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Saltwater

Page 9

by Cathy McLennan


  Our vehicle roars and rattles over bumpy roads. We screech to a halt outside a pretty wooden house, enclosed from the sandy road by a white picket fence. A large mango tree in the front yard shades a shiny, green and yellow swing set. The house is freshly whitewashed with green trimming.

  ‘I’m gonna take you to see my sister baby.’ Roslyn pockets the keys and jumps down. ‘She sooo cute.’

  At the screen door, Roslyn knocks once, twice, then turns the handle and walks in. The house feels fresh, with all the windows wide open. There are no bars or security doors.

  Roslyn’s sister comes forward, so similar to Roslyn that I guess they must be twins.

  ‘Caffey, this my sister, Elizabeth,’ says Roslyn. ‘She usually works over here on Palm as the Legal Service field officer. She on maternity leave at the moment. I’m fillin’ in for her for a few months. But she gonna be back to work real soon.’

  ‘Really nice to meet you,’ I say.

  ‘Hello,’ Elizabeth whispers. She puts a finger to her lips. ‘Sssssh, baby asleep.’

  With proud smiles, they lead me to a sweet-smelling pink and white room at the end of the hallway. There, safely rugged up in a soft pink blanket, is a fat-cheeked baby, about three months old. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ Roslyn gently strokes the soft, downy cheek and smiles.

  The baby’s eyes flutter, and Roslyn jumps back and grabs my arm, pulling me out of the room on tiptoes.

  In the living room, the television is on, Days of Our Lives. The ironing board is set up near a pristine lounge suite. The iron buzzes, sending off a cloud of steam and a faint singed smell. ‘Cup of tea?’ Elizabeth asks.

  ‘Naw. We gotta get going,’ says Roslyn. ‘Just came to show Caffey the baby.’ Roslyn pauses to hug her sister.

  I head outside where I see a large Aboriginal man in his early thirties, hurriedly pulling a tarpaulin over an aluminium dinghy in the driveway.

  He has it secured, the contents invisible as Roslyn approaches. She smiles. ‘Caffey. This my brother-in-law.’

  He comes forward, his hand outstretched. We shake, then I head quickly to the Land Cruiser, hoist myself inside, and sit there, thoughts whirling.

  Roslyn gets in and takes off.

  My hands are hard fists and I’m frozen, staring ahead, thinking about what I saw, hidden under the tarp in Roslyn’s brother-in-law’s dinghy.

  Cartons of beer, casks of wine, bottles of spirits.

  Roslyn drives along the sandy road toward the Pierce residence. We pass neat houses. There is a wooded area, flashes of yellow beach and translucent blue water, and then we arrive at a small bay with half-a-dozen beach huts. Gravel crunches as we pull up at the farthest shack. Paint peels from the walls; the front door hangs off its hinge. A rusty shopping trolley lies askew nearby, half buried in the dirt.

  Outside the vehicle, there’s a crashing barrage of sound. The walls of the house tremble with music – there is no discernible beat or tune, just a clash of instruments, the lead singer screaming, angry hate-filled words.

  In the front yard are two children, no older than five, their hair bleached by the sun. They squat, drawing in the dirt with sticks. Oblivious, to us beside them, or to the noise.

  Roslyn marches up the front steps, her hands pressed over her ears, and bangs on the door. It falls forward and crashes to the floor of the verandah. She jumps back, just in time. It’s like watching an old movie: no sound except the music and the blood pumping in my ears.

  Roslyn shoots me a look, her chest rises and she marches into the house. Soon afterward, the music stops. The children continue to draw in the dirt.

  I hardly have time to turn back to the house when Roslyn emerges, followed by a tall, rangy male in his early twenties wearing bright blue boardshorts. There is no shirt over his chiselled abdomen. He carries a stubby of beer.

  She strides down the front stairs. He shouts at Roslyn. ‘Fucking turn off my music, you bitch.’

  ‘We need an affidavit for bail for your nephew, Albert Pierce!’ Roslyn yells from relative safety, ten feet below in the garden. ‘To get him out of jail—’

  He jumps down the stairs towards us.

