One of the Family Services officers is behind us. ‘We believe the mother is serious about giving up alcohol this time.’
‘Good. They’ll need a lot of support.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she nods. ‘We fully intend to offer support. I mean, we’re under-resourced. But … yes. We will. Offer … s-support.’ Her voice trails off and she looks away.
‘So what you gonna do first to support ’em?’ Roslyn asks.
‘We’ll have to get funding and um, put plans in place.’
‘What plans?’ Roslyn frowns.
‘I-I beg your pardon?’
The door to the Children’s Court clicks open and the Family Services officer darts back into the emerging group like a frightened minnow.
Roslyn clicks her tongue with annoyance and turns her glare on me.
I shrug. ‘Roslyn, did you ever feel like you’re bashing your head against a brick wall?’
‘All the time. All the bloody time.’
In the foyer, Jasmine, one of the new lawyers, wears a pink silk pantsuit, matching lipstick and heavy gold bracelets. On her feet are another pair of sky-high heels.
Roslyn huffs in my ear: ‘What she think she wearing?’
I grin at Roslyn in her electric blue blouse, matching beads and high heels. ‘She must have some nerve to wear bright colours in the courthouse.’
Roslyn nods, eyes narrowed at Jasmine. I laugh.
Jasmine holds a clipboard of our yellow forms. She smiles as we pass, her almond eyes warm and friendly, then turns back to the client, a man we know as the serial adjourner. He hopes to escape punishment by having his case put off. It’s just an assault charge; he’s not going to jail. But he takes up so much time, coming back and forth. I haven’t been able to get him to see sense.
‘No. We need to deal with this matter now. There is no point putting it off anymore,’ Jasmine says in her strong South African accent.
I can’t quite hear what the client says, but it’s clear he’s arguing.
‘I can tell you that won’t happen. Come along now.’ Her voice is firm. She marches toward the court. The client trots along behind.
Jasmine turns and winks at me.
Late-evening gloom darkens my office. I’m hunched over the computer when Roslyn knocks at the door. She leans on the frame, rattling a bunch of car keys, her face pensive.
‘Yep?’
‘Look, Caffey. You go easy on Wendy Farrell, ya hear?’
‘You want me to be nice to a mother who fed flagons of cheap wine to her unborn baby on a daily basis?’ I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Who beat Olivia, got passed-out drunk and left her to the mercy of those child-abusing mongrels on Palm. Hmm?’ I glare at Roslyn. ‘I’ve got no pity for Wendy.’
‘You might. If you heard her story.’
I do a long, slow blink. I don’t want to feel pity for Wendy. Anger burns in me, a pilot light constantly flaming against her. Someone has to take the blame for Olivia’s suffering.
‘When she were pregnant, there weren’t no one to stop ’er drinkin, eh,’ says Roslyn.
‘Oh, well, that’s okay then. Poor old Wendy.’
‘When they lived on Palm, Wendy’s ’usband used to bash ’er. Bin bashin’ ’er for years. One night, ’e comes ’ome drunk. He knocks down the door and bashes Wendy to the ground. Starts stabbin’ ’er everywhere he can reach. Stabbed ’er so hard in the chest the knife broke off on one of ’er ribs. Bleedin’ like a pig they say. Nearly died.’
Onscreen the cursor flashes. Misery blooms in my chest.
‘Reginald been sentenced to five and a half years in the Big House. Grievous bodily harm with intent.’
‘Was Olivia there?’ I ask. ‘When he stabbed her?’
Roslyn shrugs. ‘Guess so.’ She takes a breath. ‘Wendy’s really messed up, you know – in the head. But she wants the best for Livi. I think she’s really given up the grog this time.’
She waits.
Eventually, I look over. ‘I’ll be polite to her, Roslyn. I mean it. But she’s ruined her child’s life and I’ll never forgive that.’
‘Wendy isn’t much older than you, Miss Smarty,’ Roslyn snaps. ‘She’s twenty-four. She only thirteen when she got pregnant.’
And then Roslyn’s gone, the sound of her feet diminishing down the hallway. The outside door squeaks. Clicks. Locks.
