Saltwater

by Cathy McLennan

  ‘Yes, Your Honour.’

  The prosecutor stands. ‘Your Honour, we have a young Aboriginal girl in custody. Perhaps we could deal with that matter next.’

  The magistrate nods. ‘We’ll adjourn to the Children’s Court.’

  Mrs Zander looks at me, bewildered, as the Watch House constable leads her back down to the cells to complete the release paperwork.

  There is a tap on my arm. Detective Dinlevy leans in close.

  ‘You know Kevie will never get bail to live with her,’ he says. Then he walks away.

  ‘Those four boys could be innocent, you know!’

  Heads turn, faces look at me.

  The detective laughs.

  9

  A tiny girl from Palm Island with a runny nose and big brown eyes is led into the Children’s Court.

  Olivia.

  ‘Caffey!’ Her face lights up and she tries to reach out to me, but the Watch House constable has tight hold of her wrist. He walks her to a chair at the bar table and sits her down, then stands directly behind.

  She rubs her tiny wrist and smiles up at me. The courtroom door opens and an overweight dark woman, Olivia’s mum, Wendy, lurches in.

  ‘Whatcha bin up ta now, Olivia? Eh?’ Warm breath and a cloud of methylated spirits flood over me and she raises her arm as if to hit Olivia. The constable and I jump forward.

  Wendy stumbles back, burps and grimaces at us. ‘Whatcha think. Ahm gonna hit ’er? Naah, eh.’

  The door opens again and a different wispy Family Services officer in cheap cotton dress and sandals enters with a bundle of paperwork.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I frown at her. ‘Why isn’t Olivia on Palm Island?’

  She places her files on the bar table. ‘Apparently, Olivia was flown to Townsville for medical treatment for a viral infection. There’s some concern given she has only one working lung as a result of having been born with foetal alcohol syndrome. But she ran away yesterday and started stealing small items from various houses in the area.’

  I turn to the child and raise my eyebrows. ‘Olivia? What’ve you been doing?’

  She speaks in her low voice. ‘I made friends wif some kids. They said they’d play wif me if I git ’em some lollies ’n Coke. But I din ’ave na money.’

  ‘Liv, that’s no way to make friends.’

  Her brow creases. ‘But I don’ got no friends, ’cept you.’

  The magistrate enters. ‘Right. The case of Olivia Lily Farrell. We have the child here, the defence, Family Services …’ He drops his pen in irritation and sits back in his chair. ‘Where’s the prosecutor?’

  The door bangs open and with a rush of air the prosecutor enters. ‘Sorry, Your Honour.’

  ‘Olivia Farrell is only eleven, Your Honour,’ I say, sliding my copy of the QP9 up the bar table. ‘We’re seeking bail and an adjournment to Palm Island to meet up with her other cases.’

  The prosecutor glances at the QP9. ‘No objection. Total value of the thefts amounts to a little over fifteen dollars.’

  Olivia is released soon after. Walking with her through the foyer, we pass crowds of dark faces, patiently waiting to see me. Olivia chats all the way to the car, which idles on the kerb out front.

  As the car door is opened and I say goodbye, she screams. ‘Nah, nah. I’m stayin’ ’ere. I wanna stay wif Caffey …’

  She grips on to my arm. Wendy yanks her wrist. Olivia tightens her hold; fingernails bore into my skin. Wendy pulls Olivia hard.

  ‘Stop that.’ The Family Services officer scowls at Wendy.

  Wendy lets go, and as I smooth down Olivia’s blouse I see dark patches of bruising all the way up her arm and down her back. There are more screams and remonstrations, and the sound of a car door opening but the world has tunnelled as I wonder about Olivia’s bruises. Someone has been hurting her.

  ‘I wanna stay wif, Caffey,’ Olivia screams and for a brief moment I picture what it would be like to have her in my studio apartment on The Strand. I could keep her safe. But how could I get to work every day?

  I kneel on my haunches. ‘Olivia. Come on, I’ve got a lot of other people to look after as well as you. Get in the car.’

  ‘Noooooo.’

  I forcefully peel her fingers off my arm and she is half-carried, half-dragged into the car. The door slams and I am left at the kerb feeling as though a bar of lead has sunk into my stomach and I am the ultimate Judas, betrayer.

