I did notice one older guy alone at the bar who seemed to be on nodding terms with just about everyone. He was a powerful looking man and his shaved head added to the impression that he wasn’t a guy you’d mess with.
‘What’s his story?’ I asked Kirk.
‘That’s Uncle Jacko. Don’t you recognise him? He’s always on the tellie. Leading the marches. Protesting, that kind of thing.’
‘And he’s your uncle?’
‘No, silly, he’s an Elder. That’s why he’s called Uncle. A sign of respect.’ Kirk leant forward to whisper in my ear, ‘He thinks all gubbas should be put on a boat and sent home.’
I was a bit embarrassed but I had to ask. ‘What’s a gubba?’
Kirk put his arm around my shoulder. ‘For an “edumacated” person, you’re as dumb as a fence post sometimes. A gubba’s a white person. You know, as in “the gubberment”.’
‘Oh. Ha ha.’
I looked over at Uncle Jacko. A real-life activist. Still, it wasn’t winning him much of a fan club. He seemed to have this space around him that made people keep their distance.
‘Want me to introduce you?’ asked Kirk, following my gaze.
‘Oh no,’ I replied, alarmed. My ignorance would really show up if I had to talk to someone like that. We sat there awkwardly for a bit. I wasn’t good at small talk and the band was a bit loud anyway.
‘How’s uni?’ Kirk asked, over the thump of a drummer who loved drum solos.
‘Well, I have a torts essay to finish. Not my favourite topic. I need to find an example of a case where “proximate cause” of damages is borderline and argue if punitive damages are warranted. Sorry, I’m talking gobbledygook.’
‘You mean, like an employer knowingly exposing one of his workers to asbestos, who goes on to suffer from mesothelioma years later, who brings a lawsuit against his employer?’ Kirk said. ‘That’s what I based my torts essay on.’
I stared at him.
‘Erin didn’t tell you? I did two years of law. I was only the third Aboriginal law student the university has ever had. Why do you think I was agitating for more places for Aboriginal students?’
‘But you’re an actor.’
‘Now I am. I took a year off to see if I could make a living out of it and ...’
‘I don’t understand. You have to be really smart to get into law. And actors, well …’
‘You sure say what you think, don’t you? I love acting. And it will be a stepping stone to writing a film script. Directing. Maybe running an Aboriginal theatre company some day. There’s more than one way to change the world, Kirrali.’
How quick I had been to size Kirk up, on that first day, as a barefoot hippie with no future. He could have summed me up as an uptight goody-goody but somehow he had seen beyond that.
A couple of young guys came up to Kirk and they shook hands. They started to banter about people and things I knew nothing about. I looked at my watch. It was nearly midnight. The band had finished and one of the guys was asking Kirk if he felt like going on to a disco. He turned to me to gauge my interest.
‘Not for me. I’m doing extra shifts this weekend ’cos of the public holiday. I try to work all of them — ANZAC Day, Moomba.’
Kirk’s mates started laughing.
‘Moom. Ba.’
‘Moom-ba — what a crack-up that is.’
‘Crack-up — good one, bros.’
‘Did I say something funny?’ I asked.
‘Just the name Moomba. It’s an Aboriginal word.’
I still didn’t get it. ‘I really have to go.’ I stood up to leave.
Kirk leapt up. ‘I’ll walk you home.’
‘You don’t have to do that. I’m fine.’
I was worried that Kirk might try to kiss me and even though I was seeing him in a new light, he wasn’t my type. But he insisted.
After the smoky air of the Fiddler’s, the fresh air was like a slap. Kirk was still trying to charm me. The song Billie Jean had been playing as we left and Kirk was moonwalking like Michael Jackson — the real one, not the guy at the bar. I couldn’t help laughing at his over-the-top expressions that went with every crotch-grabbing movement.
Out of the darkness came a voice. ‘Well, if it isn’t God’s gift to the disco floor. Out partying with his pretty little girlfriend.’
‘She’s not my girlfriend …’ Kirk began to say in a friendly voice.
‘So the nigger’s a faggot then?’
