‘I’m in, too, then,’ said Bec.
Our attention shifted to the guys.
‘You don’t think it’s all a bit PC?’ asked Mitch, sounding skeptical.
The initials caught me off guard. CP backwards. I thought he was on about my cerebral palsy and the confusion must have shown in my face.
‘Politically correct,’ Mitch explained. ‘You know, standing up for the ethnics out of guilt because naughty white guys like us are always slagging them off.’
He was having a dig, but he had a point. Was that the reason I was so fired up, because of some trendy cause?
‘No, there’s more going on here than the ethnic thing,’ I said firmly. ‘An innocent guy has been stitched up.’
I meant those words, but if I’d been entirely honest I’d have admitted to something more. The restlessness that had poked and prodded at me for months was demanding I get out front on this and it wouldn’t loosen its grip on me until I’d lead some kind of fight back.
‘You’re going to tell the paper, right? They’ll take our picture?’ asked Dan.
‘That’s the plan,’ I replied. ‘The only way to get one picture out of everyone’s head is to replace it with a different picture.’
Dan paused, working things through. ‘You’re sure this Mahmoud guy is innocent, right? We’re going to look stupid if he turns out to be the one.’
‘Positive.’
Like Amy, Dan found something in my face that convinced him. ‘Yeah, let’s do it,’ he said, and if the rest of us were in so was Mitch.
‘Four-thirty this arvo, then. You have to bring a knife from home, something nasty.’
Talk about fired up! I went into class aware of the blood pumping through my veins in a way I’d never experienced before.
English last period. Chloe fell into step beside me on the way to the classroom and I told her what I was doing after school.
She stopped in her tracks. ‘You’re joking.’
I shook my head. ‘My mates are with me. Five of us.’
‘Six,’ she said instantly, then backed off. ‘That’s if it’s all right with you.’
‘Sure!’
We walked on another few paces before she stopped again. ‘You know what you should do – ask Svenson if you can talk to the class about it. I mean, this is so like The Crucible.’
Shit, could I do that? Imagine if all twenty of them joined in.
I sat through the first half of the lesson swinging wildly between determination and a wimp-out, and aware of Chloe’s expectant eyes on me. Svenson was revising stuff from early in the year and dropping hints about what would be in the exam, so I couldn’t interrupt, but ten minutes before the bell he ran out of steam and let us work on our own.
Crunch time. That was a Tyke expression.
I wobbled out to Svenson’s desk. ‘Can I talk to the class for a minute?’
He glanced up at the clock on the wall, then back at me. ‘Go right ahead.’
Oh crap. I was back in Year Four when it was my turn for morning talk. I’d hated it back then and made my class squirm with how bad I was while all the time swaying around on legs that made me doubly self-conscious.
‘I want to tell you what’s happening this afternoon,’ I began. ‘Maybe some of you would like to join in.’
In front of kids who weren’t closely connected to me in some way, I didn’t have the nerve to come straight out with the word ‘protest’. They’d heard me say something about joining in, though, and eyed me with a mixture of boredom and suspicion in case I was asking them to collect for a charity.
I was learning the hard way what a difference there is between an enthusiastic idea and actually getting something done. Chloe stared up at me from the front row and I fed on her natural self-confidence, hoping it would become my own – in fact, maybe I should tell them Chloe had already agreed to be part of it.
No, a voice shouted in my head, she’s not one of the popular crowd. ‘Dan Latchworth is part of it and Bec Wiley,’ I said instead. Those two were liked across all of Year Twelve, as the lift in interest showed.
I became more aware of Chloe, almost in touching distance, and worried I was denying her, when this chance to enlist more help from my class wouldn’t be happening without her. ‘Chloe, too,’ I added, nodding down at her, and saying that gave me a boost I hadn’t anticipated.
An expectant air filled the classroom by this time – behind me, I sensed Svenson had stopped reading whatever he’d been checking over to listen. Without planning it the way a great orator would, maybe, I’d managed to intrigue them all by holding back what the hell I was on about. Time to tell them.
