What was she getting into?
The roadhouse was an old building converted, maybe a farmhouse. The shop space was small and warm, crowded with shelves and displays. The hot food counter held six anonymous shapes wrapped in white paper and labelled with a sign in scrawled texta. EGG AND BACON SANDWICHES.
A girl with sleep in her eyes made coffee. Marian took the cardboard cup and a sandwich and went outside.
The ground fell away steeply, a slope that two boys could roll down, laughing and shouting and kicking their legs. At the bottom of the hill the creek curved into a billabong. The grass on the bank was green and the creek racing. They must have had plenty of rain up here.
Suddenly she wanted her childhood country. The longing was physical, a piercing sensation in her chest. Softer wetter country than the farm, with big trees and the occasional flash of water. Real flowing water, not muddy dams and salt rimmed wetlands. Trees that closed over far above your head, made deep shade even in the hottest summer. A forest where you could vanish, slip through the undergrowth like a lizard. Rotting logs that sprouted weird coloured fungus. The drum beat of frogs in a gully.
In the heart of the forest was the mill and a row of small weatherboard houses. Beyond them the hazel scrub grew back in the middle of the old forestry tracks, but you could still push your way along the ruts. These secret highways took Marian far beyond the roar of the mill and any voice demanding that dishes be wiped or little brothers minded. She could slip into another world, the world of ants and beetles and skittering birds. Sometimes a lizard lumbering across the path, blue tongue flicking. Or a snake, tiger or dugite, but they were keener to get away from you than you were to get away from them. Her father told her that. As long as you don’t step on them. Make plenty of noise, he said, and watch where you put your feet.
But she didn’t make noise, not when she was on her own. There was a stillness there. It wasn’t silent, but noises had different meanings. There were no words.
One time she pushed down through prickly moses to see what was at the bottom of a gully. The sound of water reached her first. Not a lot, but enough to make her disentangle herself and keep going until she came out onto a slope of rock about the size of her bed at home. At the lowest point there was water under overhanging ti-tree. Beyond, the hillside rose steeply. She crawled under the bushes, bent to drink, and saw what made the tinkling noise. A round stone formed a dam and a miniature fall. The water trickled on each side, carving a pool lower down. Hidden by the branches Marian watched the hovering dragonflies. Beyond the leaves a blowfly droned.
Was it still there, her secret place?
Marian held the coffee cup to her face so that the steam warmed her, then set it down on the table and opened her sandwich. It was warm and bulging, made by someone generous. She imagined a big cheerful woman.
Would this woman trade lives? Marian could just stay here, beside this creek, serving anonymous drivers.
After a mouthful of sandwich she gave up. Wrapping the rest carefully she took it back to the car and put it on the dashboard for later.
The highway fed her down a narrow valley to the edge of the suburbs and a stream of cars. Morning rush hour. After twenty minutes of honking, crawling and exhaust fumes she came to signs for a new freeway entry. Kenwick Link. Should she take it? Impossible to know. There was always a new freeway. Every time she came to the city they’d built a new freeway.
She clung to the original highway, but nothing was familiar except the name. In thirty years the suburbs had been built and rebuilt. Pulling over into a shopping centre car park she sat shivering behind the wheel. This was hopeless. She’d have to leave the car, get a bus or a train.
Evie. Evie would know what to do.
In the phone box her voice came out a croak. Clearing her throat she tried again. ‘Evie? It’s me. Marian.’
‘Hi, Marian. Um …’
She was busy.
‘Is this a bad time, Evie? It’s just … I’m in the city. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes. I need somewhere to leave the car. I have to … it’s Charlie …’
‘I know.’
Marian was startled. ‘How …?’
Evie cut across her. ‘It’s in today’s paper. You could leave the car here, Marian. But I’m tied up all day.’
‘Oh yes. I wasn’t expecting …’
‘And I can’t ask you to stay.’ An awkward silence. ‘Sorry Marian. It’s Luke. And we’ve got his brother here.’
