Sanctuary

by Judy Nunn

  There were mutterings amongst the crowd, but as Gary raised his voice, they quietened in order to hear more.

  ‘… and tomorrow a party of officials will arrive from Perth,’ he continued. ‘They’ll be flown to Geraldton by charter and driven up here to Shoalhaven.’

  ‘What sort of officials?’ a strident voice demanded.

  Gary ignored Ian Tuckey, who was always a mouth, and continued to talk over the further mutterings that Ian’s interjection had provoked from others.

  ‘We’ll be staying here for the night,’ he said, indicating the vessel and his crew, ‘and tomorrow we’ll take the officials out to the island, which will then be placed under federal quarantine.’

  Ian’s voice wasn’t the only one raised now. There were cries of protest, particularly from the fishers present.

  ‘What’s the hell’s going on, Gaz?’

  ‘Come on, mate, give us a break.’

  ‘What’s this all about? Tell us the truth.’

  Gary held up his hands and they quieted down. ‘I’m not at liberty to say much more, I’m afraid, apart from issuing the order I’ve received by radio. As of this moment Gevaar Island is strictly out of bounds. No one is to land there under any circumstances, and I must warn you there will be severe consequences for any who attempt to do so.’

  A furore broke out – frustrated cries of ‘Why?’ and ‘Tell us the truth for God’s sake!’

  Then cutting through the cacophony, the unmistakeable tinny tone of Ian Tuckey. ‘Reffos, I’ll bet! Bloody reffos have landed on the island! Illegals! Probably shacked up there! That’s it, isn’t it?’

  Ian’s vehemence aroused the fishers, who were none too happy at the thought of strangers shacked up in their huts. Voices became discordant.

  ‘All right! All right!’ Again Gary raised his hands calling for silence, and again the crowd obeyed him.

  ‘I will admit to you there are people on the island …’ Jesus, Gary thought, they have a right to know, particularly those fishers with property there, we can’t treat them like imbeciles ‘… and these people need to be investigated by the authorities. That’s all I can tell you at this stage.’

  Again the questions were fired at him.

  ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘Where are they from?’

  ‘How many are there?’

  He shook his head to every single query. ‘I’m not at liberty to answer any of these questions.’

  Then a female voice piped up, tough, belligerent. ‘How long will this quarantine last?’ Kath Buckley, scrawny arms folded across scrawny chest, husband Buck by her side. ‘We was going to take our grandkids over for Christmas,’ she said. ‘Does this mean we can’t now?’

  ‘I don’t know, Kath,’ Gary admitted, ‘I seriously don’t know.

  He concluded his address to the crowd in general. ‘All of your questions will be answered in good time. When the authorities have conducted their investigations, announcements will be made, but until then I’m sorry, there’s nothing further I can tell you.’

  The crowd was restless now that the meeting appeared over, but he called for their attention once more.

  ‘However,’ he declared loudly, and waited for the obedient lull that followed, ‘there is one more request I’ve been told to make of you all. While I’d ask you to inform the rest of the town’s citizens that the island is strictly off-limits, the authorities are keen to keep this matter under wraps. They don’t want any media involvement. So for the moment, until we receive further instructions, everything stays right here in Shoalhaven. No spreading the news. Have we all got that?’

  There were mutters of agreement, although people still weren’t happy; they were being kept in the dark and they wanted more news.

  ‘Thanks, everyone.’ Gary gave them a wave. ‘That’s it for now. We’ll keep you posted.’

  The crowd started to disperse, discussion rife, but there were those several who remained, trying to nag Gary further, most particularly Ian ‘the Mouth’ Tuckey.

  Gary wouldn’t have a bar of it, swatting them away with a pleasant enough, ‘Sorry, no further comment,’ and to the Mouth, ‘Piss off, Ian,’ which he knew would not offend. It was impossible to offend Ian Tuckey.

  Then he started the engine, his crew cast off, and they took the Endurance over to the marina’s fuelling station, where they filled her with diesel in preparation for the following day. Gary really wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow.

  Gary Walton’s trip out to the island that morning had gone very much as planned. He’d taken a crew of six with him rather than his customary four. It was understandable he should do so, given they were investigating the surveillance reports and a possible presence on the island. But of course he’d known he’d have to leave two men there overnight.

  He’d been as impressed by the refugees as Lou had told him he would be. He’d presumed the old man had been exaggerating, as Lou Panuzza was at times wont to do: he was a colourful man with a passionate nature. But Lou hadn’t been exaggerating at all. Gary, too, had found these people dignified and gentle.

  There’d been not a soul in sight as their vessel had approached the island, but the moment the Endurance had moored alongside the jetty and he and his team had stepped ashore to conduct their inspection, the group had appeared.

  One by one, two by two, men, women, and a small child clutching his mother’s hand had materialised from apparently nowhere as if offering themselves in surrender, which he’d quickly discovered was exactly their intention.

  They’d assembled in quiet, orderly fashion before the yellow hut, which was the closest one to the jetty, taking their lead from the man whom Gary had presumed to be the doctor.

  As he and his team had approached, they’d been greeted in English.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ from the leader, followed by a chorus of ‘good mornings’ from the others, even the little boy.

  When the leader, who had proved indeed to be Dr Rassen Khurdaji, had introduced himself, they had adjourned inside the yellow hut where Gary had conducted his interview with the group.

  One of his crew, young Jason, had remained present while the other five crew members, tough experienced men, had searched each of the huts on the island for evidence of any further refugees. There had been none. As the doctor himself had stated, the eight present were the sole survivors of the tragic voyage they had all undertaken.

  Throughout the interview, Gary had been touched by the respect afforded him by the refugees, including those who spoke virtually no English. He’d been touched also by their quiet resignation. But he had come across this quality before, and he’d been touched by it then too. Twenty years previously, as a young man, he’d worked out of Darwin, where he’d been involved in the apprehension of Indonesian fishing boats run by ruthless fleet owners who trafficked in human cargo, which yielded a far greater profit than fishing. Their boats transported poor despairing souls who had sold all they owned in a bid to find sanctuary in a country that was safe. Upon their apprehension, these people had had that same look of resignation.

  Gary didn’t like this sort of work.

  He’d waited until the end of his interview before asking the question that, to him, was of the greatest importance.

  ‘Have you had contact with anyone from the mainland, doctor? Have you received help from any Australians?’

  ‘Oh yes, we have most certainly,’ the doctor replied. ‘Without the help we have received from our Australian friends we would undoubtedly be dead by now.’

  ‘I see.’ Gary exchanged a look with his crew member, young Jason raising an eyebrow in return. Sorry, Lou, he thought, can’t save your hide now. ‘And who would these Australians be?’ he asked. ‘Would you happen to know their names?’

  ‘Every single person who owns these cottages,’ the doctor said, ‘we do not know their names, but we give thanks to them all.’

  ‘We most certainly do,’ the doctor’s wife interjected, the woman who looked
and sounded so extraordinarily English. ‘We were on the verge of death when we arrived on this island. These people have saved our lives.’

  The young man who also spoke perfect English then chimed in.

  ‘We are deeply indebted to these people, and we apologise for having invaded their homes.’

  The non-English speakers were trying desperately to follow the conversation, eager to have their say, so the doctor translated what the young man had just said, and there was a sudden outpouring of Arabic, which the doctor in turn translated for Gary’s benefit.

  ‘They say the same as Massoud,’ he told Gary. ‘They thank their benefactors from the very bottom of their hearts.’ He placed his hand on his heart as he said this and the others all made the same gesture, nodding fervently, hands on hearts. ‘And they apologise most sincerely if they have caused any offence to these people for living in their homes.’

  ‘Right,’ Gary said. OK, Lou, he thought, looks like you’re off the hook. For now anyway. Oh hell, if anyone finds out you told me about this I’m gone for all money.

  Gary Walton normally slept well aboard his vessel, like a baby in fact. But not tonight. The gentle cradle-like rock and the soft lick of the water against the side of the vessel did not work their customary magic, his mind baulking at what lay ahead.

  Christ, he thought, talk about the tip of the iceberg. This whole thing’s going to cause a furore. Boat people living undetected on Australian soil for a whole four months! How do they reckon they’ll keep that out of the media?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  By the end of that day the news had spread throughout the whole of Shoalhaven, and the following morning the town could talk of nothing else. Illegal immigrants had been discovered on Gevaar Island. There had as yet been no official verification, but everyone was nonetheless sure these intruders must be refugees from somewhere. Even at this early stage the term varied in its application, some referring to them as refugees and others as illegal immigrants, but the same questions abounded. Where were these people from? How many of them were there? How long had they been on the island?

  Then as the morning wore on and the officials arrived, having been driven up from Geraldton airport, tempers started to become a little frayed, particularly among the fisher community who had property on the island. The official party, a whole coachload of them, well over a dozen investigators from various government departments along with police, were taken directly to the marina where they boarded the Fisheries vessel and were whisked off to Gevaar Island with not a word of explanation to the fishers who had gathered at the jetty.

  ‘No comment,’ was the brusque reply from the party’s principal spokesperson, clearly a plain-clothes cop, and most likely a Fed, they all agreed. ‘You’ll be informed in due course. Announcements will be made late this afternoon, either here upon our return or at a meeting place you might wish to nominate.’ And then they were gone, officers as it later turned out from the Immigration Department, the Australian Quarantine and Inspection Service, Customs/Border Protection and a number of police.

  So the fishers, and by now the townsfolk too, were left to fume, the fishers frustrated, not knowing what was happening with their property, and the townsfolk downright annoyed by the dismissive attitude of the authorities. How dare they treat us like children!

  The Shoalhaven Residents’ Group called an extraordinary general meeting, and at a moment’s notice. As a rule they met only four or five times a year, usually to discuss a community improvement or to raise funds for a charitable cause, and always they gave a good week’s notice in advance. This time was altogether different.

  The group had been formed many years previously by three prominent and well-respected citizens who worked on an honorary basis and who had the town’s best interests at heart. Gordon Shadforth of Shadforth Hardware was president, his wife, Sandra, was secretary and David Miller, Shoalhaven’s postmaster, was accountant and treasurer. At each meeting, Sandy Shadforth would record the minutes, her fingers whipping across the keyboard of her laptop with lightning speed, after which she would print out each report and pin a stapled copy of the pages up on the church hall’s noticeboard, should anyone wish to inspect it, which no one ever did. Attendance numbers were always good, however. Signs would be posted in the windows of the hardware shop and the post office, and the organisers would send out word by email or text or simply via the grapevine that a meeting was to be held in the church hall to discuss a specific matter or matters that affected the citizens of Shoalhaven. As a rule fifty, sometimes even a hundred might turn up, dependent upon the matter to be discussed, and also of course the lobster season.

  This time, despite the late notice, there were well over two hundred in attendance. The federal police spokesman had said ‘late afternoon’, whatever that might mean, so the meeting was called for three-thirty just to be on the safe side. And everyone sat waiting for well over an hour.

  All the fishers were there, or rather all the fishers who had remained in Shoalhaven during the off-peak season. Most of the townspeople were there too, leaving their assistants to look after their shops and businesses. Gordon Shadforth of course had two very capable assistants who were accustomed to running his store, but David Miller had left young Tillie in charge of the post office, which was a definite first. His wife, Maria, who would normally have filled in for him, had insisted upon attending the meeting herself, and it had been Maria’s firm opinion that Tillie was by now perfectly capable of taking over postal duties for the last two hours of the working day.

