Saltwater

by Cathy McLennan

  Kids did this.

  Thoughts continue to flutter through my head, like bees buzzing, some sting hard with a pain that will never leave.

  Why did Joanne come to me for help? Why? I sent them to the police station, what else could I have done? But I was dismissive when they came back. I should have paid more attention, brought them in and thought of another solution.

  Sitting at my desk I shake my head. No. It wasn’t my fault.

  It was my fault, another voice insists.

  She was scared. I could see that. A door slammed and she jumped a mile in the air.

  I wish I could take it back. Rewind time. I could have thought of something.

  Adam, silly, mischievous, Adam. Telling daft jokes and sticking fart cushions on my chair. And Sam, oh, God, Sam.

  God, I pray. Please please let me have it back. Please let me have it back.

  Please, oh please, oh please let me have it back.

  25

  I’m not going in today. I’m never going back to that office ever again.

  Lying in bed, the thought of pulling on my sandshoes and workout clothes flashes into my head, but my limbs are tired and heavy, unable to move.

  Buzzzzzzz.

  The alarm goes. The shrill, insistent buzz resonates through my brain. I enjoy the cruel, unyielding sound, a distraction from the pain inside.

  I close my eyes. The image of Olivia floats into my mind, her frail figure lost in that endless tangle of abuse and arrest. And Kevie, so small against the unyielding concrete and steel of the juvenile detention centre.

  Buzzzzzzzz.

  A picture of a smiling Adam Jackson floats before my eyes. Dillon, tears spilling down his cheeks, helping a stranger in the Watch House. The baby in the park, gurgling happily in the dirt, a shard of broken glass clenched in its fat little fingers.

  Buzzzzzzz.

  As if on automatic, my arm reaches out and turns off the alarm. I get out of bed and walk to the shower. My feet step across the carpet, my hands turn on the water, but I’m not aware of making decisions to do these things. It’s like my body is moving of its own accord.

  Out of the shower I smooth moisturiser on my unusually pale face. I hide the pallor and the darkness under my eyes with dabs of foundation and put on my suit.

  My legs take me to the car. I see my hands insert the keys in the ignition and start the engine. As I walk into the office, my mind clicks into gear. I want to turn back. Walk away and never return. But somewhere, deep inside, I know – I have to stay.

  My feet take me to my office. I sit down at the desk and pull out today’s files.

  Roslyn drops another newspaper on my desk and stands back. Her grin fades as she looks at me.

  ‘Gawd, ya look like shit, eh. You okay?’

  ‘Thanks, Ros. Really. Thanks for telling me.’

  ‘Well, you do. And I’ll do you a favour.’ She stabs her finger at an article and grins. ‘Guess who the eleven-year-old girl in the article is, and I’ll make ya a cuppa tea.’

  She leans against the wall, arms folded. I hesitate, thinking of Roslyn’s tea. Browny-white flecks floating on the top. A back taste of dirt. But the eleven-year-old girl? I have to know. I pick up the paper.

  YOUTH CRIME VICTIMS

  Frustrated victims of juvenile crime will meet today to try to speed up changes to juvenile crime legislation.

  A Rasmussen woman … lost about $300 when a purse was stolen from her car. She saw an 11-year-old girl on her path at the time.

  She said the same child had been responsible for a string of other crimes in the area, but current legislation meant she could keep offending.

  ‘All people want is to feel safe in their own houses and see criminals caught and serve time, and not get away with things just because they’re under-aged,’ she said. ‘But mostly, they [residents] just don’t want to be robbed all the time.’

  The little purple weed Olivia Farrell gave me still marks a page in my criminal code. This tiny flower began its life worthless, unwanted, and is now more precious to me than all the roses in the Melbourne flower show.

  If I tell Roslyn I know who the girl is, she’ll come good on her promise and make me a cup of tea.

  I shake my head. ‘I-I just can’t guess who it is, Ros. You tell me.’

  She strides forward, points her finger, inches from my nose. ‘I knew it! You don’t like my tea.’

  ‘No, Ros, it’s not that …’

  ‘Great. I’ll make you a cup. And watch you drink it. Plenty of sugar. It’ll do you good.’ She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes. ‘So. Who is it?’