‘Of course, that’s fine.’ Marian could hear herself gabbling. ‘And don’t worry about the car, I’ll think of something.’
‘Hang on …’
‘Got to go. Bye.’ She hung up on Evie’s protest and wiped her sweating hands on her pants.
That was that then.
A pile of papers lay outside the newsagent. The front page was taken up by a single story.
Second Death in Supermarket Shooting.
But it wasn’t a supermarket in the photo. A sign across the window said Convenience Store. Tape was looped across the doorway and something dark was splashed across an ice-cream ad.
They should clean that off.
Turning away she sat on the bench outside a chicken shop. If she waited a while, maybe the traffic would clear.
Early shoppers passed her, men and women rushing to get the day organised. A boy rattled open the roller door of Toby Rooster and started pushing a mop around the floor.
Marian went up to the counter.
‘Yeah?’ A row of pimples across his forehead marked the line of his lank fringe.
Brian had pimples. It was years before he grew out of them. Brian had all the teenage troubles—arms and legs suddenly too long, voice either a squeak or a roar, face bursting out in huge eruptions. Not Charlie. For some reason he was lucky, and stayed neat and self-contained. It was odd. There were changes in his body, but the process was steady, not spectacular, as though he managed it while he was asleep.
‘Can I help you?’ asked the boy.
‘Could I get a cup of tea here?’
‘We don’t do tea.’ He started to mop again, but evidently thought better of it and looked at her, eyes more focused. ‘There’s a coffee shop down past the jewellers.’
‘Thanks.’
The tea was hot and Marian drank gratefully. The scone was stale, but she wasn’t hungry anyway and crumbled it in her saucer. Eight thirty. The girl had said ten. Ten o’clock at the Magistrates Court in St George’s Terrace.
She could leave the Astra at the station and get the train. That’s what she’d do. The woman behind the counter held her hand out for the money without even a glance. Grateful for the anonymity Marian made her way out past a giant carton advertising iced coffee.
The station was around the next curve, with acres of car park. Getting out of the car and leaving it behind suddenly seemed difficult. Her last tie with home and normal. Pulling her bag out of the back she stood irresolute, key in hand.
Get on with it.
It wasn’t such a big decision. The car would be fine here until later, when she’d worked out where to stay.
There was no ticket office, only a machine on the platform. Hearing the rumble of an approaching train she stabbed hastily at the machine. City. Two zones. One adult. With nightmare slowness she fumbled for coins. The machine rattled and poked a ticket at her from a slot. She grabbed it and spun round, but the train was only just slowing down. Relieved, she stepped forward.
But the doors didn’t open.
She ran her hands frantically over the shining surface, but there was no sign of a handle.
Dimly, through the graffiti on the window, she could see faces. A young man in a suit was grimacing at her, mouth moving. He didn’t want her to get in. Another passenger pointed at her.
Marian banged helplessly on the metal. ‘Please. I have to get to Perth.’
The first man leaned to one side. The doors slid smoothly open.
<
br /> ‘There’s a button. You have to press it,’ he said. Sure enough, there was a rectangular button to one side of the door.
‘Thank you,’ Marian said, face burning.
The passengers held rails and straps in silence, swaying with the train. There was nothing for Marian to hang on to. She lurched.
One of the strap-hangers steadied her arm. ‘There’s a seat there.’
A woman smiled at her from a wrinkled face and squeezed along the bench to make room. Marian sat down, bottom barely connecting with the seat, holding her bag on her knee. At the next station more people got in. The man standing in front of her was so close that whenever the train jolted his coat swung into her face.
At each station she twisted her head around, but the names were unfamiliar. The stations seemed new and more were being built.
They emerged from the suburbs and passed a cluster of shining buildings big enough for giants. Marian peered through the window.
‘It’s the casino, you know,’ said her neighbour. ‘And the dome.’