The cold hand of dread reached up and dug its fingernails into my heart. I reached out and clutched Kirk’s hand.
The bloke turned to the shadows, from where two other guys emerged. ‘Hey fellas, he’s not just a dirty bloody abo, he’s a dirty bloody poo-puncher too.’
Kirk and I bolted. My clunky heels skidded on the uneven bluestone surface of the alley and within a few strides they had overtaken and surrounded us. I was flooded with fear.
It happened quickly. I saw the flash of a fist and heard a crack like dry thunder. I realised Thug One must have broken Kirk’s nose. He staggered back into the paling fence which shuddered along its length. Thug Two flung his arm around my neck in a headlock and I bit him as hard as I could. He leapt back, yelping in pain. I took a wild swing with my shoe at Thug Three’s genitalia but missed. He lashed out with a backhanded punch and I went down, my knees hitting the pavers. Someone held me, someone stomped on my head. The pain was excruciating. Somewhere, Kirk was moaning.
Worse than the pain was hearing guys my age, guys I might have gone to school with, or been neighbours with — ordinary guys — use those words. They called us niggers. No-hopers. Bludgers. Boongs. Filthy abos. And after each curse, came their disgusting laughter.
A porch light flickered on and I heard the thugs running off down the alley. It was over. My mind slid into a sticky black sadness.
When I came to, Kirk was hunched, whimpering. At least he was alive. I was alive. I touched my throbbing face. My fingers reached my cheek, puffed up flesh, before they expected to.
Kirk sat up slowly. In the glare of the porch light, I could see that his dreadlocks were matted with blood and his nose was sticking out at a funny angle.
‘You look like Chaka Khan,’ Kirk croaked, touching my swollen lips.
‘You look like shit,’ I retorted. I started to sing I feel for you, Chaka Khan’s mega soul hit. Kirk joined in.
‘I think I love you …’
We started to laugh, even though it hurt like hell. I think we laughed because we realised we were going to be okay. I staggered to my feet. My ribs were sore, one arm was tingling and my head felt like it’d been squashed under the weight of someone who was heavy with hate. I gently pulled Kirk to his feet.
‘Is anything broken? Apart from your nose?’
‘My pride? I’m sorry I didn’t protect you.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said. ‘C’mon, we’re going to the police.’
‘What? The cops aren’t going to do anything.’
‘Of course they are. It’s called the law.’
‘Kirrali, it doesn’t work that way when it comes to us.’
I started to argue but he kept shaking his head.
‘Come on Kirk, it’s the eighties. Equality and all that. They could have killed us. They need to be stopped before they do kill someone. And they need to be punished. Jailed.’
‘Kirrali, you are so naïve.’
I started to walk purposely, albeit slowly, towards the main street where I was certain I could flag down a taxi. Kirk soon caught up with me, as I was sure he would. My hopes faded when the first three taxis sped up as they drove past. I guess we looked like troublemakers or drunks. So we walked, more like hobbled, the kilometre or so to the police station. We walked in and the glow from the fluorescent light made the blood on Kirk’s face look like melted chocolate. I started to laugh again. He looked like someone out of a horror movie. But the response we got wasn’t funny.
The interviewing cop treated us like we’d a
sked for it. I told him I was a law student but he kept up the same line of questioning — did I have a criminal record, had we taken drugs, how much had we had to drink, was I behaving in a sexually provocative way?
‘It is a first date.’ I said through clenched teeth but the cop just looked at me as if I was dirt.
I was furious. I asked to see the officer-in-charge but was told that if I had a complaint I should take it to the Koori Legal Resource because ‘that’s what all that taxpayer’s money is for’.
On the steps outside, Kirk hugged me. He didn’t have to say ‘I told you so’. His look said it all.
There was a taxi rank beside the police station. The first driver waved us on but the second one, a black guy, let us ease our bruised bodies into the back seat of his car.
‘Someone didn’t like the colour of your skin?’ he said a lilting accent. I guessed he was from Jamaica.
‘You’re not wrong. I suppose you’d know all about that too,’ Kirk replied.