  ‘Quick, get in the car, ’e’s drunk,’ Roslyn hisses and we bolt.

  I literally dive in the driver’s side door and scramble over to the passenger seat. Roslyn jumps in behind me, slams the door and fumbles with the keys.

  Something hits the back of the car with a bang. A rock. I turn and see him picking up another from the ground.

  ‘Quick, Ros! Hurry!’

  She inserts the keys.

  He raises his arm.

  The engine splutters into life. Ros puts it into gear—

  Bang. Another rock hits the roof.

  There is a splutter from the engine and … nothing. It’s stalled. The guy sprints towards us. I lock the doors.

  ‘It’s okay, Ros. Take a breath, focus and let’s get out of here.’

  The engine rumbles into life, Roslyn revs it, crunches the gears and we screech away.

  He bends to pick something up. Bang.

  We roar down the sandy road. The guy sprints after us, arm held up in the air. We’re picking up pace. He stops, takes aim.

  ‘Step on it, Ros!’

  There is a growl from the engine, gravel splutters, and the shirtless man is just a blur in the rear vision mirror.

  ‘Eh! I finally worked out them gears!’

  We glance at each other and burst into nervous laughter.

  I sit back in my seat. ‘That was close. Who was that?’

  ‘Bert Pierce’s uncle.’

  ‘Guess that’s another no-go for their bail address.’

  ‘Thought it was worth a shot.’

  ‘Did you find anyone to take in Malachi and Dillon?’ I ask.

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘Where to now?’ I sigh.

  ‘Hairyport.’

  Roslyn drops me off. Tony’s in the tin shed, huddled over his heavy bag, waiting.

  I sit beside him on the slatted wooden seat, and groan in relief. ‘We went to Roslyn’s brother-in-law’s place today.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I look at him, try to assess what he knows. ‘They got a pretty nice place.’

  He sighs. ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, if you know, why don’t you do something?’

  ‘He’s a powerful guy. Got lots of hidey-holes. They used to store the grog in the Legal Service office you know.’

  ‘What? The Legal Service has an office?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No one told me.’

  ‘Now you know why.’

  12

  Michael and I stroll along The Strand after dinner that night, arms intertwined. A full moon shines a silver highway over the gently moving waves. We stop to look at the view, Magnetic Island across the ocean.

  ‘What’s up?’ Michael wraps his arms protectively around me.

  ‘Just thinking.’ The warm breeze ruffles my hair and I close my eyes.

  Michael holds me closer. ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I’m thinking about my clients – kids and their parents.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ He groans. ‘Remember your parents?’

  Michael didn’t have a great start with my mum and dad. The second night we went out together, he took me to a party. We had a few drinks, and another glass of champagne on the ferry back to Magnetic Island. When he dropped me at home, I was tipsy. My parents, both Baptists, weren’t happy. The next evening they pretended to rake the driveway, throwing down their tools and converging on Michael the instant he arrived to pick me up for dinner. It was a moment of terror Michael has never forgotten.

  His heart thumps, warm against my back. ‘But you weren’t thinking about that,’ Michael whispers. ‘What was it?’

  ‘There’s a litt
le girl, only eleven. And some boys—’ and I try to say more but a clamp seizes my heart and I can’t find the words.

  Michael takes my hand and we keep walking.

  ‘You know those Aboriginal kids charged with murder?’ I say finally. ‘I think they’re innocent.’

  We pass a large group of people holding drinks, talking and laughing.

  ‘You mean those kids who did the cemetery murder?’ he says.

  ‘Yeah. That’s just it. I don’t think they—’

  ‘Hey, Micky Mad-Dog.’ Out of nowhere, a drunk journalist throws his arm around Michael’s shoulder. ‘What are you guys talking about?’

  ‘The cemetery murder,’ says Michael. ‘What do you think, Stan? Reckon the kids did it?’

  The guy laughs. ‘Guilty as sin, that’s what I say.’ He rocks on his feet, his white shirt splattered with spots of brown beer.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ I ask. ‘Because they’re black?’

  ‘Nah,’ he laughs. ‘Cause the cops charged ’em.’ He lets go of Michael and staggers back a few steps, holding up his beer, as though he is on a rocking ship.