Marian looked blankly at her.
‘Burswood Dome,’ the woman said. ‘Tennis.’
Marian nodded. Summer TV. Another world. People in holiday clothes going into those clean bright buildings to watch the tennis while she was slumped in the living room, exhausted after the sweat of the day, too tired to get into bed.
The train rushed on across the river, past a ruined building. East Perth Powerhouse. Soon to be regenerated.
Soon to be regenerated. It didn’t look it. Broken glass and rusted beams, in a city where everything was new.
Claisebrook. McIvor. Then into the dark of the Perth station and a burst of activity, people pressing towards the doors. Marian stood up and was herded out of the train by a group of girls in maroon blazers, huge packs slung on their backs.
The crowd eddied away to the escalators while Marian stood still, bumped and jostled. Once the platform was empty she could reach the man in uniform near the barricade.
‘Could you tell me where the Ladies is?’
His voice was thick and European. ‘Up the escalator, missus. Over there.’
On the next level four Aboriginal youths in back-to-front baseball caps were laughing and pushing at each other. Marian clutched her bag closer.
The Restroom was bigger than she expected. Men to the left, women to the right. Two attendants had their heads together behind the counter, poring over a cross-lotto form. One of them caught Marian’s eye and smiled.
‘Fifty cents.’
Marian paid her money and dragged her bag through into a light-filled sitting room overlooking the street. She sat down and stared blankly at the tree outside the window.
If she sat for too long she wouldn’t be able to get up again. She couldn’t stay here all day. It wasn’t a hotel.
A notice board opposite was covered with bright fliers. After a few moments she realised they were advertisements for accommodation. She got out her glasses and moved closer.
Country Women’s Association.
Of course. The CWA. That’s where people stayed because it wasn’t expensive.
1174 Hay St, West Perth.
The women at the desk had finished their cross-lotto form and broke off a conversation about reflux to give Marian change.
The voice at the other end of the phone was matter of fact. ‘Ninety dollars with en-suite. Fifty-five standard with shared bathroom.’
‘Oh standard. Standard is fine.’
‘What time are you arriving?’
‘I’m at the station. But I have to do something first. Can I come up at lunchtime?’
‘Sorry. We shut the office at 11.30. There’s no one here till evening. But I’ve booked the room for you.’
There were lockers here in the Ladies where she could leave her bag, and armchairs where she could spend the afternoon if it came to that.
But there might be things she had to do. People she had to meet.
She didn’t want to think about that.
Tonight was taken care of, that was a relief. When the time came she could just collect her bag and walk along Hay Street to West Perth.
What she had to do now was get to the court.
She shut her bag into the locker. Another bit of home left behind. But all she needed for today was her handbag. It was a process of stripping down.
Outside the station, the morning was overcast. Marian pulled her old coat around her. Should she have borrowed a smarter jacket from Michelle?
Michelle. She shouldn’t have lost her temper. But the thought was soon gone, whipped away by the gritty wind.
The address of the court was in her pocket. Somewhere on the Terrace, opposite Government House. There were more arcades than she remembered, but she managed to thread her way through from Forrest Place and emerge into a chasm between towering office blocks. St Georges Terrace. Wasn’t it? So she should turn left, to the east. But suddenly she wasn’t sure.
She stepped towards a man who was hurrying past.
‘Excuse me …’
But her voice was drowned out by a bus and the man hurried on, briefcase held in front of him like an ice-breaker.
Huddled in the shelter of a building were two young Asian tourists studying a map, not the sort of people Marian would normally talk to.
But they did have a map.
‘Excuse me.’ She spoke slowly and loudly. ‘Do you know where Government House is?’
They made helpless gestures of non-comprehension.
Well of course. They came over here and they couldn’t even speak English.
Marian pointed at the map and raised her eyebrows. ‘Can I?’
‘Yes,’ they said eagerly. ‘Yes please.’ The young man handed her the map.
