His rain has taken him away from his useless, used-up life. Perhaps back to the Dreamtime he understood.
No one knew the old Wongi was dead until the next pension day.
ONE HOT NIGHT
THE train smashes away the hot, still, trembling body of the night and leaves it crumpled upon the hard rocks beside the sleepers. Black and bloody and flecked with light from the dying sun and the prosperous shops or the comfortable middle-class houses or the rushing vehicles on the highway or the arrogant street lights that guard the highway. The train charges noisily onwards, high up on its embankment. It will never reach the stars, but it is too proud for the common, crowded highways. It floats on a lonely uniform course between reality and dreams.
The train rattles and rocks in rhythm to its music. Inside its throbbing belly the black boy who huddles in the very comer is rocked too.
When he got on at Guildford, the three sailors with their painted giggling girl and the old, faded, white couple in their faded best eyed him furtively and coldly.
Just a skinny, scrawny part-Aboriginal boy, with a ragged mop of tangled blue-black hair on top of his hatchet face and a black beard and moustache surrounding it and his thin lips. He holds up his head in pride. His royal black eyes flick scornfully around the carriage for a brief second before he drifts up to the other end and throws himself into the corner to stare out of the window, ignoring the world.
He had a fight with his woman and punched her to the ground. She stared up at him reproachfully with her large sad eyes. Faces going red and orange, then black again in the flickering firelight. People stood silent. Blood ran out of his woman’s mouth.
‘Don’t go to town, Elgin. Ya know the munadj’s on the lookout for ya. Specially that big Fathers. Ya wanna go back to jail or what? Ya don’t even think of me, unna? I may as well be dead, as much as you care, any rate.’
‘Block up, Maydene. I’ll do what I wanna do, see? I’m me own boss now.’
‘I was better off when you was inside!’ the girl cried and he backhanded her across the face and kicked her in the stomach so she gave a queer half-cry.
He knelt down beside her in remorse, and stroked her long black hair back from her bruised face before leaving abruptly. He went away from the communal campfire that held the ever-present circle of shadowy forms close to its warmth or comfort.
People get on the train. People get off. All white. They stare at the dark, sullen youth gazing out the window.
The sailors’ girl leaves. Her high-heeled shoes clicketty-clack off the platform, then she is swallowed up by the lips of the stealthy night. The Nyoongah’s eyes devour her plump white body then, from the corner of his eyes, he spots the three sailors glaring at him. He smiles at them, an evil smile. Spits out the window.
The Indian ticket collector bustles along the corridor. He stares through the youth with arrogant eyes, as if no one is there. He takes the youth’s money, though.
Perth station.
Full of noise and colour and dancing lights. Shouting people and shunting trains.
Early yet.
He hunches into his clothes and shuffles outside. He rolls a smoke while the cars roar and rumble around him and people pass him by. So alone in the crowded city.
Over on the other side of the river, the flats stand high and alert, like a tribe of advancing warriors. Lights flicker from balconies and rest on the serene back of the river. Soft music from record players, radios or guitars drifts around the dark shore like a lazily swooping seagull.
Tonight is a night for romance.
Little Caesar Jackell struts importantly down the cool white footpaths. He flits in and out of the shadows like a busy black hummingbird searching for honey.
He disappears.
Silent as a thought, he creeps between the trees and bushes of the garden. Only the whites of his eyes are seen in this world that he knows all too well, if only through the stories of his brothers and cousins.
No one is home.
No dogs.
Big house means big money.
He slinks around to the back and tries a window. Locked. He notices a small louvred window high up on the wall, big enough for him to crawl through.
Quickly and quietly, he drags a box over to the window. He pecks out the glass louvres one by one with agile fingers, like a black crow ripping out the eye of affluence, as it squats, powerless, in its green garden. Then he scurries through the hole he has made, to feed off the living juicy insides.
First he pulls out a packet of smokes from his coat pocket and lights one up to calm his nerves. This is only the second house he has ever broken into, and the first time he has done it alone.