  ‘Idiot,’ I mutter as Michael steers me away through the crowd.

  ‘Yeah, well. That’s what you’re up against.’

  Bright blue, green and red lights cast a magical glow over the trees, the sand and the restaurants. In the centre of The Strand, we reach another large group of people watching a corroboree. Young Aboriginal boys move to traditional music, stamping their feet, dressed in strips of red cloth with stripes of white paint on their otherwise naked bodies. Gum leaves tied to their bare feet rustle. Two plump Aboriginal women sit to the side of the stage singing and clicking a pair of sticks in a steady beat while an Aboriginal man plays didgeridoo.

  The boys transform into great hunters, searching for prey, heads held high, bodies firm. As they move in and out of the shadows, I recognise one face, and then another. Adam Jackson, the budding comedian. His eyes catch mine and a huge grin splits his face. Beside him, Tim dances to the beat of his own drum, several steps behind the pace. I am transfixed as feet move, upper bodies bend and sway. Then the rhythm changes and the dance segues into the traditional story of Migaloo, the white whale. There is something about the dance, their pride in themselves and their culture that is awe-inspiring. Heartlifting.

  When I arrive at the office the next morning talk among the admin staff is animated.

  ‘Everyone bin talkin’ ’bout those cemetery kids,’ says Arriet. ‘I went to play cards last night and they all askin’ me what a thirteen-year-old murderer is like.’

  ‘Everyone knows they didn’t do it. They only little kids,’ says Joice, our receptionist, young with liquid eyes and frizzy black hair scraped into a tight bun.

  ‘They’re just charging them boys with murder cause they black,’ Roslyn agrees in her throaty voice.

  ‘What do you think, Cathy?’ Joice asks.

  I stand at the sink and fill the kettle. ‘I doubt it’s cause they’re black. The police aren’t racist.’

  ‘Bullshit they aren’t,’ says Joice.

  I shrug. ‘I really don’t think they are.’

  ‘Well, we black, we prob’ly know better ’en you,’ says Joice.

  ‘And what about you, eh Caffey? What about they never let you in the Watch House? It’s cause you workin’ for us.’ Roslyn raises her eyebrows significantly.

  ‘Or, cause she a woman,’ says Joice.

  ‘And that.’ Roslyn nods.

  ‘Really?’ The kettle whistles, but I ignore it. ‘I thought maybe they just didn’t like me.’

  ‘Gawd. For a smart girl, you so dumb,’ Joice says. She and Roslyn laugh, not unkindly. I guess they’re right – a childhood on an idyllic island hasn’t exactly given me worldly insight.

  I fill my cup, add a tea bag and milk. Arriet pats my arm. ‘I’ll bring you some proper morning tea. I hear that new principal solicitor coming today, too.’

  Soon after, a blueberry muffin sits in a white paper bag on my desk. The aroma of fresh baking fills the room. It’s warm and crispy on top.

  A tall, handsome man in his mid-thirties dumps a stack of files on my desk, causing it to vibrate. ‘Hi, I’m Matthew Spence, the new principal solicitor.’

  We shake hands.

  He indicates the files. ‘Duty Court cases for you to do today.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Hey, I have a murder case involving four young boys—’

  ‘Yeah, the cemetery case. I read about it in the paper.’

  ‘I’m trying to get the police to investigate a concrete block I saw at the scene. And a weird homeless guy.’

  ‘In my experience with police, persistence pays. Keep asking them to investigate.’ He turns to go. ‘And perhaps you could ask the field officers to go to the scene and take some photos. Good luck, I’m off to Charters Towers.’

  Roslyn, Joice and a couple of the other secretaries crowd the doorway, eyeing him. He smiles. ‘Excuse me, ladies.’

  A slight passage is created as he threads his way out.

  They stare after him, giggling behind closed palms.

  ‘Eh, hubba hubba,’ says Roslyn, fanning herself. ‘He a good piece of man.’

  ‘I thought you happily married?’ Joice nudges her.

  ‘Eh. For ’im, I make an exception. What about you, Caff?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Nah,’ laughs Roslyn. ‘She only like that Michael. Ooh, girl, you must be in lurve.’

