Gunshot Road

by Adrian Hyland

  I thought, as I had at the funeral, what a finely tuned unit this family was—how intimately they knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses, how much accommodation they made for one another.

  So when Simone swooped at a ball, then stumbled and lay on the ground for a moment, gasping, I wasn’t surprised that they decided it was time to up stumps. Simone disappeared inside the house. The neighbourhood kids dispersed, the twins beguiled me into a game of canasta that ended up in a rugby scrum. The boys fired up a barbie under the ghost gum while Wishy and Loreena prepared dinner at the kitchen bench.

  I watched them together. Unsurprised to see how well they worked: one would hand the other a knife or piece of food without looking and let go, confident that the other was there. The space between them was familiar, intuitive territory.

  The meal was good—heavy, old fashioned, heaps of spuds and onions, not a scrap of bok choy or rocket in sight—the company better. Simone had gone missing but various members of the family disappeared from time to time bearing plates of food, most of which seemed to come straight back.

  When it was time to leave, I went inside to grab my hat. As I walked out over the veranda, I came across the older daughter resting on a couch—positioned, I noticed, in a manner that gave her a clear view of the family gathering.

  I thought she was asleep, but as I slipped past, I saw that her eyes were open and focused on me.

  ‘See ya later, Simone.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Feeling better now?’

  ‘Much better, thank you. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m feeling a little tired. All this heat…’

  There was a lantern at her head, a mosquito coil at her feet and, in her hands, a book—which she self-consciously flipped over as I drew near. A natural reaction for these parts. Books tend to be regarded as enemy despatches, readers as fair game.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  She hesitated, cautiously turned the book over.

  ‘Emily Dickinson,’ I read, surprised. A battered, moth-eaten paperback edition, one that had done a lot of miles.

  ‘Do you know her?’ Wary.

  ‘Because I would not stop for death…’

  I broke off. They were the first words that had sprung into my head, but there was something about the scene—the girl’s pale, hollow cheeks, the intensity with which she clutched those cut-glass meditations on mortality—that sent a chill through me.

  ‘You read a lot of poetry?’ I asked.

  ‘Mainly this.’

  ‘Guess that’s enough; they don’t come any better. Where’d you get it?’

  The ghost of a smile. ‘I found it—years ago—in a roadhouse in Longreach. In the toilet, actually. I felt guilty, taking it. I wondered if somebody hadn’t left it there to inspire travellers. You know, as they set off on the journey.’

  I grinned. ‘Nah, you did the right thing. Longreach? They would have wiped their arses with it.’

  She studied me. Didn’t quite manage to suppress a small bubble of laughter. ‘You seem to be an unusual person…’

  ‘Mostly unusual persons, aren’t we? When you get up close.’

  ‘Maybe. But…I was watching, the way you look around, like you’re hungry, taking everything in. Even a simple game of cricket.’

  ‘Nothing simple about cricket when your sisters are playing it.’

  ‘Of course there is—all that clash and batter. But not you.’

  ‘Thought you were looking at your book.’

  She ignored that. ‘If I had to speculate, I’d say you were looking for something. I wonder what?’

  I heard a throat clear behind me, turned around. Wishy was standing in the doorway, his face a rocky escarpment even Doc would have had trouble reading.

  ‘I’ll be on my way then.’ I was suddenly uncomfortable.

  As I stepped off the veranda, I paused, turned back to the girl on the couch.

  ‘Hey Simmie…’

  ‘Emily?’

  ‘I started early, took my dog, and visited the sea.’

  The gloominess of the first lines I’d thrown at her seemed an unfortunate note to leave on.

  Her face became radiant. ‘You’d have to start awfully early to get to the sea from Bluebush, dog or no dog.’

  ‘Wait long enough, the sea’ll come to you. Your Uncle Albie knew that.’

  ‘Good bye, Emily Tempest.’

  ‘Be seeing you, Simone.’

  Wishy walked me to my car; I almost had the feeling he was marching me to it.

  ‘She’s a nice girl, that.’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘You’ve got a lovely family.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m blessed.’