A thirteen-year-old, pregnant, alcoholic. A bashed and beaten mother – the knife broken off in her ribs. Did anyone, anywhere, ever really care about Wendy? But as soon as the feelings of pity seep in, I push them away. Remembering Olivia’s pleading eyes, her thick, wet cough from her one working lung.
Midnight arrives with its eerie quiet. Even the shouts, screams and drunken laughter from the park across the way falls silent.
My office chair creaks. The paperwork for the bail applications in the boys’ murder cases is complete, although the affidavits are sparse. The field officers still can’t find anywhere for little Kevie to live, except with his grandmother old Mrs Zander, who’s charged with attempting to kill her neighbour.
The originating application goes through the fax machine to Paul Quane, the barrister, whose office is no doubt empty. I could grab some cushions from reception and sleep here, but my nice safe bed lures me. I lock the front door and head home.
In bed I toss and turn. I see Tanya Butler sitting against the wall, waiting in her flowery muu-muu. Her curly black hair riddled with grey. That day her face was tear-stained but stoic. As I entered the room, her head turned eagerly towards me, her eyes desperate.
‘Any news?’
‘Not yet. We have a barrister, though.’
‘Oh. You’ll stay on it – won’t you?’
‘Of course. But he’s got experience. He’ll make all the decisions.’
How confident I sounded.
I get up. Go to the dark kitchenette, pour myself a glass of milk, and switch on the television. Bathed in blue light, I slump on the pillows, eyes half closed.
On screen, men in white flannels run around an emerald green field. Australia are nought for forty-five against Pakistan in the second test of the cricket. Words run across the bottom of the screen. ‘Regular programming will resume next week.’ Something niggles at the back of my brain, like an alarm going off in a far corner of a house. Something to do with the murder case.
Second test. Regular programming will resume …
My eyes close, the remote slips from my hand.
*
At the office next morning, Doris, the head secretary, places a steaming cup of tea and a file on my desk.
‘Client waiting to see you.’
‘Who?’ I rub my eyes.
‘Charlie Kent.’
The door slams against the wall and Charlie lurches in. His eyes wide, darting. He stands in front of the desk, fixing on me.
‘Hi, Charlie.’ I attempt to smile. ‘How are you?’
Charlie stands between me and the door.
As Doris steps out, a tall, handsome, Aboriginal man appears in the open doorway breathing heavily. He looks like a night-club bouncer, muscled torso barely covered by a t-shirt. His chest heaves.
‘There you are, Charlie,’ he says.
Charlie stares at me with his wide yellow eyes crisscrossed with red. He makes no move to acknowledge the newcomer, who approaches me, hand held out.
‘Shane. From Aboriginal mental health.’
I shake his hand. ‘Hi. I’m Cathy.’
‘I know. Charlie here has told me a lot about you,’ says Shane, his voice bright like a kindergarten teacher’s. ‘Now, Charlie, why don’t you sit down?’
Shane reaches out and places a large hand on Charlie’s arm. Charlie breaks his gaze momentarily and allows Shane to help him into a seat opposite my desk.
Shane smiles at me. Rea
ssured, I turn to Charlie.
‘How can I help you, Charlie?’
Out of his pocket, he pulls a grubby white document. Unfolding it, he holds it over the desk. The folds have weakened the paper and ripped, but the heading is clear: ‘Bench Charge Sheet’. Charlie has fresh charges of threatening behaviour.
‘That Jasmine said I’m goin’ to jail. I’m gonna bash her,’ he says, eyes blank, teeth clenched. He pumps his fist up and down. ‘I’m goin’ ta get my knife and slice ’er up, and that black coconut, Walter.’
‘Oh, Charlie, that won’t help. You need to get some treatment for your schizophrenia.’
‘Them bastards won’t help, Caffey. Only you can help me.’
I shake my head.
‘I wanna sign the sorry book at the puh-leez station,’ says Charlie.
‘What? The sorry—?’
Smash. Charlie’s fist comes down hard on his file. ‘The sorry book!’