Wait till his eyes become accustomed to the dark, then slip quietly through the house.
He comes to the bedroom. A photograph of an earnest young man glares out at the cheeky thief from among various bottles of perfume on the dressing table.
It can do nothing to him.
He flattens down his bushy hair with a brush and pulls faces in the mirror. Then he sets to work.
He finds a small locked metal cashbox with a lucky-sounding jangle inside it, various rings and necklaces in another box and a watch that takes his fancy. In the kitchen, he takes two bottles of beer and a flagon of riesling from the fridge. In another room, he finds more cigarettes, three cigars, and a $10 note. He shoves the biggest cigar into his mouth and grins into another mirror.
On top of a cupboard, his searching fingers feel a hard, cold object.
It is a rifle. A telescopic .303. He searches the drawers of the cupboard until he finds four packets of bullets. This truly is a prize.
He shoves all his loot into a bag he finds, and lowers it out the window. Then the .303, then himself.
Same stars, same people, same lights.
He goes.
Keeps to the back ways as much as he can. No one sees him—or would care if they did.
He reaches the riverside and lights up another cigar. He decides to dump the hag and .303 and come back for them later.
‘Takes me, unna?’ he brags to the waves that gently slap-lap-lap against the shore. ‘Pooooh! Ya one solid man, Caesar Jackell.’
Takes one of the bottles of beer from the bag and wrenches off the top with his white teeth. He pours his cold, golden triumph down his throat. Starlight and city light glint off the bottle. No one is at his celebration party. Only the waves, and the floating rubbish and a few drifting ghostly gulls.
Across the water, the city beckons with crooked fingers and winks from tempting eyes. The buildings dance the dance of the night people, the street people, the nobody people.
His people.
Caesar finishes off the bottle and tries to open the cashbox.
He curses and swears and rips his knuckle open before he smashes the lock with a rock.
Open it eagerly.
Shells.
‘Shit!’
Hurl the useless box away, spewing beautifully patterned shells into the air.
He still has the $10.
Drinks the other bottle of beer. Slowly. He relishes the bitterness, and remembers he has robbed a whole house—a big, rich house—all on his own. Last time he was scared as he squatted under a tree chain-smoking, with his eyes darting about nervously, keeping watch for the others. Now he has proven he is as good as they. No, better, because he has a .303 and bullets.
He is drunk now.
Pats the barrel then aims it at the curious gulls.
‘Bang, bang,’ he mutters softly and smiles.
He hides the gun and bag, then stumbles away.
He staggers across the bridge and along the freeway, a small insignificant, drunken moth going to boast and be a big spender for at least one night in his miserable life.
The people pour onto the footpath in a noisy flow. They whirl and eddy, and cling to the sides, of cars or heroes in bobbing groups. Inside is a comforting blast of music and synthetic gunfire as the youths become pretend cowboys o
r soldiers or gangsters or racing-car drivers; all fantasies that are so real for them. Then they squeeze out the door, to become black boys gazed upon in contempt or fear or black girls sitting on the seats, giggling and shouting, eyed over by the white man.
Big Murry James leans into the darkest doorway across the street from Crystal Palace, watching all the Kings and Queens and Princes and Princesses amble in and out.
He is the Court Jester.
He was fostered by a white family and lived with them for fourteen years. Last month, the murmurings of his people stirred in his heart and he wandered home again to Lockridge camp.
Very black, with large round eyes—and a deep voice. A small squashed nose and a low forehead. He hardly ever talks, for it takes a long time for him to work things out. He leaves the thinking to his cleverer cousins and friends while he just gets on with living.
Despite his huge size, he is gentle and kind.
Puff on a cigarette, and dream about the girl he would like to take to bed. The other boys shout and yell their love across the rooftops and drag names from dirty lip to dirty lip, sweetened by knowledgeable laughter. Then they will swoop in and rip a girl off the footpath like an owl pouncing on a squeaking, cowering mouse.
Not Murry. His woman is like a drink kept secure in a bottle so no one but he can partake of her. Her name slides down his throat and warms him whenever he thinks of her.