By rotating it she could orient herself with the station and Forrest Place. Yes. Government House was along to the left, across Barrack Street.
‘Thank you very much,’ she said handing the map back. But she saw from the confusion on their faces that they hadn’t understood. They had thought that she was going to help them.
Damn. She didn’t have time to get caught up with these two. They should have a tour guide or something. Or they could get a taxi. They must have plenty of money.
She moved away, but the young woman held up her hand and spoke. ‘Please. Where is Rottnest?’ The skin around her eyes was creased with the effort of finding the words. ‘Boat. Rottnest boat.’
For goodness sake. Why would you go to Rottnest in the middle of winter? Marian looked at the sky. What a terrible day for a boat trip.
But here they were, looking at her as though she was their only hope.
‘The ferry. You mean the ferry for Rottnest?’
The young woman smiled. ‘Yes. Rottnest.’
Marian took the map again. ‘It used to leave from the bottom of Barrack Street. Yes, here it is.’ She handed the map back with her finger on the jetties. The young man took the map, but he was looking at her, not at the mark on the paper.
‘Oh come on. I’ll show you. Along here’
Together they walked to Barrack Street and Marian pointed them down the hill. The young couple smiled sweetly and gave little bows, smiled again, and set off into the wind.
Marian had been picturing courts in movies, old stone buildings and wood panelling. But it turned out to be another towering office block. Three men in black leather jackets and dark glasses blocked the entrance, smoking and showing no sign of noticing Marian.
Bikies. It was only bluster.
When she walked around them the doors of the building opened automatically.
Two security guards stood at a table to one side. The larger of the two hitched his belt and stepped forward. Marian clasped her bag. Somehow they had recognised her.
‘Just check your bag thanks, madam.’
‘Oh. Of course.’ She loosened her grip and handed it over. The guard opened it on the table and inserted one large hand, pushing into all the corners. Apparently satisfie
d, he withdrew his hand, snapped the bag shut and handed it to her.
Marian stood hesitating. ‘Is that all?’
He stared at her. ‘Lifts are over there.’
‘Oh. Thank you.’
The sign beside the lifts was blurred and unreadable. Marian reached into her bag for her glasses, but couldn’t feel them. She stood on one leg to balance the bag on her knee and fumbled inside. The glasses weren’t there.
She walked back to the guard. ‘Which floor is the Magistrate’s Court?’
He gestured towards the sign. ‘Three.’
‘Thank you,’ she said again, for the hundredth time that morning.
The lift doors opened into another world, a corridor bustling with people. Taking a firmer grip on her bag, Marian pushed through to a small reception desk.
‘What name?’ asked the woman brightly through a mouthful of perfect white teeth.
‘Anditon,’ Marian mumbled.
‘Sorry. What was that?’
‘Anditon,’ Marian said, jaws clenched.
‘Oh yes, here we are,’ said the woman, in what seemed to Marian like a shout. ‘Anditon, Charles Thomas. Court thirty-seven at ten. Right down the end there.’ She smiled, but Marian could only see teeth.
People gathered in small tense groups in the waiting area. Marian stood on her own. Five to ten. The doors were still closed.
A man in a suit coat and mismatched trousers came down the corridor. He was grey, eyes sunken, hair grizzled. Even his skin was grey. A knot of people opened out towards him. Marian felt the sudden focussing of attention, a sucking in of breath. One woman stretched her hand out towards the boy next to her. Her son?
‘That’s him,’ the boy said distinctly, face contorted. He walked over and barred the newcomer’s way.
Marian saw it in slow motion, a tableau. A gob of spit formed on the boy’s lips and looped through the air.
A sppptt sound, Marian thought. Spit.
The boy and man faced each other. ‘That’s for my brother, you fucking bastard.’
The man was silent, slime running down his cheek.
The tableau shattered. The door of Court Thirty-seven opened and two policemen came out. The woman bustled her son away before the police reached him.
The First Week Page 3