  And yet, I thought to myself as I drove away. There’s something there I can’t quite put my finger on.

  Office politics

  I PULLED INTO THE police station car park, parked the Hilux next to a beautiful new police Landcruiser. It could only have been Cockburn’s; any car like that coming into the region always went straight to the top.

  I wasn’t the vehicle’s only admirer. Jukut and Nyayi, a couple of patch-and-baggy-pants boys from the Sandhill Camp, stood marvelling at it, the dazzle of its paintwork, the breadth of its technology. Even from the outside, you could tell the car had every accessory known to automotive engineering: spotties and PTO winch, snorkel, alloy wheels and bull-bar. Inside, god knew: Cockburn probably had a squash court in there.

  Jukut made the mistake of pressing his nose against the glass. The moment he did so, a window in the station flew open and the senior sergeant’s head appeared.

  ‘Oi! You! Get your filthy hands off that vehicle!’

  The kids disappeared; some primordial guilt made me want to join them. Seconds later Cockburn himself came out, moving like a man lunging at a well-placed drop shot.

  He made a careful inspection of the window, then gazed up and down the street, searching for the dirty little bastards who’d violated his space. He pulled a shammy from his pants and began polishing.

  He paused; his gaze fell on my pickup. He realised I was in it.

  He flushed, thrust the rag back into a pocket, strode inside.

  I gave him a few minutes. He was at the front desk, animatedly chatting to Harley and Bunter. Trail and Flam, two other constables, wandered in from the cells, where they’d been depositing a couple of smack-in-the-mouth drunks.

  ‘New car, sarge?’

  ‘Acting superintendent now, Emily. Paperwork came through this morning.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘So it’s “sir” now thanks. And yes, the car came with the position. Managed to pull a few strings in Darwin. Just telling the lads: it’s got the latest twin turbocharged V8 diesels. Ought to be the fastest thing on the road.’

  He sounded so enthusiastic I couldn’t bring myself to remind him how much of our work was off-road.

  ‘Nice. Reckon I’ll ever be allowed to drive it?’

  ‘When you get to acting super.’

  I smiled. ‘Shouldn’t take long then. What’s the latest on McGillivray?’

  ‘Couple of months. At least.’

  ‘He’s gone across to Queensland,’ put in Griffo. ‘Brother’s place at Nambour.’

  ‘Well, that ought to get him back on his feet—all that saltwater and sunshine.’ I turned to Cockburn. ‘Gotta moment, boss?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Right. Sir. Wanted to talk about something.’

  ‘Always got a moment for you, Emily.’ He glanced at the boys, shared something that wasn’t quite a smile. Suddenly I felt small and outnumbered among these burly white males. ‘Maybe in your office…?’

  He waved an arm at the room. ‘Open door policy—key to a successful team.’

  ‘I’ll remember that for the post-its. When I get to acting super.’

  His eyes narrowed.

  ‘It’s about this Green Swamp death…’

  He tensed, ever so slightly, leaned back against the desk,
crossed his arms. ‘Yes, Emily?’

  ‘I know the evidence against Wireless looks bad…’

  ‘Bad? Irrefutable from where I stand. But it’s out of our hands now: prosecutor’ll take it from here.’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘I think we need to examine it more closely.’

  ‘Christ, Emily, couple of miners fighting in an isolated shack, one ends up with a pick in his throat. How close do you want?’

  ‘I’m not saying he isn’t guilty, but there’s…there’s something wrong with the whole set-up. It just doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘Feel right!’ The words weren’t just dripping with sarcasm, they were pissing it out, like he’d punctured an artery in the spleen. ‘Probably didn’t feel too good for the poor bastard on the other end of the pick, either.’

  ‘There’s just too many unanswered questions.’

  ‘Unanswered questions!’ he snorted. ‘I can’t remember a case where there’s been less unanswered questions. There was nobody else within a bull’s roar.’

  ‘You’d hear a bull roar from the hill behind the shack.’