  Upstairs in the foyer, a tall, skinny teenager gives me a broad smile. He stands beside a tired-looking white woman with blonde hair.

  Roslyn bustles in behind me. ‘What your name, eh?’

  The blonde answers. ‘This is Adam Jackson. I’m Joanne Jackson, his half-sister. I look after him.’

  Roslyn looks at Joanne and Adam. ‘You got a black father, eh?’ He nods. ‘This ya first time in court?’

  Adam nods again.

  ‘He’s seventeen,’ Joanne says. ‘Stand up straight, Adam.’

  He gives me an apologetic, what-can-you-do shrug and whispers, ‘Did ya hear? Police charged two kids yesterday, one stole a battery and one stole some fireworks.’

  I shake my head. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘They charged one and let the other guy off.’

  It takes a moment, then I laugh. ‘Oh, right, a joke.’

  He widens his eyes in mock amazement. ‘Sure, a joke. Haven’t you ever heard a joke before?’

  ‘I’ve lost my sense of humour lately.’ I glance at the file. ‘Says here you stole a bicycle?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sighs. ‘Some boys dared me to.’

  ‘I’ve already returned the bicycle and paid for the damages,’ says Joanne. ‘He’s going to work it off in my garden.’

  ‘You’ve never been in trouble before, Adam, so you’ll probably just get a good behaviour bond, which means as long as you stay out of trouble for a few months you don’t have to pay the fine. But you’re eighteen. An adult. Pretty serious if you offend when you’re an adult.’

  ‘He got in with a bad crowd,’ says Joanne. ‘Making him do bad things.’

  ‘No-o they don’t.’ Adam scuffs his feet.

  ‘Oh, really. And if they told you to jump off a cliff?’

  ‘I wouldn’t jump off no cliffs.’

  She turns to me. ‘And he won’t go to school.’

  ‘School sucks,’ says Adam.

  ‘You need to find something to do with yourself, mate,’ I tell him. ‘Have you thought about what you want to be in life?’

  He nods. ‘A comedian.’

  ‘Got any more jokes?’

  ‘There’s two fish in a tank. One says, “How do you drive this thing?”’

  I laugh. ‘Great. But even a comedian has to have an education. You need to learn how to handle your money, you need to know geography, so you can get to your gigs. You’ve gotta be able to read to study your jokes.’

  ‘Thanks, Miss.’ He stands. ‘See you then.’

  ‘Adam? Haven’t you forgotten something?’

  ‘What, Miss?’

  I aim a thumb in the direction of the court.

  Outside the glass doors of the first-floor foyer, Roslyn lights up. The smell of the cigarette is foul, but it sets off little explosions inside my head, begging, pleading for a hit of nicotine.

  ‘Want one?’ Roslyn asks.

  ‘No.’ I force myself to look away.

  A short man with receding dark hair and thick spectacles approaches. He wears a white, short-sleeved cotton shirt with several pens sticking out of the pocket. Under one arm is a tatty green clipboard. Eugene – a lawyer from Legal Aid Queensland. Known to us as ‘White Legal Aid’. He lights a cigarette, draws back deeply, eyes closed.

  I grin. ‘Busy day?’

  ‘Usual. Twenty-seven punters. Only three to go.’ He glances a
t his watch. ‘I’ve got to be at the prison by two.’

  Roslyn blows a smoke ring that drifts gently toward the glass doors of the courthouse. As the ring evaporates, there is sudden activity inside. People scatter in unison, like a school of fish with a shark in their midst.

  An instant later, the grey-haired security guard leaps over the Legal Aid bench like an Olympic high jumper and disappears behind it.

  A man wielding a gun bursts through the glass doors near where Roslyn, Eugene and I stand at the railing. So close I can smell the sharp tang of his sweat.

  ‘Roslyn—’ the warning dies on my lips.

  The man pivots, gun hanging by his side, his other arm raised in a keep back gesture.

  Roslyn freezes, cigarette aglow between her lips.

  He hesitates. Like a cornered snake, he’s desperate to flee. If I stay still, I’ll be out of his way.

  He turns and sprints past us along the landing, towards the back of the courthouse, and lunges for the pathway leading to the road and up the hill. Above him, the midday sun blazes down in a white haze.