‘It’s about the picture in this morning’s paper – the policeman with the knife in a plastic bag. Even if you didn’t see it, you’ve probably heard about it. You know where it came from, too – one of the Muslim families that moved here for the meatworks and you’d only be like everyone else if you were pretty sure by now that Mahmoud Rais is The Ripper. That’s his name,’ I said quickly, when a few faces seemed confused. ‘He’s the brother of Soraya, who’s normally sitting at that desk by the wall for this lesson. I guess we all know why it’s empty today.’
Pointing out the empty desk stirred up memories of Soraya at the centre of feminine laughter whenever Svenson was late for class. The girls liked her and from that moment I picked out the girls in the class especially as I spoke. I was connecting, too, if the serious way they returned my gaze was anything to judge by. Hey, they were actually listening to me.
I stopped worrying about the dribble from the corner of my mouth and let the years of therapy do its work. Slowly, letting the words come when my tongue was ready, I said, ‘The police are barking up the wrong tree and here’s why.’
I described my afternoon exploring the school’s boundary and made a huge thing of the time discrepancy when Mahmoud was seen – with his little brother – and the time of Charlotte’s death.
The faces before me had lost their blankness and many were leaning forwards, eager for what I’d say next. This had never happened before when I’d been speaking to a group and so I’d never understood what an inspiration it could be for a speaker. Ideas were coming from everywhere now and I found myself saying, ‘If the police spend their time checking out the wrong person, then they’re not looking for the real Ripper and that’s bad for the town, don’t you agree? The trail will go cold and eventually there’ll be another attack like the one on our own Charlotte. None of us here want that, do we?
‘This is what we’re going to do,’ and I outlined my plans for knives in plastic bags. ‘It’s simple, it’s symbolic and it’s powerful,’ I said, summing up and at the same time wondering where those words had come from.
I needed something more, something poignant to finish with and, looking at the many thoughtful, almost-convinced faces in front of me, my dodgy tongue surprised me again.
‘Guys, Palmerston is better than this. The people of our home town deserve better and it’s up to us to show them the way.’
Afterwards they clapped me, for God’s sake, and when the bell set us free two girls came up to me right away, wanting me to explain the protest again. Soon four or five were gathered round and, after glances between them that hoped someone else would take the lead, Alicia Greaves said she was in and immediately three others agreed to join us as well.
Svenson was waiting to lock the classroom. ‘Have you rung the newspaper yet?’ he asked as I passed through the door.
I shook my head.
‘Do it now. Give them notice so their reporter doesn’t get called to another story.’
I made the call as soon as he walked away. It took a while to make the guy understand what we were going to do, but once he did he wanted as much detail as I could tell him.
‘Post office at four-thirty and then the police station. I’ll be there,’ he said.
‘And a photographer?’
‘Don’t worry. You’ll see yourself in the paper tomorro
w.’
My phone sang with texts from Amy and Mitch to say they were on their way home to get a knife. I was reading them when I passed the stairs leading up to the staffroom.
‘Jacob,’ Svenson called. He came bounding down the stairs two at a time. ‘How are you getting home?’
I normally bummed a lift or, if I missed out, dawdled my way to Mum’s office. It was just dawning on me that I needed more than that today when Svenson solved the problem for me.
‘I’ll drive you.’
He had an MX5, a bit knocked about and it probably had a million k’s on the clock, but it had style, no doubt about that, and in Palmerston that made him a big note. Tyke could get away with it because of who he was and, besides, his flash and dash was a shiny red ute.
‘Bloody hairdresser’s car,’ Dan had said about Svenson’s. Mind you, he’d have taken it if Svenson was giving it away. We all would.
‘That was an impressive speech you made,’ said Svenson once we were rolling. ‘Not surprised Alicia and the rest signed on afterwards.’