  I roll my eyes and sigh. ‘Olivia.’

  She grins. ‘I’ll get that tea.’

  *

  It’s mid-afternoon. I head outside and light up. I take a long drag on the cigarette and cough out blue-grey smoke. The air is hot and dry, the cruel white sunlight blinding. Across the road, a group of Aboriginals lie under the shady trees clumped in one corner of the small, dusty park.

  The cigarette tastes like a dirty oil rag, but I breathe in deeply then toss it to the ground in a flutter of sparks and step on it, grinding viciously, hating the acrid smell of burning tobacco.

  Back inside, Joice hands me a thin manila file and points out a young, light-skinned Aboriginal boy on one of the rusty chairs in reception. He wears a black baseball cap, large enough to shadow his face.

  ‘Daku Glen?’

  He nods shyly and follows me to the office. He sits, slouching forward. Then, with a sudden movement, he takes off his baseball cap and a pink blush rises on his plump round cheeks and freckled nose.

  ‘Sorry, Miss.’ He gestures to the hat.

  ‘No problemo.’ I open the file. There is a yellow sheet with his name, address and date of birth written at the top. He lives in Townsville. He is only thirteen, still a child.

  ‘How can I help you, Daku?’ I ask, smiling to make him feel comfortable.

  He clears his throat.

  ‘It’s okay. You can tell me.’

  ‘Them bully boys. They want to talk to me about an ars …arse – a fire, eh Miss.’

  Goosebumps rise on my arms. The room recedes, as if I am staring at Daku down a long, dark tunnel.

  ‘Arson?’ I ask, not moving a muscle.

  ‘Yeah, that’s it. Arse-on.’ He laughs. ‘But they got nuffin on me, eh Miss.’

  ‘Did you burn Adam and Sam Jackson?’ My tone is low.

  He jerks his head to look at me. ‘They just wanna talk to me about it, eh Miss. But I ain’t gonna say nuffin.’

  I stand so fast my chair crashes to the floor. The blood jumps through my veins. I could kill him. I could wrap my hands around his smiling face and strangle him. If I had a gun I could shoot him. I could pick up the chair and bash his face with it. Smash, smash, smash, until there is nothing left but a red pulpy mess.

  ‘You need to find another lawyer,’ I say softly between clenched teeth. My arm rises, pointing to the door. ‘You’ll have to get out.’

  26

  Samuel and Adam Jackson remain in comas. In an intensive care unit in Brisbane, they fight for their lives. Joanne Jackson tries to fight for them. I hear that she sits tirelessly, night and day, at their bedside. But she cannot even hold their hands, which are heavily bandaged, the flesh burnt to the bone. She cannot tell them it will be alright. Nothing will be okay ever again.

  So she waits, and cries, and prays.

  After Christmas, Wally Greengrass calls me into his large, well-lit corner office.

  ‘No point beating round the bush.’ He leans back in his chair and a heavy gold chain clinks on his right wrist. ‘Bruce’s left. He came back yesterday, gave one day’s notice, and now he’s gorn.’

  ‘What? He’s gone for good? Why?’

  Wally shrugs. ‘It happens. And Jasmine
’s on holidays in South Africa, won’t be back for a week.’

  ‘What? So who …’ I try to get my thoughts in coherent order.

  He stretches his arms up in the air. ‘You’ll be right. Bruce hired someone to come in the next few days. Guy by the name of Roger Griffith, from Brisbane. Till then, you’re on your own, kiddo.’

  Yawning, he settles back in his chair. ‘Big night at the casino last night. Didn’t get enough shut-eye. I’m thinkin’ of going home for forty winks.’

  I watch him for a moment. He yawns again, raises a hand to cover it. The gold glints in the sunlight.

  ‘Is that a new bracelet?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, just got a bonus.’

  ‘A … what?’

  ‘We need it, I can tell you. My big boys are eating us out of house and home.’ He grins.

  ‘Oh. Wow. Congratulations. Who made that decision?’

  ‘I did.’ He smiles. ‘After all, I am the CEO.’

