Saltwater

by Cathy McLennan

  32

  A week later, my desk is like a mountain range in a war zone, the files are piled high, some with limitation periods, hidden land mines.

  Roslyn enters, carrying the Townsville Bulletin again.

  ‘Here, Caffey. Thought you’d get a laugh outta this.’ She drops the paper before me, perches on a corner of the desk and pulls a nail file from the back pocket of her tight black jeans.

  GIRL COMES OFF YOUTH CRIME TOP 10 LIST

  After several weeks an 11-year-old Upper Ross girl has been dropped from the top 10 juvenile crime suspects in Townsville and Thuringowa.

  Police juvenile aid bureau chief Detective … said the girl had been rehabilitated to a large extent after a joint police and Family Services Department effort.

  ‘Funny, eh?’ Roslyn smiles at her bright red nails as I put the paper down.

  ‘Yeah. They’re taking credit for rehabilitating her, when all they’ve done is ship her off to Palm Island.’

  ‘Their greatest success,’ Roslyn snorts. ‘Dickheads.’

  ‘I wish they would put some effort into her rehabilitation.’

  Anxiety twists my stomach at the thought of Olivia on Palm Island. Straight after her court hearing I sent letters and made phone calls to the Director of Prosecutions to have her matters dealt with as soon as possible so we can get her off the Island. But they’re taking their time.

  Roslyn jumps up. ‘You can’t dawdle here all day, Caffey. You gotta get back to the prison. See them boys. I ’eard they up shits creek.’

  I groan. ‘You might be right, Roslyn. I’ve read the entire police brief, backwards, forwards, inside and out, and got some advice from a Queens Counsel this morning.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Putting it simply, there were three witnesses who saw what happened. The homeless guy and two teenagers. They say Malachi kicked the man to death, and Dillon and Bert kicked him, too. Kevie was there. The police have got Malachi’s boot prints on the victim, and Malachi’s boots are covered in the victim’s blood.’

  Roslyn nods. ‘Malachi’s old man was white. Real arsehole. Always beatin’ Tanya and them kids. All the time I see them, bruises, cuts. Even when they was babies. Family Services never did nuffin.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Whatever the truth is, they’re all blaming each other. The QC says, and I agree, that at this rate they’re all going to be convicted of murder. They’ll go to jail for life. Kevie, thirteen, and Bert with his brain damage, and poor Dillon – their lives are over. Bert’s only hope is if the prison psychiatrist finds he’s not mentally competent to stand trial, which is not likely, since this is the same prison where Charlie Kent was appointed head cook in charge of knives.’

  ‘Sounds like you gotta be their paddle, Caffey.’ She shakes her head. ‘Get ’em outta shits creek. You gotta save them boys.’

  ‘Roslyn, perhaps they belong in jail.’

  Gently she whacks the side of my head. ‘C’mon Caffey. You know what’s right.’

  ‘Do I?’

  There’s a knock on my door. Joice’s head appears. ‘Wendy Farrell. Outside to see you. I think it’s urgent.’

  ‘Caffey …’ Wendy sobs, hunched forward in my visitors chair. ‘O-livia. O-o-livia … was g-g-gang-raped on Palm. Few times.’

  I push the box of tissues on my desk towards her. Her hand reaches, as if in slow motion, fingers outstretched. Brown skin, crisscrossed with fine black lines. As she pulls out the soft white tissue from the box, her hand turns, exposing the pink underneath. Smooth and plump, like baby skin.

  ‘Caffey,’ Wendy sobs, mouth covered by the tissue. ‘Olivia bin stayin’ with my frien’. On Palm. My frien’ says Livi stays out, all night. She’s heard Livi was … was … gang-raped. They’re rapin’ her, and giving her drugs. Like what happened before.’

  There’s a soft hum from the computer. Somewhere up the hallway, a clink of metal on crockery, the dull thud of footsteps and the click of a door closing. A bell sounds. A bicycle bell maybe? Has someone brought their bike inside?

  What can I do? What can I do?

  ‘Olivia bin callin’ me, crying and pleading to bring ’er ’ome.’