He sees her now, lost in a crowd of grinning girls gathered around two blonde-haired brothers who came out of Riverbank last week.
Saunter across.
‘G’day, Lynette.’
‘Look ’oo’s ’ere! What ya doin’?’ she shrieks.
Small and young with a beautiful body, a permanent grin and sparkling dark eyes that have not yet been dulled by brutal sex. She is only fourteen and still a virgin. He is sixteen and shy and not yet used to this dark world that laps around the marble pedestal he has stood upon for so long.
‘Nuthin’. Wanna Coke?’
‘Get away!’ she cries, grinning at him. Then her grin fades to a half-smile, as she looks deeper into him.
‘Orright then, if ya like,’ she replies.
She understands. She always did from the first, when she caught him staring at her silently across the campfire the first week he drifted in.
He is tall and strong and handsome—in an ugly sort of way. He is quiet and gentle and kind. When he does make love to her, he will not be cruel.
They walk down the street to a coffee lounge.
‘Lets go to Beaufort Park, Murry.’
‘No. Ole Billy ’Owes died other day. The place is packed with ’Oweses now.’
’Elgin Broppo oughta look out, then. ‘Im an’ Mantan ’Owes ’ad one big fight, unna?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Ya got any boya, Murry?’
‘Yeah.’
He is proud of the job he has at the panel beater’s. He grins down at Lynette then away again at the staring, glaring lights all around him. They rip into his love like fruit fly boring into a delicate, delicious fruit. Get away from the harsh forest of lights. Go to the sea of darkness and shadows and softness and bushes down at Supreme Court Gardens.
‘Stick around me, Lynette, an’ we’ll ’ave a good time.’
‘Orright.’
They grin in unison and she moves a little closer to him.
Elgin Broppo slinks into a darkened, rutted lane way near the Beaufort Hotel and peers around the comer at the crowded park. Obscure figures flutter from one circle to another. Furtive mumblings and occasional yells of recognition. The Howeses drink to the death of old Billy.
An ebony trio is squeezed from the park and ambles across the street towards Elgin. He tenses, ready to run, then notices his cousin Jimmy Olsen.
Grins and soft punches as the cousins meet.
‘Hey, Elgin, brother. Doan’ ’ang round ’ere, budda. Manny ’Owes is drunk as all buggeries.’
‘Shootin’ off ’ow ya fought ’im dirty, like.’
‘Go an’ get ’im, Elgin.’
‘Doan’ talk silly, Larry. Mantan ’ud kill ’im with ’is own mob,’ Jimmy growls.
Elgin’s sombre eyes gaze thoughtfully over the park. He lifts his lips a little in a suggestion of a smile.
‘Another night, yeah.’
‘Let’s buy a drink, you fellahs.’
‘Oo’s got the boya?’
‘Jimmy busted into a shop, unna? Ya still got monies?’
They troop over to the bottle shop leering out at the dark parked cars.
The proprietor eyes them in an unfriendly way because last night there had been a big brawl in the front bar where the Aborigines drank. But money’s money, so he sells them a flagon of Brandevino and half a carton of cans.
Fade away behind the toilets, in the grubby, scuffed sea of dirt. Broken bottles blink their last as they drown in the sea.
The youths drown, too.
Caesar Jackell stumbles into the light-blasted circle outside Crystal Palace. His stage light. His big performance.
‘Hey, Donny, I got a gun, ya know.’
‘Yeah, an’ I got a million dollars.’
‘No. True’sGod. I got a real gun. Bushted thish ’ouse. Easy as pissin’, it wash.’
‘Look ’ere! Caesar drunk, or what?’ a girl shouts happily.
‘Yeah, ’e’s drunk. Finished.’
‘Caesar drunk!’
They gather around him, gabbling and grinning. All blurs and noise. Caesar clutches hold of Donny’s sleeve.
‘I got a fuckin’ gun—and bullets.’
‘I’ll give ya gun right up ya bony ’ole d’rectly, if ya don’t bugger off.’