  He pauses. Perhaps it’s something about the look on my face – I’m thinking that money could pay for another lawyer.

  ‘Yeah, well. It’s all kosher,’ laughs Wally. ‘The board ratified it.’

  Outside, Roslyn is grinning, her nose crinkled. ‘Good news, Caffey.’

  ‘Great. What?’

  ‘Mr Psychophrenic, knife-wielding nutcase Charlie Kent is in the Big House. The judge put ’im in jail for three years. ’e’s not getting out in a hurry.’

  She opens the Townsville Bulletin with a rustle: ‘’ere ya go. Robbery with violence leads ta jail. Says ’ere Charlie threatened a doctor with a knife. ’e got three years jail yesterday. His lawyer said ’e had a bad childhood, trouble with grog blah blah blah. Judge accepted his problems were due to being a schizo-prenic and described his actions as “bizarre”.’

  ‘Bizarre?’ I say. ‘Terrifying is more like it.’

  Roslyn nods.

  Now I won’t have to be afraid every time I enter the office. Hopefully, Charlie gets some mental health care in prison.

  ‘I’ve got some more good news.’ Roslyn grins.

  ‘Holy guacamole, Roslyn. Two lots of good news in one day?’

  ‘Ain’t no clients in the waiting room.’

  I stand. My chair hits the wall.

  ‘Where you goin’?’ she asks.

  ‘To spend my bonus at the pub.’

  ‘What bonus?’ she asks.

  ‘Exactly.’

  At the Exchange Hotel, I order a scotch and soda.

  ‘Must’ve been a bad day.’ George Nurks, the eminent drunken barrister, stands beside me, bourbon and dry in hand.

  Ice clinks as I sip. ‘Actually, I’m celebrating. I think. One of my clients went to jail. Now I don’t have to worry about him popping in with sharp surprises.’

  ‘Can I buy it?’ George nods at the drink and pulls out a twenty.

  ‘No, thanks.’ I pay the barman.

  ‘How are those kids doing?’ George asks. ‘The ones charged with that murder in the cemetery.’

  I pause. ‘Not great. They still haven’t got bail.’

  ‘Yeah, well. That was never going to happen.’

  Anger rises. ‘Those kids are innocent.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘What do you mean, you know?’

  ‘Everyone knows that some of those kids are innocent,’ George says. ‘I don’t think you realise this, but your dilemma is not whether the kids are innocent, but which of the kids are innocent.’

  ‘Yeah, well. I’m pretty sure they’re all innocent. There are a lot of holes in the police case and they’re so young.’

  ‘You could be right. It happens.’ He leans forward. ‘But I heard you lost your alibi evidence. Guy got his television programs mixed up.’

  ‘How’d you hear that?’

  ‘Let’s just say, the walls have ears.’

  I snort with laughter. ‘What are you, KGB?’

  ‘No. I’m a former prosecutor.’

  I laugh. He doesn’t.

  ‘Just listen. The police take a scattergun approach to this type of case. If there’s a bunch of people involved in an unlawful killing, they don’t give a rat’s arse who actually did it. They charge them all with murder.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘What’s happened? What do you know that I don’t?’

  He slurps his bourbon and dry, drops fall on his white shirt. ‘I’m just telling you, so you know. Maybe all those boys are innocent. But for absolute certain, some of them are innocent. And those are the ones you’ve gotta save. See, the coppers don’t know who did it or what the evidence will eventually disclose. Those boys were all at the scene and unless they roll over, they charge them all.’

  The drink slides warmly down my throat. ‘A few weeks ago, a guy said to me, “I know they did it, not because they’re black, but because the police charged them.”’

  ‘Being black probably doesn’t help. But most cops aren’t racist.’ He tips the rest of his drink into his mouth. ‘The other thing you’ve got to remember is that if it starts to look as though some of them have done it, be very careful. Because you can get into a cutthroat situation. And you don’t want that. Because then, everyone loses. Everybody goes down.’

  ‘A cutthroat? Are you making this stuff up?’

  ‘A cutthroat defence is where the innocent point their fingers at the guilty, and the guilty point their fingers at the innocent.’