  A cool breeze blows in through the door, which stands ajar. I’ve never been able to close it, not since Charlie. My desk is now just inside the doorway, my back to the door. The air-conditioner blows down the hall. Cold, canned air. It smells dirty, like a dusty, winter attic. I shiver.

  ‘I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t take it no more … so I went over there to get ’er back. Them other girls, the ones she thought she was frien’s with. They was just using ’er. They say, “Go over there, Livi, and get these drugs for me.” An Livi goes cause she wants a frien’. And, oh, Caffey, when she goes, them fat men make ’er have sex. It ’appened lotsa times. Them other girls do it too, but when Livi’s there, well I guess they don’ have to.’

  I swallow. ‘So you brought Livi back with you?’

  Wendy nods, dabbing her eyes with the soggy tissue. Tiny slivers of white catch on her wet eyelash and stick there. Her face is puffy. Black hair limp.

  ‘We’ll see if we can get the bail conditions changed. Where are you living?’

  She tells me the address. Then starts to cry again. ‘Livi won’t go to a doctor cause she scared of strange people touching ’er. She scream with nightmares every night. She wet ’er pants every day. She won’t go to toilet or bathroom without keeping the door open.’

  ‘Did you go to the police?’

  ‘Yeah. Roslyn sister took us on Palm. But them police never do nothin’. They say the men deny it. And no one b’lieve my Livi. An’ she too scared to talk to police, Caffey.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Family Services come over. Tole me to take ’er back to Palm. They say the cops got a warrant to arrest me – con-contempt of court or somefing.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.’ I don’t know how, but I’m bloody going to do it. ‘In the meantime, will you talk to a journalist from the local newspaper?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ she says hesitantly.

  ‘If the police won’t do anything, let’s make the allegations public. That will put pressure on them to charge the men who did it. I’ll phone the court and get the matter listed for a variation of the bail conditions so she can stay over here.’

  She stands. ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you, Caffey.’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet, Wendy.’

  I glance at my watch after she’s left. Four o’clock now. Too late for the prison. The boys will have to wait.

  The call of the fast-food kiosk is strong as I walk by on the way home.

  ‘Miss, eh, Miss!’

  Tim Woodward stands alone near the kiosk, scuffing his feet on the concrete. I go over.

  ‘Hi, Tim. What are you doing here?’

  He shrugs, hands deep in the pockets of his jeans.

  ‘What are you doing, mate?’

  ‘I jus’ lookin’ for Adam.’

  ‘Adam’s not here.’ My throat thickens.

  Tim looks at the ground.

  ‘Adam’s still in hospital, mate.’

  ‘I-I jus’ was wonderin’.’

  ‘What, mate?’

  ‘Can you fix it, Caffey?’ He looks at me, eyes shining, hopeful.

  I shake my head. ‘No. I can’t – I can’t fix it, Tim.’

  His face creases.

  ‘But they’re going to have an inquest into what happened,’ I say. ‘Surely then the culprits will be charged. They’ll go to jail.’

  He frowns. ‘Will that fix it, Caffey?’

  I force a smile. ‘It’s the best we can do, Tim.’

  That evening, Michael and I climb the goat track up the side of Castle Hill. Just a few feet short of a mountain, Castle Hill dominates the otherwise flat Townsville skyline. At the top, the sun shines dow
n, giving us a glorious view of the city. Square, wooden old Queenslanders spread for miles. The blue sea. Inland, dusty, arid plains.

  We stand, side by side on a rock, and Michael turns to me, the wind blowing in his hair.

  ‘Have you thought any more about coming to Brisbane?’

  I shake my head, a lump forms in my throat.

  ‘No you haven’t thought about it, or no you’re not coming?’

  ‘Both, I guess. I just … can’t leave them.’

  We stare out at the city, each lost in our thoughts.

  Finally, he turns to me. ‘You care, don’t you? About them all.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He sighs. ‘Even if you had chosen me, one day you would’ve come to regret it.’

  ‘I don’t know, Michael. I really don’t.’

