Blood Is a Stranger

by Roland Perry

  ‘Go slower!’ Elaine said.

  ‘Don’t backseat drive me!’ Burra snapped.

  Elaine looked at the bouncing caravan. ‘There’s something wrong!’

  Burra put his foot down defiantly. The caravan jerked violently, and he had trouble controlling the ute. He brought the vehicles to a halt. Cardinal jumped out to help Burra check both vehicles. Burra examined the pinion and chains linking the two vehicles. Cardinal lay on his back to get a closer look. He slid his hand over the pinion screw. ‘Found the problem,’ he said, pointing to a plastic pinion that was worn through.

  ‘I used a normal screw,’ Burra said.

  ‘Another mile or so,’ Cardinal said, shaking his head, ‘we would have had an accident. Who the hell would do that?’

  ‘If we had crashed,’ Burra replied, ‘we would never have made it to Cahill’s Crossing before the convoy. That would have suited Richardson. He wouldn’t care that much if there was a bloody confrontation between the convoy and my people.’

  ‘They must have done it at the pub,’ Cardinal said.

  Burra rummaged in the back of his ute and emerged with a spare pinion screw. Cardinal helped him fit it.

  ‘While you were inside with me,’ he said, ‘two blacks distracted my family round the side of the pub. That gave some of Richardson’s boys the time to make the switch.’

  ‘Some of his men were there?’

  Burra nodded. ‘At least two at the bar. Mad Mick Malone is on his payroll.’

  They climbed into the ute. Burra opened the glove box in front of Cardinal. There was a carton of bullets. Burra pointed under the seat. Cardinal leaned forward and could see a rifle.

  ‘It’s there,’ Burra said, ‘as a last resort.’

  Rhonda was excited as she was escorted into the main conference room of the Jakarta Palace, President Utun’s working residence. The ceiling was embossed and painted with a history of the country’s kings and rulers. The emphasis was placed on the God King of the fourteenth century, from whom Utun claimed to have been reincarnated.

  The president strutted in flanked by guards and his omnipresent mystic, Dalan. Utun wore dark glasses and a brown general’s uniform. The embroidered epaulettes had five gold stars, and the front of his jacket featured sixteen different kinds of military insignia and medals, which he had given himself for his heroism during the republic’s revolutionary years in the 1940s. He was sixty-five, and short and stocky, typical of his region. He had thick black eyebrows, a flat nose with wide nostrils, and a broad, mobile mouth.

  Utun’s face broke into a grin, and he embraced Rhonda like an old friend. He had given press conferences while in opposition, and Rhonda, then a foreign correspondent, had attended them.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ Utun said, holding her hands, and studying her gold harem pants, ‘just beautiful.’ He fondled the ropes and tassles of her tunic belt before ushering her to a seat at a sixteenth-century carved wooden table from central Java.

  ‘And those earrings!’ he said. They were also gold, and they glinted when her head moved. It was Utun’s favourite colour.

  Four servants brought in breakfast on ornamental silver trays. Utun had had a penchant for bagels, cream cheese and salmon ever since having had them on a trip to New York.

  ‘Ask the sort of questions you would with a camera here,’ he said as he noticed Rhonda’s tape recorder, ‘then we can discuss what I would like or not like said.’

  Coffee was poured, and after munching on a bagel for a moment, Rhonda began with an innocuous query about when Utun was planning a trip to Australia.

  ‘Next year,’ he replied, ‘especially if all the girls are like you.’

  Rhonda flinched and forced a smile. Sexist pig, she thought, I’ll fix you.

  ‘Mr President, why have you closed down all except one newspaper?’

  ‘They broke the laws of censorship.’ His English was uncolloquial and mellifluous.

  ‘What laws? Didn’t you do it just because they criticised you?’

  Utun excused himself and spoke in Indonesian to Dalan, who played with his shoulder-length hair as he gave him advice.

  ‘You are aware of our national security problems,’ Utun said finally. ‘We cannot let the media or papers encourage subversion.’

  A half hour later, when breakfast was over, Dalan left.

  ‘We have heard stories of opposition parties being persecuted,’ Rhonda said when she and Utun were alone. ‘Have you instigated any measures to curtail the opposition’s democratic rights?’

