Big White Lies

by Jay Darby

  “The riots must continue until our demands are met. Why aren’t you angry those boys were murdered?”

  “I’m sad as the next fella, and maybe it coulda been different, bu--.”

  “That’s the point Derek…It, should, be different. They were petty thieves.”

  Tugger scowled. “Call me Derek again, see what happens…Since when is armed robbery a petty crime? Did you even know ‘em? They sure weren’t the saints you spoke of…”

  “Never met Eddy, but know his mother. Didn’t know Neilsen.”

  “Not sayin’ they deserved to die, but you left some important details out of your speech.”

  “Such as?”

  “Them boys were meth addicts, they sold drugs to use ‘em. Funny you didn’t mention that…”

  “You’re taking their side?” Lionel pointed to the riot police. “And who says they were dealing?”

  “Ask your mate Sam, they were workin’ for him.”

  “Nonsense...”

  “Is it? I read your newspaper ads and pamphlets, figured you’d matured into a fine fella. Still got the same dorky walk, but I saw confidence up on that stage that weren’t there before. And y--.”

  “I’m not the kid you knew.”

  “Wrong. Still wide-eyed with your head up your own arse...”

  “I have work to do…” Lionel started towards the police lines.

  Tugger blocked him. “Aint finished with you yet…How you gunna fix it? How you gunna end this bloody race war you’ve started?”

  Lionel stepped back and shrugged. “You heard, I asked them to stop the violence. But you know what, part of me wishes I hadn’t. Some dead white kids might be what’s needed to get their full attention. Maybe a few politician’s sons?”

  “Don’t play the tough hombre’, doesn’t suit you…Father Roberts taught you violence aint the answer, be rollin’ in his grave hearin’ this. What’s happened to you?”

  Lionel gazed over Tugger’s shoulder, towards Saint Mary’s Cathedral. “I grew up and started thinking for myself. The church doesn’t have the answers anymore. Not to my questions…”

  “Thinking for yourself aint a bad thing, but dismissin’ your faith is.”

  “I question religion’s power to heal...”

  “It still can…And it will.”

  Lionel frowned as he shrugged, threw his arms to the front with palms facing up. “It causes most of the conflict in the world, and always has. Think about it...Hatred in Asia, between Buddhists, Catholics and Muslims, and amongst themselves. Genocide in the name of religion…And the Middle East, being destroyed again, by Christians and Muslims on modern-day crusades. Just two examples…Mass death and destruction, for what?”

  “You forgettin’ young fella, Father Roberts taught us that faith brings peace…”

  Lionel scoffed. “I loved Father Roberts, and he was well-intentioned. But wasn’t he a hypocrite to preach that religion is peaceful when he knew its’ violent history?”

  “No he weren’t, and belief in it can stop violence.”

  “Not anymore…It’s become an evil that divides mankind more than skin color.”

  Tugger hesitated, as though waiting for more. “You’re serious? And God?”

  “He’s the white man’s God. I’m guided by our spiritual fathers now, and they watch over me, help me follow the path they’ve set…”

  Tugger sniggered. “Lost your bloody marbles...”

  “I have to get home.” Lionel patted his shoulder and turned to leave.

  “Okay, you aint bonkers. Well, maybe a bit…” They both laughed. “Give me one more minute, to explain somethin’?”

  Lionel huffed. “What?”

  “Dan Porter, you’re wrong about ‘im.”

  “Isn’t he the same as Betts, a racist pig?”

  “Both them fellas worked this city for years, and never had problems with Kooris…”

  “Why defend them? Betts showed obvious contempt for blacks. I assume Porter’s the same?”

  “You’re wrong. His girlfriend’s Jamaican you know?”

  “You’ve never seen a racist with a black girl fetish before?”

  “You aint listenin’. Port’s a good fella who helps Koori kids. He’s one of the few coppers been lookin’ for these girls.”

  “He worked Azelia?”