‘Not so much in Australia. I get treated with quite a degree of courtesy. Maybe I’m somewhat of a novelty, being from the Caribbean. But you poor fellows ... it is a very sad state of affairs.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘To the hospital then?’
‘Yep, to point his nose back in the right direction.’
I looked at Kirk’s face. ‘You look like you’ve done a couple of rounds with Rocky Balboa.’
‘Geez, Kirrali, I saw you swing a punch like Rocky Balboa. Where did you learn to do that? Can you teach me?’
‘Two big brothers. And no way am I going to teach you to punch. What are you planning to do — turn vigilante?’
‘Nah, I want to learn for my acting. I’ve got an audition for a play about that Aboriginal boxing troupe who toured the country during the Depression.’
‘An Aboriginal version of Rocky? Isn’t that taking method acting a little too far?’
Kirk looked at me with his mesmerising green eyes and then leaned over and gently kissed me. It hurt my lips but a surge of electricity spread through my body. When I looked up, I saw the taxi driver smiling in the rear-vision mirror.
By the time we got to the hospital, the pain was worse because the adrenaline had worn off. We had a long wait in casualty before we eventually got our bumps, bruises and breaks attended to by the frazzled intern. I convinced him to take some photos of our injuries. I was determined to get some justice and those photos might just be the hard evidence we needed.
It was 4.30am when we finally got back to the college. I hugged Kirk goodbye and when I crawled into bed, I fell straight to sleep.
My aching ribs slowed me down but with a whisker to spare, I got to the dining room just before it closed for breakfast. I kept my head down and avoided eye contact. I didn’t know what could be done about my black eye. I didn’t have a steak handy and a sausage was hardly an appropriate substitute. Anyway, who would waste good food — I was ravenous. I reached over the counter and grabbed more toast from the rack. I sat at the furthest table from the counter but Erin didn’t miss a trick. She raced over.
‘Oh my God, what happened?’
‘It’s okay.’
Tears sprung into her eyes. ‘It’s definitely not okay. Who did this to you? Was it a bloke? Oh my God, did this happen when you were out with Kirk?’
‘These three blokes …’
‘What three blokes? Not Koori fellas?’
‘Three racist thugs.’
She plonked down on the chair opposite me. ‘Are you okay? Is Kirk okay?’
‘Well, he’s had his nose rearranged a couple of times, first from the punches and then by the doctor. Didn’t even give him an anaesthetic. He just went “crunch”.’
‘You’re so calm.’
‘Underneath I’m a wreck. I’m going to shovel down some food and go back to bed. This afternoon, I’ll see if the Koori Legal Resource can be more help than the police.’
‘Do you want me to come? I know a few people there, I can introduce you.’
‘Thanks. It’s fine. Kirk would’ve come but he’s got an audition.’ I started to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ Erin was looking bewildered.
‘It’s just ...’ I said between gasps. ‘It’s just that he’s auditioning for a play … about a boxing troupe.’
Erin didn’t see the humour but Kirk and I had. While we were waiting for the doctor, I’d taught him how to throw a pretty convincing punch. I wasn’t about to admit it, especially to Erin, but I was warming to Kirk. Maybe even more than just warming.
In high school, Martina used to chant, ‘Good guys get the flick, bad boys get the chick’, whenever some sweet but daggy guy asked her out. Not to their face of course. But while she went for the bad boy type, I was more attracted to nice guys like my dad.
My dad was big and tall and kind of slow. He never rushed and he would pause before giving his answer or responding to something you had said. Sometimes I would get impatient with him but he didn’t let that bother him either. I never saw him lose his temper and he never smacked us kids — he left that to Mum. She just had to rattle the bottom drawer with the wooden spoons in it and we would quake in fear. That was usually enough of a threat to get us to behave. I only recall her actually smacking one of us once.
What was most important to Dad, apart from providing for Mum and all us kids, was being fair. He was a union rep in the days when unions really were about protecting those who weren’t in a position to do so themselves. Once he organised a strike at the shoe factory where he worked because some of the immigrant workers were getting paid two dollars less than the rest of the assembly line. The bosses tried to squirm out of it by saying they were less experienced but the books showed they were only paying the reduced amount to workers who couldn’t speak English. They thought the workers wouldn’t complain because they needed the jobs but they didn’t figure that Dad would fight their cause for them. He won and management was forced to back pay the wronged workers.