  This wiped the leer off Utun’s face. He denied it, rambling on about democratic tolerance and his fairness to the opposition. He stood up. Rhonda thought she had gone too far. But his grin returned.

  ‘We can continue this later,’ he said. ‘I want to show you the Palace.’ Rhonda gathered her tape recorder and briefcase and followed him into a corridor highlighted by a gold fresco. Utun reached for her arm.

  ‘You blend in so well here,’ he said, squeezing her wrist.

  When Utun led her into the living quarters where servants scurried in and out of high-walled rooms, she felt apprehensive.

  ‘Where is Madame Utun?’ Rhonda asked.

  ‘In Bali.’

  Rhonda glanced back along the corridor. Two Palace guards were following. Utun stopped outside gilt-inlaid double doors.

  ‘We have just finished re-decorating the master bedroom,’ he said. ‘I would love to see what you think of it.’

  Rhonda hesitated as Utun let go her arm and pushed the doors open. She couldn’t believe that he would try anything. After all, she thought, I could destroy his reputation.

  The bedroom was vast. Its walls were covered in green and gold silk. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling above a canopied king bed draped in lace.

  ‘Well?’ Utun said.

  ‘I think all Australians would love the colour combination,’ she said. She had not moved into the room. The two guards were close behind her.

  Utun beckoned her in.

  ‘I would like to finish the interview,’ she said.

  The guards took her by each arm and pushed her into the room. Her briefcase fell on the floor. Utun picked it up.

  ‘We can continue just as well in here,’ he said.

  The guards retreated, pulling the doors behind them. Rhonda heard a click as they were locked in. Utun came close.

  ‘I want you,’ he mumbled.

  Rhonda went to speak, but her mouth went dry, and she stopped in mid-sentence, scared that she might provoke him further.

  Utun lunged at the ropes of her tunic, and she struggled with him, making it fall open, exposing her breasts. Utun pinned her against a wall and ran a hand over the crutch of her pants. He was snorting with excitement. He grabbed at her hair, and the clips holding it in place were wrenched away. She slapped him hard across the face. He sucked in his breath.

  Rhonda ran to the door and tried to get out.

  Utun called for the guards. The two men burst in. They dragged Rhonda to the bed and held her down. Utun shed his jacket, tie and shirt. The guards tightened their grip on Rhonda as Utun fell over her, his trousers unzipped. He ordered the guards out and began to rub himself all over her. He was having trouble getting an erection.

  ‘You must fight me!’ he said shrilly. ‘Resist me!’

  ‘I really don’t see the point,’ Rhonda mumbled.

  Utun punched her on the shoulder. She struggled with him. He hit her again. She slapped him. He rolled on to his back, holding his face. He grabbed her round the neck. Rhonda tried to knee him in the groin but caught his stomach. She broke free and slipped off the bed. Utun sat up. He looked ready to stalk her, but fell back on the pillows, his chest heaving.

  ‘Guards!’ Utun screamed, ‘Guards!’

  They charged in again. Rhonda was pulling on her pants. They hesitated.

  Utun was blubbering. He waved his hands and squeaked, ‘Let her go’.

  4

  Cahill’s Cross
ing on the East Alligator River was a serene place where bottle-green water chuckled over a concrete causeway in harmony with weeping willows. But when Burra and Cardinal arrived at one, it resembled a battleground. About two hundred Aborigines armed with clubs, spears, sticks, rocks and rifles were grouped on the reserve behind a barricade of logs. Burra signalled for the barrier to be removed. A cheer went up as the ute and caravan were driven across the causeway and into a clearing under the willows. Cardinal began to wonder what he had let himself in for as he was introduced to members of the Bididgee tribe, including Burra’s rival, Tom Beena. Beena did not like Cardinal’s presence and took Burra aside to tell him.

  ‘No whites should be involved,’ he said, just as they were all distracted by a disturbance at the Crossing. A red roadtrain had rolled onto the causeway and had stopped hard against the log barrier.

  ‘Mad Mick Malone!’ Burra said, as Cardinal came over to him. Several Aborigines were waving the truckie back, but his vehicle’s front grill was shoving at the logs. They budged a few centimetres. Burra strode to the causeway.