  ‘I love you, you know,’ he says.

  ‘I love you, too.’ I close my eyes. ‘You could always choose not to go, not to leave me. Not now, when I need you. So badly.’

  He looks at me in slight surprise, as though there isn’t even a choice, not for him. He raises his arm to hug me, but I step away.

  We stare at each other for a moment, without speaking. Then he scrunches up his nose and makes a funny face and the tension breaks and I smile and punch him lightly on the arm. ‘Let’s just elope to Guatemala.’

  ‘Why Guatemala?’ He reaches his arm around me and this time I don’t resist.

  ‘I just like the word, Guatemala. Where do you come from? What-a-mala.’

  Michael laughs.

  Nearby tree tops rustle. I smooth back the hair blowing in his face. ‘Your job is important to you, too.’

  ‘Sure it is. This is my dream, the endless chase for the big story, that really huge break that happens once in a career.’

  ‘So what’s left?’ I ask. ‘We live two thousand kilometres apart?’

  ‘We’ll make it work,’ says Michael.

  No.

  The city sprawls beneath us like a toy kingdom. A small clump of tall buildings marks the city centre. The sky begins to darken, tiny lights like diamonds and rubies wink in winding columns along the grey roads.

  ‘We will make it work,’ Michael tries again.

  I look out across the bay to Palm Island, a speck in the distance.

  33

  Olivia and Wendy approach the Children’s Court the next day with slow, shuffling steps. Olivia holds tight to her mother’s arm, her head bowed so that her hair hangs over her face. Her body presses against Wendy’s soft, wobbling frame. As they draw close, I shudder to see that Olivia’s little body has shrunk, her limbs are like twigs of a burnt sapling. Her legs are covered in scabs and weeping sores.

  Wendy stops a few feet away. I squat down, level with Olivia.

  ‘Hi, Livi!’ I say brightly.

  Her face buries in her mother’s dress. Her hands clutch the fabric tight.

  ‘I’m going to try to get you bail today, to live here with your mother.’

  ‘Don’ send me back.’ Her voice is husky. There is a dripping sound. A very small stream of fluid runs down Olivia’s leg.

  ‘Oh, Livi,’ Wendy grumbles. ‘You gotta tell me when you go toilet.’

  Soon after, we sit in the Magistrates Court.

  ‘Have you seen this, Ms McLennan?’ the magistrate asks, holding up a copy of the Townsville Bulletin.

  ‘I have, Your Honour.’ It was hard to miss, splashed over the front page:

  GIRL WAS SEX SLAVE IN DRUG TRADE SAYS MOTHER

  A Condon woman claims her … daughter was forced to become a sex slave and was repeatedly raped after a Children’s Court magistrate ordered her to live on Palm Island as part of a bail condition.

  She said her daughter had been forced to have sex with several men in order to collect drugs for other girls who had befriended her. When she had refused to have sex she had been gang-raped and on one occasion the other girls had burned her clothes.

  Detective Senior Sergeant … of the Juvenile Aid Bureau said the bureau was investigating a complaint made by the girl to Palm Island police, but this complaint did not involve an allegation of rape.

  A spokesman for [Family Services] said the girl was not currently under an order from the department. ‘But we have been working with various welfare agencies to coordinate some support for her.’

  The magistrate shakes his head before I have a chance to speak further. ‘No, Ms McLennan. I am not going to vary the bail conditions.’

  Beside me, a strong smell of urine rises from Olivia. She stares at the bench in front of her with dull eyes, her body trembles violently.

  ‘Your Honour, she is at grave risk of further harm. You can’t send this child back there, on her own, again.’

  ‘She is a persistent recidivist offender. I am not setting her free to continue to steal and frighten the people of Townsville.’

  ‘Her offending may be a cry for help. If she could only get some—’

  ‘The people of Palm Island did this damage to her. They can deal with the consequences. Let her own community help her. I’ve ordered her back to Palm Island, and to Palm Island she will go. Either that, or the detention centre.’ He inhales. ‘Next case!’

  Angry blood rushes to my head. If he thinks for one second I am going to back down, he’s got another thing coming.