  ‘What happens then?’ I ask.

  ‘They all get convicted. Have you seen the committal brief yet with all the police evidence against the boys?’

  ‘I know what it is, but I haven’t seen it yet.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Forget about bail. Start thinking about the committal brief. What do you think is in those witness statements? What are you going to do if it goes bad? And it probably will.

  27

  Michael and I are at an Australia Day party at a house on Melton Hill. There’s a huge pool overlooking the bay. Aussie rock music is blaring, our glasses are never empty and Michael’s arms are warm.

  We float in the shallows. I haven’t wanted to ask about his job news, but it’s been at the back of my mind.

  Michael looks over and smiles. ‘Let’s have an underwater race. See who can swim the furtherest.’

  ‘Is that a word? Furtherest? Sounds like we’re going to climb a mountain.’

  He reaches out, dunks me under, then races for the other end.

  Sometime around midday the host fires up the barbecue. He rests the meat containers on the day’s papers next to him. One by one he lifts out rows of sausages. Everyone is hungry, talking and laughing. I glance down at the paper and see the headline, and the world goes cold.

  KIRWAN FIRE VICTIM DIES

  On 25 January at quarter to four in the morning, Samuel John Andrew Jackson, much loved thirteen-year-old son of Joanne and Trevor Jackson, died.

  A strange buzzing starts up in my ears. All over the country at this moment, Australians are firing up their barbecues and cracking open their stubbies, never knowing that Sam, innocent thirteen-year-old Sam, lies in the morgue. His mother’s life in ruins.

  Perhaps one day I’ll make sense of it. Perhaps one day I will find a way to prevent this happening in future, to other kids, and his suffering will not have been in vain and Sam’s life and death will mean something real and important and precious.

  And people will know his name.

  But for now, it’s choking me. I can’t even cry.

  Little Olivia Farrell smiles shyly outside the Children’s Court and lowers her head, her cheeks flushed.

  ‘Hello, Caffey,’ she says.

  She has an entourage today. They hover over her, as though she has come to promote her latest movie. There are two Family Services officers, her mother, Wendy, and Arriet. Plus me now.
<
br />   ‘I shake my head sadly. ‘Livi. What have you done this time?’

  Is her offending a cry for help? If so, why didn’t someone step in and help her before she was in legal trouble? Somebody must have known that she was being raised by an alcoholic mother, that she was neglected, that she was used as a sex toy by fat, sweaty … I shudder.

  One of the officers momentarily rests her hand on the back of Olivia’s head. Olivia looks up at her with such an expression of happiness that I wonder if she ever gets any affection when she’s not at court.

  ‘You’re charged with stealing and house-breaking.’ I frown. ‘You’re in serious trouble. You could go to jail.’

  The Family Services officers nod emphatically. ‘We are just about to put a program into place. We think it’s going to work, so we’ll ask the magistrate for an extension on her probation.’

  About to put a program into place. Why haven’t they done it already? Is there a word for more than one Family Services officer? A gaggle? A platoon? A fillyfollyfoo?

  Still, it means she won’t be going to jail today. The magistrate is likely to follow the Family Service recommendation.

  I sink into a crouch. Olivia and I are at eye level. ‘You’ve been really upsetting people, wandering about in their houses while their backs are turned. Stealing their things. I’ve even read about you in the paper. They’re having all these community meetings, every week, about stopping youth crime, and they talk about you every single time.’

  ‘Really?’ Olivia’s eyes shine.

  ‘It’s nothing to be proud of. “Eleven-year-old girl is a menace to the community.” That’s what they say. Stuff like that. They want you in prison.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘This will all end in tears,’ I warn. ‘Your tears.’

  Olivia smiles at the Family Services officers. Takes one by the hand and I sense she has what she wanted. Just a smidge of affection.

  I roll my eyes. ‘Come on, you nit, we’ll go into the interview room and talk about the charges. Bring your mother.’

  One of the charges against Olivia is from an old woman who was robbed of sixty dollars. It’s typical of Olivia’s modus operandi. There’s a clipping of a newspaper article on the police file. It reads: