by Judy Nunn
From that day on, David Miller had remained silent during the family dinners, trying to close his ears to the chatter about the group out there on the island. But as Lou and Paul and Jalila had openly talked, and as his wife and daughter had listened with avid interest, like it or not, he had come to know these people out there on the island. And that was not right.
I shouldn’t know them, I mustn’t know them, he now thought as he sat with Gordon Shadforth awaiting the arrival of the Fisheries vessel.
‘There she is,’ Gordon said, rising from the bench, ‘and about bloody time too.’ He cast a brief smile to David, who had risen to stand beside him. ‘Better not say that to their faces though, eh? We are the town dignitaries after all.’
‘Yes we are,’ David agreed, politely returning the smile. Gordon could be amusing at times in a dry sort of way, not in the least pretentious like his wife. But David was not amused today. Today was not a day to be amused.
They strolled down to the jetty in leisurely fashion, the vessel was still some distance off, and as they did David’s mind turned to the dangers his family would face should Jalila be associated with the refugees.
Lou’s glib assurance that the doctor, the man whom they called Rassen, and the others also, would say nothing of the contact they’d had with the mainland had done little to settle David Miller’s nerves as he’d listened to Gary Walton’s address the preceding day.
‘They’ll make no mention of Jalila either,’ Lou had assured him when he’d told the family of his meeting with Gary that very morning. ‘Eight people made it ashore to the island after their dinghy sank.’ Lou had stated the fact quite categorically as if it were the absolute truth. ‘Rassen will have rehearsed them all in their story, you can be assured of that.’
David had been assured of nothing, however, as he’d watched Gary Walton, listening to the man’s every word, expecting at any moment that Lou would be exposed as an accomplice to these people on the island. But there had been no accusatory statement, not even the merest indication of complicity. Gary had addressed the crowd in general, not once looking in Lou’s direction. And Lou had not for one minute appeared threatened. David had found his complacency annoying.
The old man’s a bloody rogue, he thought as he now stood on the jetty, watching the approach of the vessel with its official party aboard. Lou might have got away with things so far, but if anyone makes the link between Jalila and those on the island, our whole family will be exposed. It was Paul who brought Jalila ashore and Bev who was his accomplice, lying that the girl was her friend’s sister. We’re all involved, every single one of us. We can’t pretend ignorance and I certainly don’t intend to try.
How on earth had he become involved in this, he wondered, it was so unlike him; a man who throughout the whole of his life had obeyed every letter of the law.
But how could I have reported my own son, he asked himself, what father could do such a thing? And the only wrong Paul committed after all was to help a group of people desperately in need. He hadn’t planned to fall in love. No man ever does.
David Miller had not succeeded in his attempt to remain unbiased. Despite himself, he had come to know those people out there on that island, and he couldn’t help but feel sympathetic to their plight. He was powerless to help them, it was true, but he would do all he could to protect Jalila. While still condemning his ‘rogue’ of a father-in-law for involving his son in an illegal act, he was now prepared to weather the storm. We’ll see this through as a family, he thought. We’ll see this through together, come what may.
The official party was shepherded ashore and the necessary introductions made, after which Gordon and David led the federal police officer, Inspector Terence Henley, to the church hall. They were accompanied by local WA state police officer, Inspector Leslie Brock, who was stationed in Geraldton, and also Gary Walton of the Fisheries Department. Les and Gary, who knew each other well and who were known by the locals, would presumably be a calming influence if feathers became ruffled, which might well be the case.
As the five men set off by foot for the nearby church hall, only several minutes’ walk away, the other members of the official party were offered tea, coffee and refreshments at the marina before boarding the coach that was waiting to transport them back to Geraldton, where accommodation had been arranged. Following the meeting, Les Brock would drive Terence Henley to Geraldton in his police vehicle, while Gary Walton would return to his vessel that remained berthed at Shoalhaven Marina.
It would be the end of a long day’s work for them all, but only a taste of what lay ahead.
A hush fell over the gathering as the five men entered the rear of the hall and made their way through the crowd to the small stage at the far end where Sandy Shadforth remained at her desk, still poised, aware that her infinite patience served as a fine example to her fellow citizens.
The shuffling of feet stopped, dissatisfied mutterings died away, and all heads turned to follow the men’s progress.
Upon reaching the stage, which was really no more than a platform, Gordon and David stepped up, Inspector Henley joining them, and Gordon made the opening announcement. Given the stage area was limited, Les and Gary stood respectfully to one side.
‘I think we can dispense with the customary procedures,’ Gordon said, glancing at his wife, who he knew would be disappointed. ‘This is an extraordinary meeting after all, and everyone knows why we’re here.’
Sandy’s lips pursed just that little bit tighter than normal. In her opinion customary procedure should most certainly be observed. The meeting should be formally declared open, and, most importantly, the minutes of the preceding meeting, which she had painstakingly printed out and posted up on the noticeboard, should be approved.
‘This is Inspector Henley of the Australian Federal Police Force,’ Gordon said.
As he made the introduction, all eyes focused on the burly plain-clothes police officer who stood in typical cop stance, legs astride, hands linked behind back, eyes trained front. This was the same man who’d made the brusque ‘no comment’ address to those who had gathered at the marina that morning. The same man who had treated them like children. Already there was a feeling of hostility in the hall.
‘Without further ado,’ Gordon went on, ‘I’ll hand you over to Inspector Henley, who’ll give you an account of the situation and tell you exactly what’s going on.’
‘As much as is within my power.’ Henley’s correction to Gordon appeared more of a reprimand. ‘There will be information I am not at liberty to impart.’
In just a matter of seconds the feeling of hostility had filtered throughout the entire hall. The man had successfully alienated the citizens of Shoalhaven, who did not take kindly to his form of authoritarian superiority.
Gordon and David edged to one side in order to give Henley centre stage, and the police officer stepped forwards and commenced his address.
‘Eight unauthorised maritime arrivals have been discovered on Gevaar Island,’ he announced.
There was not the merest ripple of reaction to the fact that he’d mispronounced the island’s name as ‘jeevar’ instead of ‘hoofire’. All strangers did that, though there was the general thought that a federal police officer could perhaps have been better briefed. No one intended to correct him though, not even Gordon Shadforth or David Miller. Let the man continue to make a fool of himself.
‘These people claim to be refugees and have been living there for some time,’ Henley went on.
‘How long’s “some time”?’ a strident female voice demanded from a seat at the very back of the hall. Kath Buckley could make herself heard anywhere.
Henley ignored the question altogether, turning instead to Gordon Shadforth with a look that quite clearly said, You’re supposed to be the president, you tell them the rules.
Gordon stepped forwards, his hand held up.
‘We’ll get to questions after Inspector Henley has made his address,’ he said, eyes raking t
he hall, seeing Kath up the back. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d all keep your questions until then. Thank you.’ He gave a respectful nod to the gathering and stepped back.
‘As I believe you’ve already been informed,’ Henley continued, ‘the island has been officially placed under federal quarantine. A further order is now issued that there will be a five-hundred-metre exclusion zone beyond which no vessel may approach the island.’
Mutterings followed this announcement. People appeared bewildered.
‘There are a number of reasons why the government deems this necessary,’ Henley went on to explain, ‘but one of the principal concerns is the media. The media must be allowed nowhere near the island. In fact, I cannot express strongly enough to you all the need to avoid any form of media involvement in this incident.’
For the first time, Terence Henley appeared to be genuinely reaching out to them, keen to make direct, and urgent, contact. These had in fact been his orders with regard to the issue of media.
‘In the days, and possibly the weeks to come,’ he continued, ‘there will be a great deal of activity here in … Shoalhaven.’ There was a fractional pause while he reminded him self that this place was Shoalhaven, he’d come very close to saying Geraldton. He’d been briefed at the very last minute and he was tired: it had been a bloody long day.
‘Given the current political climate worldwide, of which I’m sure you’re well aware,’ he went on, although he doubted they were aware of anything much, they were fishermen in an obscure town at the arse-end of the earth, ‘the arrival of asylum seekers by boat is a delicate issue under any circumstances. The government has a strong policy in place, again as I’m sure you know,’ he added, trying to sound as if he gave them credit, which he didn’t, ‘and the more speedily these boat-people are moved to a government detention centre for processing, the better it will be for all concerned.’
Henley then, mustering his patience, went on to explain the situation in the simplest terms possible, that those gathered before him might understand.
‘The trouble in this case, however, is that the boat in which these particular people travelled was not turned back at sea, but foundered before it could be discovered by our border control. These eight who managed to survive have since been hiding out on the island undetected for some months.’ He gazed about at the gathering, his face, stern at the best of times, seeming somehow to convey that this was all their fault.
‘It is now essential that the island be placed under the strictest quarantine regulations for a substantial period, which would unfortunately allow the media, should they become aware of the situation, ample time to blow the story out of all proportion. The government wishes to avoid this unnecessary publicity. As I’m sure,’ he added meaningfully, ‘do you, the people of Shoalhaven. Being the centre of media attention, possibly even worldwide, would be most unpleasant for your community, I can assure you. In which case we ask you to avoid any form of communication that might spread this news, either electronically or by word of mouth.’
Henley glanced at Gordon Shadforth and gave a brisk nod, which Gordon rightly interpreted to mean it was time for him to once again play president.
‘Well that’s how the situation stands,’ Gordon said, stepping forwards and addressing the crowd. ‘So all those of you who might have any questions, if you could put up your hands, I’ll call on you one by one and Inspector Henley will address each query in an orderly fashion.’
It was a none-too-subtle hint. Any questions, Gordon was thinking; he’d sensed the aura in the room right from the start. Hell, if I give them open slather they’ll all be yelling out at the tops of their voices, he thought, and who could blame them?
But everyone got the hint; Gordon was held in high regard by his fellow citizens. Hands shot up all over the place, but no one yelled out.
‘Yes, Kath.’ Gordon pointed to Kath Buckley, who stood up from her chair at the rear of the hall.
‘How long will the quarantine last?’
‘I have no idea,’ Henley answered, once again brusquely; fatigue, both genuine and born of boredom, was beginning to set in. ‘That’s not my department, that’s up to AQIS,’ he said, referring to the Australian Quarantine and Inspection Service. ‘But I would estimate possibly several weeks.’
Kath nodded and sat. She had a dozen other questions she’d have liked to ask. But fair’s fair, she thought, it’s someone else’s turn. Her questions were bound to crop up anyway – they were all thinking the same thing.
Gordon pointed to Aappo Laaksonen next, Jukka’s and Hekki’s father. The whole of the Laaksonen family was there, mother and daughter seated at the end of one row, father and sons standing against the wall nearby.
‘Yes, Aappo,’ he said. He considered it only right to favour the questions that were coming from the fishers who had property on the island.
‘What does this quarantine entail?’ Aappo asked in his heavy Finnish accent. ‘What is done to the fishers’ huts on the island?’
‘Again that’s up to AQIS,’ Henley replied. ‘They’ll probably fumigate the whole place, I would think, but most certainly the huts, and of course they’ll conduct full medical examinations of the people on the island. Their job is to protect Australia’s environment and human health from the importation of pests and diseases.’ Henley was becoming irritated now. ‘Again not my department,’ he said, which moved them hastily on to the next question.
‘Yes, Paul.’ Gordon pointed to Paul Miller next.
Paul had raised his hand along with everyone else, knowing that as an island fisher it would seem extremely odd if he didn’t. He was standing up the back with the majority of the men, Lou beside him. Jalila and Maria were seated together in the centre of the hall along with the other wives and mothers and daughters, most of the chairs having been left for the women.
Paul boldly asked the most important question of all. The question he considered of most importance anyway, the question he would have asked had he not known the answer. ‘These people on the island,’ he said. ‘Where do they come from?’
‘Ah yes.’ Henley was once more on the alert, hunger and weariness forgotten as he realised he’d neglected to mention the ethnicity of the immigrants, which was a particularly pertinent aspect. ‘There are eight illegal immigrants and all predominately from Middle Eastern countries,’ he said.
There was an immediate reaction, mutterings of surprise, most of those present having automatically presumed that the refugees would be of Asian ethnicity, from Indonesia or Malaysia, somewhere closer to Australia.
‘Yes indeed,’ Henley said, holding his hand up for silence. ‘As some of you might realise, given the worldwide focus upon the ongoing conflict in the Middle East and the mass exodus of migrants causing chaos throughout Europe, the media would take particular delight in over-emphasising many aspects of this current situation, which is exactly what the government wishes to avoid.’
The hall started to become a bit unruly then, people forgetting Gordon’s call for queries in ‘orderly fashion’.
‘So the government’s scared because they’re Middle Eastern Muslims!’
‘Are these people militants then?’
‘They could be bloody terrorists!’
Most of the comments weren’t queries at all, but sounded more like accusations.
Terence Henley had had quite enough by now.
‘There is no further information to hand,’ he called above the crowd with a voice more than adequate to regain control, ‘and if there were I would not be at liberty to impart it. Thank you for your attention.’
He stepped down from the platform and, with a brisk nod to Les Brock, a distinct order it was time he be driven back to Geraldton, he made for the rear of the hall. It had been a very, very long day, what with the interminable flight to Perth, the charter to Geraldton, the drive up there and the boat to the island. He was tired and hungry and thoroughly pissed off.
Les had no option but to hurry after the
man, which he did with a muttered, ‘Sorry, mate, it’s all yours,’ apology to Gary Walton, who was obviously going to be left with a crowd demanding more answers.
Upon the departure of the two police officers, the crowd did not, however, turn to Gary for answers. The idea didn’t seem to occur; instead, they started shouting at each other, everyone wanting to voice an opinion about something of which they knew nothing, or at least very little. The mention of the Middle East appeared to have had an unsettling effect on most.
Gordon called the meeting to order and it was he who suggested Gary might answer some further questions.
Reluctantly, Gary took to the stage.
‘It’s not my place to officially answer questions,’ he said both to Gordon and to the crowd in general. ‘And I certainly can’t tell you any more than Inspector Henley has, for the simple reason that I don’t know,’ he added apologetically.
‘Aye, but you’ve met these folk, haven’t you, Gaz?’ Mac called from the sidelines. No one was bothering with decorum now. There was no raising of hands; this had become a discussion among locals. ‘You’re the one who discovered them, when all’s said and done.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘So what are they like, man?’
There was an expectant pause. Mac’s question had hit home.
‘They’re people,’ Gary said, ‘people just like you and me. There’s a child amongst them too, a little boy of four.’
‘Yeah, but they’re Muslims, aren’t they?’ a female voice piped up. It was Kath, of course.
‘I suppose they are; I didn’t ask them.’
‘So how do you know they’re not terrorists?’ Kath demanded.