Of course someone had to pay for this and it was Dad. Coincidentally (yeah, sure) he lost his job at the factory four months later. Restructuring, they called it. Dad got work at the abattoirs instead. ‘A bloody job’s a bloody job,’ he’d joke but it wasn’t. There was even less money than before.
Much as I admired Dad, I resolved I’d never be a blue collar worker. There was nothing noble about being poor. It sucked. That was partly the reason I chose law — the opportunity to make money. Dentists might make more but I didn’t fancy staring into people’s mouths all day. Pharmacists? Chemistry wasn’t my strongest subject. Doctors had to work a hundred hours a week as interns and were always at the mercy of their patients. They were either considered saints or else they were being sued as sinners. I didn’t see myself as either. But lawyers made good money and they could shut the office door at the end of the day and walk away. A lawyer wouldn’t be called out in the middle of the night to do emergency surgery. Law seemed like a civilised profession with money to be made.
Seven
So lawyers made good money and could walk away at the end of the day, did they? The one I saw at the Koori Legal Resource didn’t.
At 2pm, I stood at the front desk while the receptionist took my name and told me to take a seat. I smoothed down the charcoal grey skirt of my only suit. I wanted to make a good impression. I didn’t want them to think I was some loser but that I was a responsible citizen who had never been in trouble. An hour later, I was still sitting there.
I fronted up to the desk, ‘Excuse me, but have you forgotten me?’
‘No, darl, we haven’t. There’s been a bit of a drama, that’s all, and the staff are trying to deal with it.’
‘Well, I’ve had my own drama,’ I said. ‘My friend and I were bashed up last night.’
But the phone rang and the receptionist just smiled at me apologetically. The phone hadn’t stopped ringing since I’d arrived.
Just then the door burst open and a reporter and a cameraman bustled in. The receptionis
t put her hand over the phone and told them to go down the hall to the last office. I wondered what the hell had happened. She finished her call and hurried after them. I was left in the deserted reception area.
Maybe there was someone famous in the back office? I was just sneaking around the counter to have a peek at the appointment book when another woman entered the waiting area. She approached me with a winning smile.
‘Samantha Jones from the Tribune. Can you tell me something about the victim?’ she asked.
For a second, I thought she was talking about me and Kirk. I quickly eased my way back to the customer side of the counter.
‘I really need to know if it was reasonable, in your opinion, for the police to shoot this Aboriginal woman dead.’
‘The police shot an Aboriginal woman! What happened?’
She looked at her notes. ‘It seems she had a screwdriver and was threatening a young police officer.’
‘A screwdriver! And he killed her?’
My mind flew into law school mode. ‘That’s unreasonable force. If a police officer can’t overpower a mere woman armed with a screwdriver then the police need retraining in unarmed combat. How many times did her shoot her?’
‘The officer fired four times apparently. She died before the ambulance arrived.’
‘That poor woman. She was probably crying out for help. She needed a hug, not a bullet.’ I was so angry over what had happened to this woman, hot on the heels of my own bashing, I didn’t even notice that the reporter was writing down everything I said.
‘What do you do here, love? And what’s your name?’ She got out a small camera and pointed it at me.
‘Oh, my name’s Kirrali Lewis and I’m a law … I’m here … there was a bashing. I’m here regarding a witness statement.’ I was too embarrassed to tell her that I was a victim, or at least one of them.
The camera flashed. She thanked me and left. Why did she need a photo? Too late to ask.
What a crazy place this was. I was glad I was never going to work in an office like this one. I gazed around at the posters in the waiting room. They all featured Aboriginal art and catchy slogans about safe sex and eating the right food. There was one striking poster that proclaimed, ‘You are on Aboriginal land’. I hadn’t really thought of it like that before. I scanned through a pamphlet about the local Koori Advancement Centre before turning to the pile of magazines on the coffee table.
Becoming Kirrali Lewis Page 5