Saltwater

by Cathy McLennan

  ‘Charlie!’ Bruce shouts. ‘Charlie? Come out of there!’

  With an effort I stay in place. Charlie is between me and the door.

  Charlie moves back and forth in his seat, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. ‘You gotta keep me out of jail, Caffey!’

  ‘Okay. Okay, Charlie. I can do that. You just do what I say.’

  Charlie has been charged with robbery with violence. The QP9 says he threatened to kill a doctor at the Aboriginal and Islander Health Service with a knife, unless the doctor handed over prescriptions for morphine, rohypnol and pethadine.

  ‘Charlie!’ Bruce shouts. There is a loud crash outside and the door bulges and rattles. Bruce must be trying to shoulder it open.

  Thank God he’s so fat. He’ll have it open in no time.

  Charlie bolts up like a jack-in-the-box. He starts pacing back and forth between the door and my desk. He holds the knife high, waving it in the air. I force myself to remain sitting calmly, every muscle poised.

  ‘Charlie. Sit down. We can sort this out. I can keep you out of jail.’

  He shakes his head from side to side.

  ‘Bloody zing a lommin!’ he shouts.

  He steps faster, an angry caged lion. ‘Zim a schnavel!’

  I cringe, trying to be invisible. Charlie is working himself into a frenzy and there’s no way around him.

  ‘Zing a lommin!’ He shakes his fist at the door.

  The continued crashes outside the door inflame him further. Charlie starts bumping against the walls like a fly in a bottle, a huge, crazed, muscled fly with a knife.

  In the desk drawer I look for a weapon. There are pencils, rulers, a stapler. A couple of packs of chewing gum. I grab the ruler, a flimsy piece of plastic.

  The door bursts open.

  Bruce flies into the room, shoulder first, battering-ram style. He whirls around and seizes Charlie as he bounces off one of the walls. Bruce’s arms clamp down around Charlie’s arms, pinioning them to his sides. Charlie wriggles and struggles, but Bruce wraps himself tighter around him, even using his legs.

  I stand up behind the desk. But my muscles have gone to jelly. The tight calm begins to unravel, my heart races, and I am left breathless.

  Bruce is still struggling with Charlie. He has tight hold of Charlie’s arms, but the hand holding the knife is twisting, turning, trying to find purchase in Bruce’s leg.

  I try to speak, shout a warning. But, my voice won’t work.

  ‘The knife.’ My voice is a whisper. ‘The knife. The knife. The knife!’

  Somehow, miraculously, Bruce hears me. He glances down, sees the knife and in one swift movement, lifts Charlie and rams his head against the doorframe. As Charlie slumps, Bruce grabs his hand, twists it, and the knife drops to the ground. He kicks it away and launches himself again at Charlie, gripping him in the bear hug.

  Charlie’s arms go slack and his head droops.

  Now, Bruce gets behind Charlie, grabs his upper arms and begins to push him out of the room.

  Charlie turns his head to me, his eyes wide, bewildered. ‘Caffey?’ he says, as if I have disappointed him. Let him down. Maybe I have.

  Bruce gives him a shove, both hands still gripping Charlie’s upper arms, and Charlie stumbles forward. But still he looks back. ‘Caffey,’ he says, plaintively. ‘Caffey …’

  Bruce pushes him out the door, and I hear them bumping and shuffling down the hallway. I slump back heavily into my chair. Exhausted.

  There is shouting outside, distorted by the walls. Bruce’s voice is loud, angry. There is Charlie’s voice, but far louder is Doris, our office administrator, who screams abuse.

  Joice brings me a cup of hot, heavily sugared tea. She places it on the desk and stands uncertainly. The first sip makes me gag, but the second brings a flood of warmth and strength.

  The front door bangs and there is a loud, metallic click.

  Footsteps thud up the hallway. Bruce enters my office, followed by Jasmine. Doris stands in the doorway. The light dims with so many bodies crowded in the small room.

  ‘He’s gone,’ says Bruce. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ I nod, my hands still wrapped around the warm cup.

  He clears his throat. ‘I’ve told Charlie that he’s banned from the office, so you won’t have to worry about him anymore.’

  ‘You should go to the cops.’ Joice narrows her eyes at Bruce.

  Bruce looks away. ‘I’ll ensure his files are flicked out to another law firm.’

  ‘And …’ says Joice, taking a step forward, ‘the cops?’

  Bruce clicks his fingers. There’s a pause.

  ‘We can’t call the police.’

  I nod, slowly, swallowing more tea to rid my throat of the dry, nauseous feeling. The acrid taste. ‘He’s right, Joice. We’re criminal defence lawyers, we can’t have our own clients locked up. It would undermine us.’

  She frowns and I sigh.

  My head is spinning. ‘Call me a cab, Joice? I’m going home.’

  23

  Monday morning there are mutterings at the office. I hear them in the hallway and the staffroom. Small groups gather, whispering. Muted complaints from staff, veiled glares at Bruce. Pitying glances at me as I pick up my files on the way to court.

  ‘… she asked to be taken off the case.’

  ‘… shouldn’t of made her see Charlie.’

  There is a heaviness about my chest that I can’t seem to move. The feeling of muted terror as I entered the office this morning combines with gnawing guilt that I’ve let Charlie down.

  Butterflies flit in my stomach as I return from court and scan reception for Charlie Kent. The dingy waiting area, with its threadbare carpet and rusty old chairs, is crowded with people of varying shades of black. Children hunch quietly together in the corners. Red, green and silver tinsel now crisscrosses the ceiling. Joice smiles from behind the large reception desk opposite the entrance, her red lips shining, black crinkled hair pulled tight into a bun.

  ‘No, Charlie’s not here,’ she says.

  ‘Phew.’ I lean against the desk. ‘Who’s next?’

  Joice holds out a manila file.

  Turning, I read the name on the front.

  ‘Adam Jackson!’ I smile.

  The cloud rises from my head, and there’s a spurt of energy in my tired body. Adam the comedian. He’s eighteen and looks and acts immature for his age, but he’s a funny kid.

  Adam sits with his sister, Joanne, in the corner nearest the reception desk. He’s playing on a handheld computer game, his face a mask of intense concentration. Joanne sits next to him, staring fixedly out through the window, her hands clasped tightly together.

  Smiling, I approach them.

  ‘Hi Joanne! Hi Ad—’

  Joanne screams and jumps to her feet. Her gaze jerks away from the glass, eyes wide and terrified. She clasps her handbag in front of her like a shield. She huddles against the waiting-room wall, trembling like the heroine in a horror movie.

  Beside her, Adam’s brow furrows as he stares at the small game screen, thumbs moving rapidly on the buttons. He is a study in concentration with the tip of his red tongue visible in the corner of his mouth. I hear a muted pow pow.

  Slowly, I reach out a hand to Joanne and speak gently. ‘Come on. You’re okay. Everything is okay, Joanne. It’s just me. Cathy.’

  Joanne blinks. She lets out a breath and lowers the handbag, giving a short, high laugh. ‘Sorry, Cathy. You startled me.’

  She takes my hand. Her face is drained of colour. Her eyes red-rimmed and circled with darkness. They fearfully dart back to the front doors.

  ‘Joanne?’ I gently press her hand. ‘Why don’t you and Adam come through? I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

  She looks at me for a moment, as if trying to figure out what I have said.
Her hand is nothing but tiny bones covered with skin, a bird skeleton. She pulls it back and her fingers interlace, over and over.

  ‘Joanne? A cup of tea? I’ll boil the jug.’

  She manages a smile. ‘Oh, yes. Yes. That would be fine.’

  ‘Adam?’ I ask.

  Adam’s fingers move like lightning over the keypad. ‘Hang on. One sec, one sec—’

  There is a tinny explosion from his little screen. He sighs, stands up and pockets the device.

  His eyes twinkle as he claps me on the back. ‘How ya doin’, Caffey?’

  ‘I’m doin’ good, Adam. How you doin’?’

  ‘Better than my mate,’ Adam says. ‘He got out of jail last week. He was so happy he started running down our street yelling: “I’m free! I’m free!” And the little boy from next door saw him and yelled: “So what – I’se four!”.’

  Adam cracks himself up and the happy sound of laughter rings through the office. There are chuckles from people sitting nearby.

  ‘Adam! Mind your manners,’ Joanne says mechanically, her eyes flicking to the front door, her body tense.

  ‘How’s Sam?’ I ask, referring to Joanne’s son, Adam’s thirteen-year-old nephew. They have been raised as brothers.

  A faint smile crosses Joanne’s troubled face. ‘Sam got top marks in an English test last week. Such a good boy.’ Her eyes slide to Adam, then back to the front door.

  We walk down the small hallway that smells of mould and coffee and body odour.

  ‘I’m getting your sister a cup of tea,’ I say to Adam, as they sit down in my office. ‘Do you want anything?’

  ‘What’ve you got?’ Adam asks. ‘Coke?’

  ‘No.’ I laugh. ‘You can have milk, water, tea or coffee.’

  ‘Fanks. I’ll pass.’

  Minutes later, I place two hot mugs and a plate of biscuits on the desk. As I turn to close the door, a sudden breeze blows down the hallway. There is a sharp bang as a door slams.

  Joanne jumps to her feet as though she’s on springs. She whips around toward the hall, her mouth open.

  ‘It’s okay. Everything is okay, Joanne.’ I close the door. ‘It was just a door in the wind.’

  Her face crumples. ‘I thought it was a gunshot.’

  She sinks down and hunches in her seat. Her pale face ghost-like, hand pressed to her heart.

  I check my seat before I sit down. Adam grins. I sip the hot tea, fragrant with jasmine.

  ‘What can I do for you, Joanne?’

  ‘It’s those boys,’ says Joanne, sitting straight and tense. Her fingers pick constantly at invisible threads. ‘They’re after Adam. The ones he was hanging around with. The boys who burgled all those houses. They got out of jail.’

  Adam shrugs and smiles, staring vacantly at the wall.

  ‘They’re really bad kids, Cathy. Evil boys. You should see the looks on their faces. They hate him, Cathy. They’re going to do something really bad.’ Joanne places her fidgeting hands on the desk and they stop for a moment. But still they shake as though resting on a pneumatic drill.

  ‘Why do you think they’re after Adam?’

  ‘Adam told police about their stealing. Now they’ve been hanging around the house. Yelling for Adam to come out. They call him names. It’s got so bad, I can’t let him out alone.’

  ‘They’re my friends, Sis.’ Adam looks at a picture of a fir tree on the wall with a bored expression.

  ‘You have to believe me, Cathy. You have to help us. Please!’ Joanne takes a deep, jagged breath, her eyes wide and exhausted. ‘At night they throw rocks on the roof. Clunk, clunk, clunk. I’m too scared to sleep.’

  ‘Si-is. They’re just mad. They’ll get over it.’

  I make a note. ‘I do believe you, Joanne. You need to report this to the police immediately. Tell them exactly what you’ve told me.’

  ‘Oh,’ Joanne grimaces. ‘Will they listen to us, Cathy? Adam has been in trouble. I thought, maybe …’

  I shake my head. ‘I don’t know what I can do to help you.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘The police station is just up the road. Get going right now. Go up to the front desk. Ask to speak to a detective.’

  Joanne nods her head, sadly. ‘Okay, then. Okay.’

  She rises as if her tiny frame is made of lead.

  Back we go, down the dingy hallway, through reception with its bright tinsel hanging from the ceiling and its crowded despair.

  Outside the dirty glass doors the hot sun hits us. The bright light emphasises every ugly sore in the city. Gravelly potholes. Stark, grey dirty buildings. An empty brown bag, stained with grease, races a purple Samboy chip packet up the street, borne by the dry, dusty breeze.

  Eyes watering, I point up the road to the next block, towards the police station. ‘Come back and see me when you’re finished.’

  Joanne scans the street, her arms wrapped around her chest, fingernails pressed into her upper arms so hard there are bright red crescents in her white skin. Adam scuffs the dirt with red and white striped trainers.

  ‘You’ll be fine.’ Fingers of unease curl around my stomach. ‘You insist on seeing someone up there, okay?’

  The rest of the afternoon is lost in a whirlwind of clients. A never-ending stream of people have left a worn trail down the mouldy carpet. My legs and neck ache with fatigue.

  Hours later, Joanne and Adam appear in reception, huddled in the same corner seats. I go over to them.