  ‘Drivers like him live by the boast that they always get their load to a destination,’ Burra said to Cardinal. ‘They go through everything, come rain, hail or shine, literally.’

  They watched as Malone climbed from the cabin to hoist and roll a log in Burra’s direction. It thudded to the concrete a few metres from him. Cardinal took a step forward, but Beena caught him by the forearm.

  ‘Stay out of this,’ he said. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘It’s my business, all right,’ Cardinal said. ‘I provoked that ape at the pub.’

  Cardinal shrugged Beena off and strode to the ute where Elaine had shepherded her children.

  Malone retreated to his juggernaut’s cabin. He revved the engine.

  Burra leapt on the logs. ‘Back up, mate,’ he yelled, as a group of Aborigines joined him.

  Malone opened the door of the cabin. ‘Look, you buggers,’ he bellowed, ‘I’m not part of the convoy. I’m deliverin’ grog for the mine!’

  ‘Sorry, Mick,’ Burra said. ‘No trucks get through.’

  Seconds later Malone pumped the accelerator again and this time pushed his vehicle hard at the logs. They moved a few metres. Burra was forced to jump clear. He ordered his colleagues to return to the clearing.

  ‘Mick,’ Burra called, ‘we have spoken to O’Laughlin. He agrees that no vehicles get through until he arrives.’

  Malone braked his juggernaut. He leaned out of the cabin and tried to address the Aborigines at the clearing.

  ‘What’s wrong with you pricks!’ he boomed, with amazed indignation. ‘I’m carrying plenty of grog. You can all have some if you let me through.’

  While the big man repeated his offer, Cardinal eased the rifle from under the front seat of the ute and began to make his way to the causeway from behind trees.

  Malone was puzzled when no one came forward to take up his bribe. Burra bounced onto the logs again.

  ‘You’ve got your answer, Mick,’ Burra said, pointing to the other side of the causeway. The expression on Malone’s face turned to anger. He bent down out of sight and then climbed down from the cabin holding a metre-long iron pipe.

  Burra stood his ground, but Malone came at him, cursing. Burra jumped clear of the logs. Malone showed surprising agility for his bulk as he hurtled over the logs swinging the pipe. Burra ducked and slipped on the causeway gravel. Malone jumped forward and swung the pipe down but missed by a tiny amount as Burra rolled over. The weapon left a gap in the gravel. Malone swung it back over his head and caught Burra a painful glancing blow. He groaned and fell flat. The big man scrambled to straddle him and deliver a blow to the skull. He raised the pipe but hesitated. Cardinal was crouching with the rifle in front of him.

  ‘Don’t!’ Cardinal warned, coming close so that the rifle was only centimetres from Malone’s heaving chest. They were surrounded by blacks.

  ‘Shoot the bastard!’ several urged Cardinal.

  ‘We’ll say it was self-defence!’ one of them called. ‘The cops don’t care about scum like him!’ Malone was uncertain if Cardinal was bluffing or not. Their eyes were locked.

  ‘Blow his brains out!’ Beena hissed at Cardinal.

  ‘Too small a target,’ he replied. The blacks roared their approval and pressed close. Malone realised that even if Cardinal were bluffing he would be slaughtered by the mob that now stood between him and his vehicle. He lowered the pipe to his chest.

  ‘Watch the tricky bugger,’ Burra said as he got to his feet. A red welt had developed on his back.

  ‘Drop it very slowly,’ Cardinal commanded.

  Malone hung his head and grimaced as the weapon slipped from his ringers and clattered to the ground. Cardinal pointed at the juggernaut, and Malone began to shuffle towards it.

  A black grabbed the pipe and ran to the vehicle. He leapt on the cabin and smashed the windows. The big man roared as several Aborigines blocked his path. He swung several punches but was brought down by blows and kicks.

  Burra winced in pain as he rushed to restrain them. He hauled a couple off Malone and ordered them to let him go. The big man got to his feet holding a bleeding nose. He stumbled over the logs to his damaged cabin and cleared it of splintered glass.

  ‘I’ll get you fuckers!’ he said.

  He reversed his vehicle across the causeway. Cardinal lowered the rifle and joined Elaine and the men who were attending to Burra. A bandage was wrapped over the wound.