I turn to Shane, who has a concerned but confused look on his face. ‘Uh, Charlie—’
Charlie smashes his fist down again. The entire desk shakes. Two files fall off the edge. I move back in my chair until it’s pressed against the wall.
Maybe if I hadn’t got him off?
Deep breath.
‘Oh, the sorry book,’ I say, smiling.
‘And I wanna see ociffer … for some …’ His voice trails off.
‘Right.’ I nod. ‘Well, that’s fine. Shane can take you in a few minutes.’
‘I wanna sign the sorry book,’ Charlie shouts. He sits forward in his chair, eyes burning.
It occurs to me that he probably means the bail-reporting book.
‘No problem. The police station is just up the road.’ I turn to Shane for help.
Shane sits back in his chair, a frightened look on his face that makes my stomach twist.
‘Charlie. Could you wait outside? I need to speak to Shane. Just for a minute.’
Charlie rises so suddenly his chair bounces on the carpet behind him. He takes a step toward my desk and raises his fist high in the air. I cringe and put my hands on either side of my head, squeezing my eyes shut.
Nothing happens.
I open my eyes and look at Charlie. He has a lopsided grin on his face and his eyes have a hurt look.
‘I’m not gonna hurt you, Caffey,’ he says. ‘You’re my friend.’
‘Oh, I know that, Charlie,’ I say in a calm voice, lowering my clammy hands. ‘It’s just, when you hit my desk like that, I get a bit scared.’
‘You gotta help me, Caffey.’
‘I’m trying, Charlie.’ I make my voice firm. ‘But you’ve got to help me too, and do what I ask. No more threats against Jasmine or our staff. Okay? Now, I need you to wait outside for a minute, then Shane can take you up to sign the sorry book.’
To my surprise and relief, he sighs and walks to the door. Once there, he shoots me a long, blank stare. Then he leaves.
He could be back any moment.
‘Shane. What sort of treatment is he getting down at mental health?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he says.
‘But …?’
‘I’m a liaison officer,’ Shane says. ‘You’ll have to ask his doctor.’
‘Okay. Tell them his condition is getting worse. He’s drinking. His charges are multiplying, threatening people with knives and assault. It’s only a matter of time before he really hurts someone.’
Shane nods.
‘He needs treatment,’ I continue. ‘Urgently. Maybe as an in-patient somewhere.’
Shane looks up. ‘Where?’
‘B-but …’ I stutter in surprise. ‘But you’re from mental health. I thought you could tell me?’
‘He’s banned from entering our clinic,’ Shane says. ‘He came in last week and held a knife to Wilma’s throat. She’s the nurse.’ He coughs. ‘Was the nurse. She’s on stress leave now. Can’t stop crying.’
‘Oh.’ I sigh. ‘Isn’t there somewhere else. Like—’
The door slams against the wall again. Flecks of paint drift to the floor. The hulking figure of Charlie Kent fills the entrance. The door bounces towards him and he hits it fiercely with his forearm. His eyes narrow suspiciously.
‘What you doin’, Caffey? I thought you gonna help me?’
‘I am. I am, Charlie. But you have to sign the sorry book, now. Come on. Off you go.’
He takes a step forward. Nausea rises as I stand and approach him, but with Charlie blocking the doorway, and Shane still in his chair my only protection is to behave normally. I reach for Charlie’s hand. He shakes mine, eyes flickering between blankness and bewilderment.
‘It was great to see you today, Charlie,’ I say. ‘Now you have to go to the police station and sign in.’
I push him gently on the upper arm, towards the exit. For a moment he freezes, an immoveable statue. I keep up the gentle pressure and he yields, moving slowly down the cramped hall to reception.
Staff are gathered there, in small groups. They move back as we pass.
‘Okay, bye now.’ We emerge into bright sunlight. The heat is like stepping into an oven.
Charlie turns back towards me.
I step inside the office and lock the glass doors with a quick snap.
In Bruce’s office, the big man sits at his desk. He looks up, a shadow of annoyance crosses his face.
‘Sorry to barge in.’ Sitting across from him, I wipe damp hands against my skirt. ‘I need help.’
He raises his eyebrows.