  “Yep, and poor bugger’s shattered about Nadia Tindall. He cares, he aint no racist…”

  Lionel rocked his head from side to side. Had he condemned Porter without knowing the facts? “I trust your judgment of character. But Porter initiated the pursuit, he can’t be guilt free?”

  They’d moved closer to the riot police. Tugger leaned towards him. “How’d Betts get charged with manslaughter,” he whispered, “when his partner’s the only witness? Weren’t nobody else about…”

  Lionel stroked his goatee. “Porter?”

  “Yep, and Betts would’ve got off otherwise, that’s what the bosses wanted…”

  “No doubt, this murder’s their worst nightmare.” Lionel paused. “The pressure on him to support Betts’ story…Yet he told the truth?”

  “Yep, and blames ‘imself for the whole lot…Called ‘im at home this morning. He’s gettin’ death threats, car was vandalized last night, has mongrels abusin’ his missus and daughter. He don’t deserve it.”

  “I’ll speak with Sam, convince him to drop the smear campaign against him.”

  “Ta, I’d appreciate that…”

  Lionel walked towards the buzzing crowd. He turned when he reached the police line and waved goodbye.

  “Hope them ancestors of yours are takin’ you on the right journey.” Tugger shouted. “I’ll pray for ya…”

  SEVENTEEN

  Porter stopped outside the open doorway of Deidre Sharpe’s office on the 9th floor of Police Headquarters and peered inside. She sat in an armchair in the room’s far corner, had a tinted window behind her and a coffee table in front. She held a file in her left hand and a coffee mug in her right.

  In a moment of boredom during the half-hour taxi ride from home, he’d Googled Deidre and read her police employee profile. She’d been the NSW Police Force’s chief psychiatrist for nine years and had run her own private practice before that. She specialized in psychological trauma, and working with frontline police on a daily basis she saw plenty of it. Her team of junior counselors conducted most of the Force’s standard, mandatory counseling sessions.

  Deidre personally conducted the psych assessment interviews of those officers involved in major critical incidents such as police shootings. According to her profile, she deemed them integral to her studies of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

  Porter stepped into the doorway and coughed. She smiled, told him to come in and close the door. He dawdled across the room in rubber flip-flops and dropped into the chair opposite her with a loud sigh. He pulled a wrinkled t-shirt over the top of fleecy tracksuit pants, sat back and crossed his arms.

  She had long legs covered by a full-length pant and wore a pale-blue blouse that revealed toned arms from the elbows down. A pleasant face, peach colored and smooth with minimal makeup, topped by a bun of honey-blonde hair. Intelligent olive-green eyes, flecked with hazel.

  He rubbed the three-day growth on his jaw and watched her watching him.

  She placed the file on the table then sipped from her mug.

  Porter sniffed the air, savored the coffee’s rich aroma. “You like yours’ strong?”

  “Has to be for these Monday morning blues…Can I make you one?”

  “Nah, she’s right.” He glanced at the file. “Mine?”

  “Yes, and more interesting than most service histories I’ve read.” She set her face in stone and leaned back to study him.

  “Wanna know how I’m feeling, don’t you?”

  She smirked, as though she’d won the first battle. “Why don’t you te--.”

  “Bloody awful and don’t wanna be here.”

  “Well, I knew that…” She lean
ed her head to the side. “Your body language typifies the hardened cop who detests my ‘warm and fuzzy’ world. And, I overheard your conversation with Superintendent Williams the other night…”

  “Listen, why don’t you just ask the questions designed to cover their arses, I’ll answer, and we can both get back to doing something useful.”

  “Daniel, you and I talking, is useful. And mandatory... But you decide what you’ll take from it.” She pointed at his nose. “That must have hurt? Always thought it fascinating how the eyes bruise as well…”

  “It’s Dan, not Daniel…And I don’t need sympathy, or a friend, so cut the bullshit and ask what you wanna know. Has the shooting fucked me up or not? What?”

  Her eyes sparkled. “First of all, I’d like to know more about you.”

  “You read my file, it’s in there.”

  “You’re right, it is,” she said in a calm voice. “But it only tells me what you’ve done and when you did it. You’ve seen and done things most people can’t imagine, Dan. I need to know if, and how, those events affected you.”