  Stuff that!

  ‘No.’ I stand. ‘Your Honour. Please. You must not send her back there. I assure you, as an officer of this court, something dreadful happened over there. I have known this little girl for over a year now. This morning …’

  I glance at the ceiling for a moment to marshal my calm. She pissed herself. What sort of horror would a young girl have to endure before she did that? I look steadily at the magistrate, and concentrate on keeping my voice firm. ‘When I saw her this morning, she was not the same child as before she went to Palm Island. Something terrible has happened to her. Look at how her hands shake. She’s lost weight, and she didn’t have any to begin with. Her head hangs low and she holds tightly to her mother. Please, Your Honour, please change the bail condition so that she no longer has to stay on Palm. Give us a week to assess the alternatives.’

  The magistrate looks away, lips thin and white. ‘Next case.’

  I’m prepared to stand for as long as it takes. ‘Your Honour. You cannot send this child—’

  In one swift movement the magistrate rises and walks from the courtroom.

  *

  I’m having trouble breathing. It’s been going on for days now. There’s a tightness in my neck and chest and I just can’t seem to get enough air. Yawning helps, for a while at least. Then the tightness closes in again. Alcohol helps to slow my racing brain in the evening, but it makes the tightness worse. The only thing that really works is sleep. But thoughts of the day replay themselves in my mind, over and over, every night. So I’ve started running, further every evening. I come home with my legs aching to the point of collapse.

  I’m standing on the balcony of my apartment, listening to the rush of waves, looking at the twinkling lights of Magnetic Island over the saltwater, when my mobile rings.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, Ms McLennan,’ says a bright female voice. ‘Are you interested in saving children?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m from the “Save the Children” charity. Just a small donation can go a long way to saving the life of a needy child!’

  ‘Which children are you saving?’ I ask, every part of me flooded with sudden rage.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Which – children – are – you – saving?’

  34

  Aunty Arriet bursts into my office. ‘Eh, Caffey! Guess what?’ ‘Wendy has refused to take Olivia back to Palm!’

  ‘Thank goodness, she’s taking a stand.’

 
‘And the best thing is,’ Arriet’s face is round and shiny, eyes wide, ‘in the paper today it says that police have refused to enforce the court order to send ’er back to Palm. And, they’re not going to arrest her for breach of bail! I bet them magistrates are fumin’, eh?’

  I’m almost hyperventilating with relief. ‘Are you sure? How can you be sure?’

  She hands me the paper. A detective sergeant from the Police Juvenile Aid Bureau is quoted as saying the police are aware that Olivia is living in Townsville with her mother, but they haven’t activated the warrant for her arrest. She’d been asked by Family Services to return to the Island, but she declined and the matter was dropped.

  At that moment, the phone rings.

  ‘Cathy,’ the prosecutor says.

  ‘Speak of the devil.’ I smile at Arriet over the receiver, my chest lighter.

  ‘We’re moving on the Farrell case. We’re ready to list it for sentence tomorrow. Once it’s dealt with, it will negate the Palm Island issue.’

  At lunch, I leave the office and sit in the sunshine on the concrete step outside the front door, my legs stretched out in front of me. Over in the park opposite, a small group of Aboriginal people sit quietly under the trees. In the distance, birds are singing. It seems a while since I heard such a beautiful sound. The sun on my face is warm, the bread between my fingers soft and moist, sending up a freshly baked smell.

  Finally, others, elsewhere, are also making their stand for Olivia.

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Remind myself that Olivia is free. Michael is gone. There is a squeak from the front door to the office. Footsteps. Joice clears her throat.

  ‘You comin’ back ta work? The phone’s ringin’. Some bloke got arrested, he down the Watch House.’

  I smile, warmth on my cheeks. ‘Soon.’

  Joice leaves. Her heels click on the pavement.

  Finally, I open my eyes to the sunlight.

  Olivia’s barrister is barrel-chested beneath the black bar jacket and long gown. If he had a mask, he might find a calling in the city of Gotham. We’re at the bar table in the Townsville District Court.