‘It’s Charlie. It’s just, I …’ I stutter. ‘He scares the crap out of me. I don’t think I can continue seeing him.’
‘Well, if you can’t handle this job then I—’
‘Oh, it’s not that. I think I can, it’s just … Charlie.’
He shakes his head. ‘You’re young. And if you can’t do this job, we can’t carry you.’
I stand immediately. ‘No. I can do it.’
Bruce puts down his pen and sighs. ‘Look at all this paperwork.’ He gestures at the papers spread over his desk. ‘There’s a lot more to running this office than you know. I need you on the frontline. You’re part of the team.’
I nod my head slowly. I’m part of a team. It should be comforting, but strangely, it’s not.
I’m going to take five, I decide as I leave Bruce’s office. Sit in the break room with a cup of tea and an apple. Do the crossword. Maybe I’ll even take twenty minutes. Ooh, sheer luxury.
Walter is in the staffroom, the television on. Another green field, men dressed in white chase a red ball. Cricket. It could be anywhere in the Commonwealth.
‘Who’s playing?’ I sink into a chair and bite my apple.
‘Australia versus Pakistan.’
‘Are we winning?’
‘The Packies are floggin’ us. But we might be able to keep ’em to a draw. If we don’t lose any more wickets.’
A man runs up a track made of brown footprints on the green field. His arms windmill and a red ball goes flying like a missile at a man with white pads and a wooden bat. The bat swings, misses and crack, the wickets go flying.
Words run across the bottom of the screen: ‘Regular programming will resume after the second test.’
‘Holy shit!’ I stare at the television.
Walter frowns. ‘We’ve still got one wicket in hand. Slim chance, but eh, it’s too soon to call for divine intervention.’
‘When was the first test?’
‘I dunno. Couple of weeks ago.’
‘Like, around Wednesday twenty-eighth September?’
‘I dunno. Oh, yeah, hang on. Wednesday. Yeah, I think my missus wanted to watch her sitcom that night. But the cricket was on. I think they’d moved it to the Tuesday, the night before. Why?’
I stand abruptly. ‘K
evie just lost his alibi.’
21
There’s an open muesli bar, barely nibbled, lost amongst the paperwork on my desk. I put it there not five minutes ago. I’m feeling around for it.
‘What was that?’ asks Paul Quane, the boys’ barrister, on speaker phone.
‘Nothing.’
‘Look, I received your draft bail affidavits and for crying out loud, the boys can’t all live at the same residence – with some third party no one has ever heard of.’
‘And as I was saying—’ I peer in a drawer for the muesli bar.
‘You need to find them somewhere separate to live if they’re going to have a chance at bail. I’ve told you that before.’
‘I know. But there’s not—’
‘Listen to me.’
‘No! You listen to me,’ I snap. I’m tired and hungry and the muesli bar just doesn’t want to be found. ‘We’ve been trying to find them somewhere to live and there’s no one who will take them. Unless you can think of anywhere?’ I pause. ‘Arriet and I will go and see them again this morning. We’ll try one more time. But if you have any other suggestions, I’d be really grateful. Okay?’
Dial tone. Crap.
Arriet’s dark, round, good-humoured face appears at the door.
‘Aunty Arriet! Did you check with Kevie’s alibi witness?’
‘Yep.’ She leans against the door post, grasping an armload of files.
‘And?’
‘Yep. Like you thought, ’e made a mistake. It were Tuesday night ’e was watchin’ his sitcom. He was pretty happy ’e made a mistake. Says ’e gets some peace with them boys in the Big House.’
I sigh. ‘And is he sure he didn’t see Kevie on Wednesday?’
‘He sure. Said next thing ’e heard, Kevie locked up. An ole Mrs Zander, she all confused. I don’ think she knows if she comin’ or goin’.’
I shake my head. ‘Those boys are innocent, Arriet. There are so many holes in the police case. That alibi was just the icing on the cake. So we haven’t got the icing, we can still eat cake.’
‘You must be hungry, Caffey.’ Her eyes fix on something on the floor. She bends down, her large frame disappearing underneath the desk. There is a rustling sound. ‘You get rats in ’ere, young Caffey, if you not careful.’
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