The Mazda turned into Meredith Street, giving me a glimpse of the police station as Svenson made the right turn. Another two blocks of silence, then he said, ‘I’ve read your assignment on The Crucible. It’s the best work you’ve done all year.’
So my assignment was worth all the sweat I’d put into it. I risked stepping out of line and asked, ‘Was mine better than Chloe’s?’
Svenson thought about this while he made the last turn. ‘Not quite,’ he answered, smiling gently, an encouraging smile that said don’t take the news too badly. ‘Chloe’s had more experience in writing this kind of assignment. You lot are a year behind out here, compared to where she’s come from. Not your fault, Jacob. The insight and intelligence is there in what you wrote.’
What did he mean by that? I waited for him to explain, but we’d already pulled up outside my place. Svenson waited in the car while I threw all our knives out of the kitchen drawer, knowing damned well Mum’d kill me if I took one she used every day. I found what I needed among all the forgotten utensils in the bottom drawer. We were halfway to the police station when I remembered the plastic bags.
‘Do you think we could go back?’ I asked, once I’d explained.
Svenson glanced at his watch. ‘Time’s getting away. I’ll stop at the supermarket.’
More than that, he went in for me – even paid out of his own pocket. He really was on board with the whole thing.
Amy was already outside the post office and looking every way at once until she saw me in the Mazda.
‘I thought you’d changed your mind,’ she called when I’d extracted myself from the passenger seat. ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this. Is this knife okay?’
She held up a steak knife like the ones they flog on late-night TV. It looked ready to slice through the flimsy bag she’d dropped it into.
‘Perfect. Put it in this,’ I said, giving her one of the sturdy zip-locks Svenson had bought.
She went back to staring up and down the street, reminding me that only two of us had turned up so far and the whole thing would fizzle if it stayed that way.
‘You don’t think this’ll be like the birthday party that nobody came to, do you?’ I asked.
Amy put her hand on my arm in a way she’d carefully avoided in the school yard. ‘If it’s a party, then you should expect people to come late,’ and despite her own nerves she sent me the cutest wink.
I wanted to kiss her, there in the street – just go for it – but before my uncooperative legs could move me that half-metre closer, she pointed behind me. ‘There’s Bec.’
Alicia and one of the other girls appeared round the post office corner soon after, and when Dan and Mitch arrived together I knew the protest would definitely go ahead.
Dan made a show of lifting the shirt from his waistband to reveal the handle of a knife.
‘Concealed weapon,’ he said wickedly.
‘Careful you don’t cut your balls off,’ Bec shot back and that set the tone. We were all nervous as cats and the best way to cut through was to laugh. Dan, especially, was enjoying himself, playing up for the girls and helping the others arrange their knives inside the bags.
While I watched him entertain the girls, I noticed more school uniforms across the road. They weren’t kids from my English class.
‘What’s with them?’ I asked Amy.
‘Word’s been tweeted around. Bec and I texted a few ourselves.’
‘Are they going to join in?’ I was thinking about the plastic bags. Svenson had bought a packet of twelve.
‘No, they’ve come to watch,’ said Amy, as though she’d been over there to ask and that was the way it played out.
‘Jacob,’ said Alicia Greaves, who took me aside and spoke softly, seriously, in contrast to Dan’s antics. ‘I just got a text. The other two aren’t coming. Sorry.’
That left Chloe to arrive and, from the worried expression on Alicia’s face, I guessed she and her companion would back out if Chloe didn’t turn up to bolster their courage. But there she was, stopping briefly to let a car pass in the wide street. I wasn’t sure where she lived and guessed by her flushed face and the heaving of her shoulders she had run part of the way.
‘Sorry, sorry, got held up,’ she said as she strode over the last few metres of bitumen and finally stepped onto the footpath so we were again the same height.
About then, Mr Webster came out of the police station and, seeing so many of us clearly up to something, he stopped for a closer look. He saw the knives and his eyebrows just about shot up through his hairline.
