grins at his disappointed frown. ‘I bet you were a real spoilt little Greek boy, weren’t you?’
He laughs. ‘I had three of the biggest toughest sisters you’ve ever seen. I had to do weights all through school just to get strong enough for them to stop beating me up.’
‘Sure. I can see where it completely ruined your self-confidence, too.’ She pulls her pants on while his eyes close again. They’d used four condoms during the night, and now she notices he has more still in their seals on his side-table. She shakes her head and closes the door gently behind her.
*
Tony comes into the hall just as Paddy is leaving. He’s put his jeans on, leaving his hairy shoulders and chest bare. She resists an urge to caress him, and moves back into the kitchen. ‘What happened to that coffee?’
‘I thought you’d gone back to sleep. There’s plenty.’ She takes the pot off the stove and pours him a large mug.
‘Who was that guy leaving? He arrive too early for the day shift?’ He sits at the kitchen table and takes a large gulp of the scalding coffee. He grimaces and reaches for the sugar. ‘That’s Paddy. He’s my upstairs neighbour.’