  Walter, our only male field officer, pops his head through the door. His black curly hair, shot with grey, is newly shorn close to his head. ‘What’s going on?’

  I ask him: ‘Do you think you and Roslyn could head out to the cemetery today? There’s a blood-stained concrete block there, where that murder happened. Could you get some pics?’

  Walter nods slowly.

  ‘Thanks.’

  As he leaves, I pick up the phone to ring the police station for the third time today.

  ‘CID please.’

  ‘Putting you through,’ says a tired voice on the other end.

  The phone rings, and rings. And rings out. I drop the receiver with a crash. The police need to get to the cemetery and test the blood on the concrete block. It could be the only evidence we have to prove the boys’ innocence.

  The Watch House sergeant brings in from the cells a skinny old stockman with a long, unkempt grey beard, chequered shirt and boots.

  I’ve known Arthur Thunderbolt on a g’day basis for years. He’s a fixture in the Townsville Mall. Most days he sits near centre stage in his cowboy hat with a tinny radio tuned to the local country music station. Beside him, a scrawny black dog waits patiently, head resting on paws.

  Arthur sleeps in the park nearby. With the dog, his devoted companion, he whiles away the warm nights under the shelter of the banyan tree. When Arthur has food, the dog has first pickings. Once, I bought him a hot roast lamb roll. Gravy oozed down the sides of soft white bread. Arthur immediately placed it on the ground before the dog, who carefully picked out three-quarters of the meat and left the rest for Arthur. Although saliva dripped from its jaws and its gaze was fixed on the roll with desperate longing, that starving dog took two steps backwards and cast adoring brown eyes on her owner as he ate.

  But in June in Townsville, the nights get cooler. As the days creep towards winter, sleeping in the park becomes unbearable. For three months Arthur needed to find a warm place to sleep. And so he hatched his cunning plan.

  The penalty for spitting on a police officer is three months imprisonment.

  He spat on a police officer.

  When I talk to him outside Duty Court, Arthur tells me he wants the matter adjourned until June. The beginning of winter.

  ‘The only way we could guarantee it, Arthur, is if you go to trial.’
>
  ‘Yeah, yeah. A trial. Not guilty, I’m not guilty,’ he mutters in his beard. ‘Till then, eh luv?’

  The magistrate nods as I ask for a trial date in June. ‘This matter is set for hearing, third June. Bail on own undertaking,’ he announces.

  Arthur smiles at me and nods.

  But, as my good friend Rochelle used to say, it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye. Courts don’t like people who try to use the system to their advantage, even a lonely, decrepit old stockman in need of a warm bed. In June, a visiting magistrate will give Arthur six months. Too long for an old Aboriginal cowboy.

  Inside the Big House, he will sicken and fade. His dog will be cared for by a local barrister and his wife, and will quickly become a shiny, energetic little thing re-named KD after their favourite singer. The final blow will come when, upon his release, Arthur’s dog is not returned.

  I will still see him, every day, sitting alone in his spot by the cab rank.

  ‘Arthur!’

  The old cowboy will turn and nod, eyes dull, lifeless. Within a few months of his release, his spot will be empty and Aunty Arriet will tell me the old man has died. No plaque is left to note his passing. But every time I pass that cab rank, I will look at the empty spot and remember Arthur, an old stockman who had a cunning plan and a dog who loved him.

  But for now, Arthur Thunderbolt is led back downstairs to sign his bail.

  After court, I try to check that Arthur has been let out. But pressing the buzzer to the Watch House is once again futile.

  I’ve had enough. It’s time I did something.

  Pulling out my phone, I dial home.

  ‘Hi, Mum. Operation Watch House: go go go!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  I sigh. ‘Mu-um. You know what I’m talking about. Remember? My idea for sorting out the Watch House? I need you to make that call.’

  ‘Oh? Oh, yeah. Okay. I’ll get right on it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Are you looking after yourself? Did you have a healthy lunch?’

  My stomach growls.

  ‘Gotta go, Mum. Don’t forget to make that call.’

  I hang up and smile. Phase one of operation Watch House – complete.

 

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