  He glared at her. “Isn’t this a debrief session?”

  “Yes, we’re here to discuss the shooting. But, as I’ve explained, I can’t begin to understand how it’s affected you, without knowing how your health’s been before the shooting, compared to now, after it.”

  “Same as always…”

  “Have you noticed any changes?”

  “It’s only been four days…Like what?”

  She hesitated. “You seem tense and on edge. Have you always been?”

  “You’re a mind reader now? Not tense, I feel fine.”

  “You’ve been wringing your hands and pumping your left leg since you sat. It’s understandable that you’re tense, Dan. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal.”

  He unlocked his hands and held his leg still. He turned away from her, towards the window. “If you reckon…”

  “Any physiological changes?”

  “Such as?”

  “Problems sleeping? Loss of appetite?”

  “Nah…”

  “Please be honest, Dan, you don’t look like you sleep well.”

  “I sleep fine...” He rubbed under his eyes. “Next.”

  “Shallow breathing? Heavy sweating?”

  He turned back to face her. Had she climbed inside his head? She’d described his symptoms to a tee…He placed hands over wet armpits.

  “Sudden mood swings? Feeling down?” She persisted. “More aggressive than usual? Abnormally emotional?”

  He dismissed the guilt surrounding his recent behavior. It was none of her business. He’d talk about the shooting, and nothing else. “Nah, I’m fine.”

  “Do you smoke? Are you a heavy drinker, Dan?”

  “Never smoked, and don’t drink much…Try to keep in shape and it gets harder at our age, doesn’t it? You look like you work out?” He flashed his most charming smile, hoped she’d drop her guard and change her line of questioning.

  She wrote in her notebook then flashed him a look of pity that left him in no doubt she’d seen through his pathetic attempt at flirtation. “Be aware of your feelings over coming weeks. Call me if you experience anything I’ve mentioned. Okay?”

  He dipped his head.

  “Are you in a relationship, Dan? Do you have family and friends you can talk to?”

  “Yeah, to the girlfriend and family. Friends? Judging by messages left in emails and on social media, stuff all…” He smiled, because he wanted to show he didn’t care that his best mates, except Steve Williams, had turned their backs on him. Didn’t care the entire Police Force had labeled him an internal witness ‘dog’, a whistle-blower. But he did care, and it crushed his soul, more than he’d ever admit.

  “Tell me about your support network. Your family and girlfriend…”

  Porter sighed, because Deidre Sharpe wasn’t going away. He was trapped in her web until she’d heard enough and decided to set him free. A reluctant narrator, he told her what she wanted to know. He’d met Jane in London eight years ago, during a police rugby tour of the UK. He’d suffered a facial gash during a game, and Jane was the nurse who’d taken care of him. Born in Jamaica, she was now thirty-four and the eldest of three girls. She’d moved to England aged ten, been widowed at twenty-five when her husband died of liver disease. She had one child, Amber, who was now fifteen. After two years of long-distance romance, Porter had asked Jane to move to Sydney. She and Amber had lived with him since.

  He told Diedre that his father Les and mother Irene, both sixth generation Australians of Irish descent, were alive and in good health. They still lived in the house he’d been raised in, set on three hundred acres of prime South Coast farmland. Les had closed the dairy years ago but still kept a few potty calves and horses to keep busy. Irene loved to bake and help at the library. His younger brother, Craig, worked overseas and hadn’t been spotted for ten years. Deidre didn’t ask where or why, so he didn’t tell her.

  “Sounds lovely, a farm by the sea.” She wrote while she spoke. “Perhaps you and the girls should visit your parents for a while?”

  Porter smirked. “That coming from you or Steve Williams? He’s tried to get me away from Sydney since the shooting. Might send Jane and Amber down for a while, be safer for ‘em.”

  “Steve’s concerned, and I won’t lie, he mentioned the farm. Time off work would be beneficial.”