  Nina Adrejic had left Aleksandra to run the bakery on her own; Henry Wong had left his wife, Florence, to look after the Chinese restaurant and hamburger bar; young Nessa was running the pharmacy for her parents, Alfred Tran having decided it was too bad if anyone needed a prescription urgently, they’d just have to wait until the morning; old Geoff and Freda Marston had left Izzie in charge of their shop; and so the list went on. Everyone’s business was operating with the barest minimum of staff. Everyone’s business that is, except Ian Tuckey’s. Ian had closed the Tuckshop altogether.

  Huddled in the church hall, which was virtually at capacity with many people standing up the back due to a shortage of chairs, for which there wouldn’t have been room anyway, they waited. And they waited. The muttering of voices, the shuffling of feet – Sandra Shadforth up on the small platform of a stage, seated at her desk, impeccably poised, laptop at the ready – they waited.

  Gordon Shadforth and David Miller were also waiting, but not at the church hall. Gordon and David were at the marina, seated on a foreshore bench, coincidentally the very one where Gary and Lou had sat just the previous morning. They were there to meet the official party and escort them, or their spokesperson, who would presumably be the federal police officer, to the church hall.

  They sat in silence, an impressive-looking pair. They’d talked for a while as they’d stood gazing out to sea for the first sign of the fisheries vessel, but as time had passed they’d decided to sit and conversation had dwindled. They were now comfortably silent.

  Gordon, a tall man in his sixties, around the same height as David, but with a fleshier body and a head of silver-white hair, was not a particularly talkative man at the best of times, possibly because of his garrulous wife. Gordon Shadforth was perfectly happy to talk about things of importance, but the social chitchat he always left to Sandy, for she was so very good at it.

  David, who was also a man not given to small talk, was grateful for the silence. He was in a particularly introspective mood, his mind on Jalila, the girl he had come to accept as his daughter-in-law. He didn’t care in the least that she and his son were not legally married: the girl was as much a wife as any woman could be. She loved his son deeply and with an unquestionable loyalty that was plain for all to see. David considered loyalty one of the greatest of all human virtues.

  During the month he had come to know and admire Jalila’s qualities, however, David had tried to distance himself from the
subject of the refugees. He had no wish to become biased in any way; the law must take its course as it inevitably would. But he’d found it difficult to close his ears at the Sunday family dinners when Maria, to whom the subject was fascinating, asked endless questions. At first he’d been irritated.

  ‘I hardly think it wise we pursue the subject, my dear,’ he’d said a little stiffly. He rarely argued with his wife, preferring to avoid confrontation whenever possible, and most particularly with Maria who, when pushed, could become quite volatile.

  ‘But why, my darling?’ Maria had queried airily. ‘Jalila doesn’t mind, do you, Jalila?’

  ‘No, no,’ Jalila had assured her, ‘I like talk of my friends. They is good … are … good peoples.’

  ‘There you are, you see?’ Maria had said with an air of triumph. ‘Where’s the harm?’

  ‘We are speaking of those who have entered this country illegally, Maria,’ he’d remarked, this time quite tightly, a distinct warning, ‘people of whose existence we are supposedly unaware.’

  ‘Yes, but we are aware of their existence, aren’t we, my darling, there’s no point in pretending we’re not.’ Recognising her husband was in one of his prickly moods, Maria had tried to sound as reasonable as possible. ‘I mean it’s not as if anyone can hear us.’ She’d smiled pleasantly around the table at her family, at Lou and Paul and Bev. ‘There’s only us here and each of us knows the truth, so why should we pretend?’ Then she’d looked directly at Jalila, adding in all sincerity, ‘And I certainly would not ask any questions that might be intrusive or insensitive – God only knows what those poor people may have been through.’ Another pleasant smile, this time to her husband. ‘I’d just like to know a little about Jalila’s friends, my darling, that’s all.’

  What option did he have? David had wondered. His wife could appear so infuriatingly ‘sensible’ when presenting an argument that, to him, was totally irrational – it was a great talent of Maria’s. What action was he now supposed to take? He could forbid further conversation, which would spoil the gathering altogether and alienate him from his family, or he could leave the table. But either option would be to make a scene and he preferred to avoid scenes.