  The police prosecutor, Tony Lewis, bursts out of the glass doors. Pauses. Looks both ways. His eyes fix on the brown, fleeing figure in the distance, and he bolts after him.

  We watch the chase for a moment, until the running figures disappear around a corner.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ says Eugene. ‘This is definitely going to stuff up the court schedule.’

  ‘That’s just what I was thinking.’

  ‘Do you think the prosecutor’ll need a break when he gets back?’ he muses.

  ‘Depends on how far he has to go.’

  ‘Hmm. Or if he gets shot.’ He squints into the distance. ‘Although I reckon that guy is more likely to blow his own foot off.’

  I turn to Roslyn. She’s frozen on the spot, cigarette stuck to her lower lip. A long line of ash tilts precariously toward the ground.

  A police officer emerges, trips on the lintel of the glass doors and hops toward us.

  Someone shouts, ‘That way!’, and the police officer stumbles, then takes off, his belly flopping over his belt as he heads for the path.

  ‘I bet he got that gun from the cops in the courtroom,’ Eugene says. ‘They should teach them jiujitsu or something instead of giving them guns.’

  I nod. ‘Pretty hard to get your jiujitsu stolen.’

  A young lawyer in a grey suit exits the courthouse next. ‘Did anyone see my client?’

  There is a pause. People stare. Laughter erupts like the spray from a shaken soda bottle.

  Inside the glass doors in the foyer, the security guard emerges from behind the Legal Aid desk. Police sirens whine in the distance.

  Slowly, Roslyn raises her hand and pulls the cigarette from her bottom lip. Her eyes are glassy.

  I pat her arm. ‘Glad you got your mojo back, Ros. I thought you might never speak again.’

  ‘Hoped she’d never speak again, you mean,’ says Eugene.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Ros says, putting a fresh cigarette into her mouth and lighting it from the stub.

  ‘Coming to the Exchange for a few beers after work?’ Eugene asks me.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. We look at Roslyn.

  She does a double take. ‘Nah, not me! I get enough of youse lawyers at work.’

  That evening at the Exchange Hotel, it’s me, Eugene and a couple of Legal Aid lawyers.

  ‘Just another day in paradise.’ Eugene turns to me. ‘What’d you think?’

  I nod. Then shake my head. ‘It all happened so fast. I didn’t quite know what was going on until it was over …’

  They laugh.

  ‘We were never in any real danger,’ says Eugene. ‘He had that gun pointed at the ground. He just wanted to get away, he wasn’t going to use it.’

  Mick – fifties, dark-haired, round-featured with a beaming smile – puts his arm around my shoulders and briefly squeezes. ‘So, you staying?’

  ‘Of course.’ I nod.

  John, who’s in his mid-twenties and wears a shiny, grey suit and goatee, sips his beer. ‘The prosecutor caught up with him on the goat track on Castle Hill. Near the water tank and the Jones Street cutting.’

  After two more rounds of beer, we head over to the nearby video arcade to play Daytona. The air is filled with clashing, adrenaline-pumping sound effects from dozens of computerised games. I slide behind the wheel of the red car, plant my foot to the floor and accelerate as fast as I can. The machine sings: Day-tonah-ah-ah, yeah!

  Moving rapidly through the gears, I flip at the first corner. My red car takes a battering. The other lawyers have left me for dust, when an urgent voice says, ‘Eh, Miss. You gotta brake at them corners.’

  Another boy adds, ‘Yeah, Miss. And go wide.’

  Over my shoulder I glimpse two dark faces in the flickering blue light. Adam Jackson, the budding comedian from court this morning, and another boy I don’t recognise. I change gears and accelerate towards a corner.

  ‘Go wide, Miss. Up there, that’s it.’ Adam’s voice surges.

  So I steer wide. Sparks fly as the front bumper scrapes along the outer barrier.

  ‘Brake. Now Miss, eh!’ The other boy leans over my shoulder, transfixed by the screen.

  I slam my foot on the brake and turn into the curve.

  ‘Too much, Miss. You wanna feather it. Real easy, like.’

  He’s right. I’ve braked too hard and the car wobbles. I’ve lost speed.

  I stamp on the accelerator down the straight. Eugene’s tail-lights come into view. Corner ahead. ‘You can do it, Miss,’ says Adam. ‘’member what we tole ya. Go wide, brake easy, eh.’