  “Nah, wouldn’t do it to mum. Besides, couldn’t relax knowing what’s happening up here. Another five girls were taken over the weekend, and I need to get back to work.”

  “Yes, I heard. Horrendous…I read that you worked on Azelia. How has that case affected you?”

  “It hasn’t, was just another job.” He pursed his lips, like he’d done as a kid whenever he told porkpies to his mum.

  She cocked her head. “Have you ever considered self-harm, Dan? Or had similar thoughts?”

  “Nah, never.”

  She paused to observe him for what seemed an eternity. “I don’t wish to force you off work, but please, consider the farm…Do you need medication to help you relax, to sleep?”

  His demeanor turned from lukewarm to frozen in an instant. “Don’t do pills…”

  She sank into the chair while she wrote, then stopped and stared at the floor. All of a sudden, she sat upright and plucked his service file from the table. She read it for a half a minute. “You were, twenty-three when you joined the Police Force...Did you work before that?”

  He watched her. Did she already know the answer? He couldn’t remember if his file contained previous employment history. “I was in the military,” he blurted.

  Her eyebrows arched. “Really? Army? Navy? From what age?”

  He swore to himself, she hadn’t known. “Army. Was too young...”

  “How interesting.”

  “Nah, not at all. More of a past life forgotten…” His mother cuffed the back of his head. He’d told another porkpie.

  Deidre held the pen against her chin. “I’d like to discuss that.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Tell me at least, why did you leave the army? Was there active service?”

  He blew hot steam through lips to release pressure and whistled like an old-style campfire kettle. “Still haven’t asked me about the shooting. Again, isn’t that why I’m here?”

  “You said you’re okay with the shooting, for now?”

  “And I’ve answered your questions…Reckon it’s time to go?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Yes, it’s eleven already. We’ll discuss the shooting next week.”

  He leaned forward, chin cradled between thumb and forefinger. “Next week? Serious?”

  “Next Monday, Dan, same time.” Her eyes examined his face, they both stood. “You, may think you’re okay. But I, must be certain of it.”

  He rushed for the door. “Can hardly wait…”

  EIGHTEEN

  Porter sat on the lounge room sofa and swallowed the la
st piece of his ham sandwich. He craved a neck massage after his torturous session with Deidre Sharpe, and Jane was happy to oblige. Her velvet hands on his crocodile skin melted away tension, and after ten minutes of bliss, he thanked her with a peck on the lips. She turned it into a deep French kiss, her tongue hot and moist in his mouth. Amber had netball practice, she reminded him, was getting a lift home with her coach and wouldn’t be home for hours.

  Despite his protests, she dragged him up to their bedroom, ripped his clothes off, then threw him onto the bed. She jumped on, pinned him down, and ignored claims the stitches on his nose would burst. For the first time in months, they made love. Afterward they snoozed, bodies entwined, sweat-drenched and naked.

  Porter stirred after fifteen minutes and shifted onto his side to watch her. He chuckled at her cat-like purring and the way her nose wriggled while she slept. When she woke an hour later with a contented glow over her face, he kissed her forehead and drew her close.

  She stroked his chest hairs. “What da hell took so long, Dan Porter? Been waiting months for that…”

  “You saying I had a choice?” He grinned and caressed her back. “Worth the wait though, wasn’t it?”

  She pressed a finger to her mouth and squinted. “Hmm…”

  “I’ll give ya hmm.” He reached under the sheet and tickled her firm stomach.

  She wriggled and kicked and begged him to stop. When he did, she propped herself on one elbow.

  “Why you staring like that?” he said.

  Her face crumpled in a frown. She began a reply then stopped.

  “Jane?”

  “Okay, okay. It’s your eyes, babe…Once da brightest green and full of life. Maybe it’s because you’re tired, but now they’re dull, and colorless...”

  He said nothing.

  “Are you still upset about da Tindall girl? And those boys? You’ve been so quiet, seem so sad…” She spoke in a hypnotizing melody and ran fingers across his forehead, as though trying to wipe away his worries. “Please, how can I help you?”

  “I’ve been thinking about you, and us...”