Dan held his plastic bag in front of his face. ‘We’re making a point,’ and in case Mr Webster had missed the joke he touched his finger gently to the tip of the knife.
Mr Webster turned away and I knew that even if my picture didn’t end up on the front page of tomorrow’s paper, my parents would hear about it anyway. There was no going back and, besides, a guy was heading across the road towards us with a camera in his hand.
‘Guys,’ I called. ‘It’s show time.’
11
protest: part 2
The reporter was Kerrod Williamson. He went out with one of my cousins years ago, although nothing ever came of it and she married someone else. A slim guy of average height, his moleskins were to impress the graziers he interviewed about stock prices and all the farm news that filled The Advocate.
He gave us a wave as though he’d picked up on the party atmosphere Dan was creating to soothe our nerves – in fact, he spoke to Dan first.
‘Are you the one who rang me earlier?’
‘That was me,’ I told him, stepping forwards.
He disappointed me by putting the camera away in the battered leather bag dangling by a strap from his shoulder and taking out a notepad instead. One thing at a time, I cautioned myself, but we needed a photograph if this was going to work.
With the notepad ready he took a closer look at me. ‘You’re Marg O’Leary’s son, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right. Tyke’s brother.’
‘Yeah, of course,’ he murmured as he scribbled onto the pad. The only words I could make out were Mum’s name, although I couldn’t see what that had to do with why we were here. I watched him take note of my CP, which happened so often you’d think I’d stop caring what people thought of me. Didn’t work that way, though.
‘So what’s this all about?’ he asked.
I told him as simply as I could, although I deliberately didn’t include our trump card, hoping it would have more impact if he asked.
‘How can you be so sure the Rais boy has nothing to do with the case?’
Bullseye.
‘Because he couldn’t get into the school from where he was seen by Mrs Bagnold,’ and I calmly explained how I’d walked the school’s boundary.
‘You’re sure he couldn’t get over the fence from that side?’
‘Not unless he was Spider-Man,’ said Dan from behind my
shoulder.
I hadn’t noticed until then that the others had closed in around me with Chloe to my right and Dan behind my left shoulder, while the rest fanned out into a loose half-moon. The watchers had crossed the road by now, as well, twenty already and others were arriving all the time. They stood between us and the steps up to the police station, which meant they’d form a kind of honour guard when we set off. Hey, this was going better than I could have hoped for.
Williamson was still smiling at Dan’s Spider-Man line.
‘You discovered this yourself?’ he asked me, looking impressed.
‘It’s not just the high fence, either,’ I told him. ‘Mahmoud was seen about dinnertime, but the pig wasn’t killed until after midnight. And he was walking his brother home.’
‘He had a brother with him? That’s the first I’ve heard of it. Here,’ said Williamson, offering me the notepad. ‘Draw a diagram of the school and mark the places you just told me about.’
I did the job quickly so we wouldn’t lose the momentum building up for what we were about to do.
‘What are the knives for?’
Dan stepped out from behind me with the plastic bag held at eye-level again. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
Williamson was confused now about who was going to answer.
‘They’re because of this morning’s newspaper,’ I explained. ‘That whole front page was a set-up to make Mahmoud look guilty.’
‘A set-up,’ he repeated. ‘What do you mean?’
His face didn’t match the question. He knew exactly what I was getting at and for the first time I began to wonder if he was really on our side.
‘Those detectives told you they were going to the house, didn’t they? Did they tell you to bring a camera, like I did this afternoon?’
Williamson ducked the question by turning to the other kids. ‘Do all of you agree with Jacob, here? Was it a set-up?’
I saw Dan turn left and right as though he was orchestrating a group nodding of heads and the delay let Chloe jump in.
‘It was racist,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m here. They’re pointing the finger at Mahmoud because of what he is and where he comes from.’
The Beauty Is in the Walking Page 8