  ‘Ah yes. Your killer in green cotton. Or maybe it was a dingo in a matinee jacket now?’ The rest of the office shared a smirk.

  It was the smile that did me.

  ‘Yep, the Territory police covered themselves in glory that time, didn’t they. You want Wireless to go down like Lindy Chamberlain?’ My voice kicked up a gear. ‘Somebody was up there spying on him. Well, why? Don’t you think we oughta find out before we start cooking up a death sentence for the poor old bugger?’

  Harley snorted. ‘Death! He’ll be out in a couple of years, soft-cock courts we gotta work with.’

  I turned on him. ‘You saw Wireless when they shuffled him away. He’ll be the next funeral we go to.’

  ‘Fucked if I’ll be going to it; still haven’t forgiven the old bugger for putting us through that fuckin weather the other day.’

  ‘You couldn’t handle the heat—you reckon our so-called witnesses were any better?’

  Cockburn twisted his watch—and what a watch it was, all galloping hands and golden wheels. ‘All you’re doing, Emily, is muddying the waters. Might even stir up enough mud to get him off, Legal Aid gets wind of it. But is it going to change the basic facts? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Fact’s an elusive thing, this part of the world. Sir.’

  He looked like something nasty had fallen out of a tree and landed in his lap. Sighed heavily, popped a stick of spearmint into his mouth, made to go. ‘Unless you can come up with fresh evidence…’

  ‘Maybe I can.’

  Five sets of eyes homed in on me.

  ‘What?’ Cockburn growled.

  ‘Doc was researching the geology of the del Fuego Desert.’

  ‘He did have a lot of it piled up in his backyard.’

  ‘That was part of his research: the rocks were a model.’

  ‘Model of what?’

  ‘Not quite sure, but I do know he was investigating one theory in particular—known as Snowball Earth.’

  ‘Snowball?’ His gaze flitted to the window, through which a glimpse of the desert beyond the town boundary could be seen. ‘Sounds relevant.’

  ‘His research centred on a rock formation out west.’

  ‘Fascinating. And this proves…what, exactly?’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose it proves anything, but I went through his files, and any reference to the site or the theory has been systematically removed. You can see there was a file that had…’

  ‘What do you mean, you went through his files?’ Cockburn peered at me suspiciously.

  I took a deep breath, wondered if I was going to be in the shit. ‘I went and spoke to his brother.’

  Cockburn glared. ‘You what!’

  I was.

  ‘He told me…’

  Cockburn turned on his heels. ‘My office. Now!’

  I glanced back at the rest of the team, all suddenly engrossed in paperwork.

  What happened to the open door policy, I wondered as he closed it behind me.

  He turned to face me, his blue eyes blades of ice, his mouth taut. Motioned me to a chair.

  ‘I’m right, thanks.’ Fight or flight—both easier on my feet.

  ‘Siddown!’

  I sat.

  ‘Let me get this straight. Despite clear instructions to the contrary, you’ve been pursuing this matter on your own?’

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘Harassing members of the victim’s family?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it…’

  ‘Mister Ozolins isn’t some drunken cobber of your old man’s: he’s the regional manager of a government department.’

  ‘What does it matter what he…’

  ‘Blundering about in a manner which may well compromise an ongoing investigation. All of this without informing your superiors or co-operating with your colleagues in any way.’ He leaned in so close I copped a blast of spearmint. ‘Do you have any idea at all what your role in this region is meant to be?’

  ‘Something to do with upholding the law?’

  ‘You’re meant to provide liaison between us and the Aborigines. Liaison: fancy word, but I hear you got a degree.’

  He’d heard wrong—started three, finished none, the story of my life—but right now the shortcomings of my CV were the least of his concerns.

  ‘It means talking to people,’ he continued. ‘To your people. Explaining the law to them. Trying to persuade them not to stuff a dozen brothers into the back of the pickup truck when they’re running home from the boozer. Getting the kids to go to school. Maybe even gathering a bit of dirt on which of them’s responsible for the epidemic of drugs and break-ins that seems to underpin the economy of this town.’ He was warming to his theme, his voice rising but tightly controlled, his face as hard and sharp as a chisel. ‘What it doesn’t mean is sticking your bib in every time some whitefeller breaks the law north of Alice.’