  I slap the gears, take the car wide and tap the brake. The car roars around the curve and into the straight, and suddenly Eugene is in my sights.

  Day-tonah-ah-ah, yeah! the machine sings. A high-powered engine roars.

  ‘You’re doin’ it!’ Adam is breathless.

  ‘Get ’im!’

  ‘You’re toast, Eugene!’ I call, as my red car zips past his blue one.

  ‘C’mon, Miss, you can get these suckers, eh!’

  ‘Hey! Go easy on the insults fellas.’ Mick’s eyes are on his screen.

  Adam leans close. Whispers, ‘You can get these suckers.’

  John’s yellow car is up front. It enters a hairpin curve, skids and slides toward the barrier.

  ‘C’mon, Miss.’ My seat jiggles as Adam springs up and down in excitement.

  My tongue reaches left as I enter the curve. Turn the wheel. Not too much.

  ‘Wide. That’s right, Miss!’

  My big toe feathers the brake.

  There’s a gap between John’s sliding car and the wall. I plant my foot.

  ‘Watch it, Miss!’

  My car hits the barrier and launches into the air, twisting, turning. As it falls, it clips the rear of John’s yellow car and sends him into a deadly spin – off the track.

  I land, accelerate, slam the car into fifth gear. Mick’s car is dead ahead.

  The finish line appears. My accelerator is on the metal. I edge closer just as Mick’s car flies past the finish line.

  Day-tonah-ah-ah, yeah! Chequered flags wave. The car slows. My placing flashes on screen: 2nd.

  ‘Yes!’ Adam hoots. Hands slap behind me as the boys high-five.

  ‘Thanks for the tips, boys. You’re an awesome pit crew!’

  I reach over and nudge John’s arm. ‘Bad luck, mate.’

  ‘I’ll get you next time, McLennan.’

  We climb out of the cars. Adam smiles broadly. His teeth white, slim body erect. His friend is a head shorter, overweight, with slightly dazed eyes and very black skin.

  ‘Another minute and you woulda had ’im, Miss,’ says Adam.

  ‘Not likely!’ Mick scoffs. ‘Fa
ce it. I am the champion.’

  Adam glances at Mick, leans in and whispers in my ear. ‘You’ll get ’im next time, Miss.’

  I smile. ‘Got any good jokes?’

  He nods and turns to the lawyers. ‘I’m gonna be a comedian one day.’

  ‘C’mon then,’ says Mick. ‘Tell us a joke.’

  ‘Sure.’ Adam looks Mick up and down. ‘This blackfulla’s driving a car. Copper stops ’im, says, “Did you know you were speeding?” Blackfulla says, “No.” His Missus goes, “Oh yeah you did, eh.” Cop says, “Did you know your tail lights aren’t working?” Guy says, “No”. His missus says, “You did an’ all. Don’t you gammon to them coppers.” Guy goes to his Missus, “Shut up!” Copper asks the Missus, “Does he always talk to you like that?” She goes, “Only when he’s drunk!” ’

  We laugh. Mick says, ‘You’re pretty funny.’

  ‘What are you guys doing tonight?’ I ask.

  ‘Just hangin’,’ says the dazed boy.

  Adam grins, full of goodness and mischief. ‘What you don’t know, won’t hurt you.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The other boy nods and grins.

  ‘Anyway, we gotta get going now,’ says Adam, glancing at his friend. He leans in and whispers loudly: ‘This is Tim Woodward. Tim gotta get home. He bashed his head against the post when he was playin’ football, few years back, an’ he hasn’t bin right since.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tim smiles, evidently used to this sibilant whisper. ‘But I’m gonna come right soon.’

  Then I remember reading his story in the newspaper. Tim was a promising schoolboy footballer until someone forgot to put the pads on the posts during an amateur game. He was in a coma for weeks.

  ‘Good to meet you, Tim.’ I hold out my hand. He grins, grabs my hand and pumps it up and down.

  As they leave, Adam puts a protective arm around Tim’s shoulders.

  Mick watches them go. ‘These kids, it’s like the world is skewed against them.’

  I grin. ‘That’s what we’re for. We’ll skew it back.’

  ‘We’re the skewers,’ says John. ‘I like that.’

  We laugh, but as I look at the others, I notice the laughter doesn’t quite reach their eyes.