  ‘What happened? Did you report it?’

  Joanne nods slowly, her face a pensive mask.

  ‘Did you see a detective?’

  She shakes her head. Beside her, the tinny sound of guns explodes from Adam’s game.

  ‘Everything go alright?’

  ‘I don’t think they’ll follow it up,’ says Joanne, as Adam stares blankly out the window and kicks his legs against the seat like a child. The game is still firing, suddenly forgotten, in his hands.

  ‘We saw some cunt-stable,’ he says.

  ‘Adam!’ Joanne says mechanically.

  ‘It’ll be okay.’ I give them a reassuring smile. ‘After all, they’re only kids. They’ll probably forget about it soon, and go on to some other mischief. You’ll see.’

  Joanne lets out a deep sigh, closes her eyes and bows her head.

  I turn and call for my next client.

  24

  On the way to work the next Monday, I buy a bottle of cold water, a fresh, crunchy fruit salad with plain yoghurt and a folded copy of the Townsville Bulletin. The cafe owner packs it all into a thin, white plastic bag. There is a small rip at the bottom of the bag. As I walk down the street, a corner of the paper sticks out the hole. Just outside the police station, the rip gives way and the contents spill onto the dirty pavement. The fruit salad tips on its side, lid askew, leaking white yoghurt. The paper lies open at the front page. I crouch down to gather it all and the headline hits me like a wallop between the eyes.

  BROTHERS CRITICAL AFTER ARSON ATTACK ON HOME

  No, no, no, no, no, no. I close my eyes as a tremor of fear runs through me. It’s not the Jackson boys. Adam doesn’t have a brother, Sam is his nephew. It can’t be them.

  Beneath the headline is a photo of a police officer, hands on hips, staring at a blackened, burnt-out wall.

  Constable Glenn Wallwork inspecting the damage at the Kirwan home yesterday.

  Okay, the Jacksons live in Kirwan. But it’s not them. Adam does not have a brother. My heart races, heat rises behind my eyes. I fall back on the dirty pavement, my hand lands in slippery yoghurt. There’s no point in reading the article. I know it’s not them. It’s not them. It’s not them.

  An investigation has been launched into an arson attack at a Kirwan home …

  A man, 18, and a boy, 13, were taken to Royal Brisbane Hospital’s burn
unit yesterday with severe burns.

  No. See. No, see … No. My brain is not quite working, thoughts not coming together. I hear gasping. It’s me. I can’t breathe. Adam is eighteen and Sam is thirteen. My eyes turn to the paper, I want to reach out and close it, but my hand doesn’t move and my eyes are ranging over the page.

  The boy has third-degree burns to 85 per cent of his body while the man has third-degree burns to at least 50 per cent of his body.

  The brothers’ mother was in Townsville General Hospital yesterday with shock …

  It is believed the mother raised the alarm after waking to find her sons’ room on fire …

  The boys were asleep, in their beds, when some children broke in through the window. They squirted lighter fluid on Adam’s and Sam’s sleeping bodies and woke them up. There was a flash as the children dropped a lit match onto their beds and watched them burn.

  A surge of rage floods me, my brain ignites and my hands twist the paper.

  I want to kill the boys who did this. I want to hunt them down. I want to wrap my hands around their necks and strangle them slowly.

  Then the rage subsides, the bitterness flowing out of me like water down the plughole, and I just feel so dreadfully, dreadfully sad.

  Footsteps sound on the pavement. Coming closer.

  ‘Are you okay there? Let me help.’

  A police officer squats beside me and picks up the water and the plastic bag. Replaces the lid on the oozing fruit salad container. Scoops up the twisted paper and wraps it into a bundle in the ripped, white plastic bag.

  He turns and looks at me, a concerned expression. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I croak, standing. He has greying hair, a middle-aged Caucasian face and smells of spicy after-shave and I wonder if he would have helped me if I had been black. Or a criminal.

  Oh, God.

  I turn and walk down the street, dumping the bundle in a bin. In the office, under the gaudy tinsel, it occurs to me that there will be no happy Christmas for Joanne.

  Ever again.

  Sam, little innocent Sam with third-degree burns to eighty-five per cent of his body. And Adam – half his body burnt. They must be in excruciating pain.