  ‘But I…’

  ‘Your actions could allow a killer to go free. There are protocols, procedures, points of law, none of which you know anything about.’

  ‘Protocols? Procedures? Is that as far as you can see?’ I found my mouth shooting into overdrive, something it does all too easily. ‘Are you a cop or a bureaucrat? If it’s the latter then you oughter stay behind the desk and leave the policing to somebody else. And if you think you’re a cop, maybe you could take a leaf out of your predecessor’s book.’

  ‘My predecessor.’ His nostrils stiffened. ‘That would be the feller let his head get smashed in by a geriatric cripple?’

  ‘He dropped his guard for a moment. But he knows the job and he knows the country. Knows when to act, when to watch and wait. There are things out here you have to grow into. You and your protocols and points of law—there are protocols and points of law out there more subtle than the eye can see. Whitefeller eye, any rate.’

  ‘Look Emily, you’re talking black law? No worries.’ He shifted the gum inside his mouth. ‘That’s got nothing to do with…’

  ‘But it does. Don’t ask me how or why, it just does. That Law’s evolved over Christ knows how many years—or Christ doesn’t, actually, cos it’s older than He is—it affects everything.’

  ‘Oh don’t give me…’

  ‘That’s what’s been bugging me about this business ever since Green Swamp. That’s why I’ve been sniffing round, why I went and spoke to the brother. Something’s out of place. Something’s wrong. I know it is. I can feel it.’

  ‘I’d say everything’s out of place from your perspective.’

  We locked eyes. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I mean when you’ve got a chip the size of a dump truck on your shoulder, maybe it throws your sense of perspective out a little. You’re complicating a perfectly straightforward homicide investigation.’

  ‘Bunch of blokes flashing a video round a cabin? There hasn’t been a homicide investigation.’
/>   He rose from his seat, went over and stood by the window, put a hand on the frame. His neck pulse became visible. I could almost hear his teeth grinding. He glanced at the door, wondering how this was going down with our audience. ‘Are you questioning my competence?’

  ‘I’m sure as hell questioning something—reckon that’d be a reasonable place to start.’

  He turned, took a couple of steps towards me. ‘Don’t think I didn’t have you sussed out first time I laid eyes on you.’ His voice grew hard and sharp. ‘All this earth-my-mother bullshit.’

  I heard myself yelling, saw his face loom large, my fist slam into the desk: never use the word ‘mother’ to taunt somebody who hasn’t got one. ‘First time you laid eyes on me? Before you even knew I existed, you mean?’

  This wasn’t how I’d meant the discussion to go, but right now my genes or hormones or some other unstoppable bloody force of nature wasn’t giving me much choice. ‘Colour of my skin’d slot me into the fuckin box for you, you white prick! Sir.

  ’ I stormed out of the office, past the studiously heads-down constables. I could sense the gawks and grins as I slammed the door.

  I jumped into the pickup, hit the bitumen, charged out to the Watchtower, flat-chat. Not much chance of a speeding ticket today: every cop in the district was back there sniggering at my humiliation.

  I sat in the cab glowering, fired up a smoke with trembling fingers. Scrawled Cockburn’s face in the dashboard’s dust, then smashed it with the palm of my hand. The smug, smarmy bastard. Deaf to anything but his protocols and points of law, his big fat car and his pissy little post-it notes, so stupidly sure that he had all the answers.

  As if.

  ‘Cockburn, Cockburn…’ I muttered to the wind. ‘You know fuck all.’

  I’d been away, sure, but I knew this country: I knew its people, crazy and sane, I knew its cracked landscape. I understood the way the two intertwined.

  Something was amiss. Out of place. I could feel it in my bones. I’d first suspected it that morning on the road to Green Swamp: I remembered that strange, stomach-churning sense I’d had of something moving beyond the horizon. And it was still there, buzzing away in some dim-lit corner of my brain, driving me out onto the edge.