  Burra looked up at Cardinal whose face was drained of colour. ‘Thanks, mate. That’s two I owe you.’

  ‘Would you have pulled the trigger?’ Beena asked Cardinal. He managed a wan smile but said nothing as he returned to the ute to replace the rifle.

  ‘Would he have?’ Beena asked Burra.

  Burra looked up at him. ‘I don’t think the gun was loaded.’

  An hour later O’Laughlin arrived at the head of the convoy and was driven across the causeway accompanied by three officers. Burra had the logs removed and met the police delegation in the clearing’s shade where the temperature was a debilitating fifty degrees.

  Cardinal stayed out of sight in the ute and watched. Burra had promised a meeting with Jimmy Goyong, and Cardinal hoped to speak to him that afternoon, although he was beginning to feel the trip to Arnhem Land had been a waste of time. He could see Malone, distinguished by his bright red hair and bulk, standing by his vehicle, which was in the convoy line that stretched from the other side of the causeway along the track like a sleeping reptile. Groups of truckies were sitting around in the limited shade drinking. O’Laughlin’s men were assembled between them and the crossing, which was blocked by police cars and a van.

  The atmosphere felt dangerous, and the heat promised to put a limit on everyone’s patience. A breakdown in the meeting would mean that the truckdrivers might try to run the blockade.

  The only person who seemed pleased with the confrontation was Beena. He offered the officers beer. They stepped forward, but when O’Laughlin refused the drink, they changed their minds.

  ‘Your boys are well trained, Chief,’ Beena said, as he zipped a can for himself. ‘I once had cattle dogs like that.’

  ‘What happened to Malone and his juggernaut?’ O’Laughlin snapped, his anger directed at Beena.

  ‘What did that prick say happened?’ Beena asked.

  ‘He said he ran into a flock of big birds,’ O’Laughlin said in disbelieving tones. ‘They did quite a bit of damage to his cabin.’

  ‘Poor Mick,’ Beena said in mock sorrow. He guzzled his beer.

  ‘And what happened to you, Burra?’ O’Laughlin asked. ‘You run into the same flock of birds?’

  ‘I slipped on the causeway,’ Burra said.

  He beckoned O’Laughlin towards the river.

  Cardinal watched the two men arguing but could not hear them. After about fifteen minutes they parted, grim-faced. O’Laughlin led his officers over the crossing, and
Cardinal jumped from the ute to learn the outcome.

  ‘We’ve got until seven tomorrow morning, at the latest,’ Burra said. ‘If we don’t produce evidence of desecration of sacred sites by then, those trucks will be allowed through.’

  ‘You gave him that assurance?’ Beena said.

  ‘We have no choice!’ Burra replied. ‘Look at them!’ He pointed at the convoy. ‘They have the law behind them, unless we can prove they have broken the law!’

  ‘Spoken like a true lawyer,’ Beena said. Burra restrained himself.

  ‘I want a meeting of everyone,’ he said to the others. ‘I want this done democratically. But not here. Kelly’s Clearing is better.’

  ‘I want to be able to assist you,’ Burra said. They finished their steak lunch on the wooden table in his house in the reserve’s town. ‘It would help if you told me more.’

  Cardinal sipped his drink and told him the hunches he was running on.

  ‘That explains why Richardson went out of his way to destroy the sketches Jimmy made of his companion the other morning,’ Burra said.

  ‘They must have been good drawings.’

  ‘A good portrait man like Jimmy can do wonders. You ask O’Laughlin. He used to use him to do ID sketches of crims from very flimsy evidence. The police were always able to track down the guy they wanted.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he use him now?’

  ‘Because the old bugger hits the piss! But he can still sketch better than anyone in the bloody north!’

  Burra paused to sip his drink. ‘There’s another thing. You two have similarities.’

  ‘Like what?’ Cardinal said, surprised.

  ‘Like what you do with your fingers.’

  Cardinal frowned. ‘You mean when I crack my knuckles?’

  ‘No. I noticed when we were driving along that you move your fingers around on the dashboard of the ute — like you were sketching something. You did it again in the back of the ute earlier in the day when Judy first spoke with you.’

  Cardinal was surprised. It was a lifelong habit, something he did unconsciously.

  ‘Jesus!’ Cardinal said, ‘you’re observant!’