‘I got ten dollars, too, if ya wanna know. I’m fuckin’ rich, me.’
They gather closer. Caesar smiles around the group, then swaggers into the poolroom. He nearly trips over his feet and is saved from the disgrace of falling on his face by two girls grabbing him. Everyone howls louder than ever at the joke.
Caesar dances over to the counter. Everyone of importance gathers around, and he is a hero to the drifting night people.
Slaps the $10 note on the counter.
‘Fill ’er up, buddy,’ he grins.
‘Gimme a lend of a dollar, Caesar.’
‘Caesar, give me a few bob, please. Go on Caesar, baby.’
‘I’m ya people, Caesar.’
Five dollars go.
‘I’m keepin’ the rest,’ he says.
Staggers over to a pinball machine, which blinks at him with the knowledge of an old friend. The people disperse and only two bony, scraggly-haired girls hang around him in the hope of more handouts. He becomes lost in the world of bright lights and bouncing balls and flashing numbers. The only world he wants to know.
Murry and Lynette huddle on the corner with all the white people. They sip their Coke silently.
‘Let’s go down to Supreme Court Gardens, Lynette.’
She is thoughtful for a moment. Looks up at simple Murry’s kind face.
‘Yeah, orright.’
They cross over, rubbing against each other in the crowd.
Up the street, with busy people and screeching buses and windows full of white man things.
The gates: and beyond the gates is sweet obscurity that swallows them up.
The Gardens are quiet and cool. The young couple go down past the Court House and through the trees onto the lawn.
No one is there.
They lie under a spreading tree and let the silence and peace blanket them. They finish off their Coke, talking in whispers.
Murry forms the words in his mind and repeats them over and over before rising up above her. She stares up and the whites of her eyes glint in the city light.
‘Lynette ... Lynette, ya wanna be my woman?’
‘Get away, ya silly bugger.’
‘No. Ya know I’m mardong for ya, unna? I just gotta tell ya, that’s all.’
She grins uneasily, yet knows that she does love
him.
Soon, one day, a boy will grab her and suck what he wants from her, then toss her away. She would rather it was this boy than any other.
Murry’s large clumsy hands encircle her and she gives an involuntary yelp before his face buries into her own and his lips devour her untainted ones. She struggles for a moment before relaxing. She is fearful of the unknown, yet happy in the comfort that will be her new life.
He peels her jeans down while his heavy fingers fumble around her body. Warm brown skin touches warm brown skin, and a unison of young, gentle, love is bom.
The buildings, like stern priests, gaze down. The moon runs in naked freedom across her field, while the stars, clustered like daisies, wait to be put in a chain around her head.
The night—the hot, dusty night—presses down upon the city. Its misshapen head peers over the mountains of tall buildings while its grotesque fingers feel along the streets.
People go home.
Aboriginal children linger in large pulsating groups, sucking as much fun from the night as they can.
Elgin wanders up from Beaufort Park with his cousin Jimmy Olsen. Both are half-drunk and happy.
Caesar Jackell slumps in a dingy doorway, feeling sick. Drags listlessly on a cigarette.
Money all gone. Friends all gone. He is just like everyone else now. Waiting for the police to come and send him on his way.
‘Give us a cigarette,’ Elgin mutters and sits beside his little cousin. He grins up at slim, watchful Jimmy.
‘What ya reckon, J.O.? Our main man is pissed as a parrot, yeah.’
Ruffles the boy’s wiry hair. Caesar turns bleary, dull eyes on Elgin, his hero.
He remembers, and clutches at the straw that is going to save him from drowning.
‘I got a gun, Elgin,’ he mumbles as he extracts the crumpled cigarettes.
Elgin and Jimmy grin as each takes a cigarette.
‘Yeah, I got a gun too. Right ’ere, unna. Big shotgun.’ Elgin grins and jabs a finger at his groin.
The older boys laugh.
Caesar sits dazed.
‘No, I ’ave got a gun, ya know. An’ jewels, I even got a watch.’
No one listens to him. Jimmy Olsen squints down the street.
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