Freedom Ride (25 page)

“Where were you last night? We missed you at the Crossing.”

My knees buckled and my body buzzed. I fell back to the bench.

Dad.

The Crossing.

Dwayne.

I groaned.

Had Dad …?

I couldn’t bear to complete the thought. But I knew.

“And the rest of you needn’t look so bloody pious. They aren’t the only ones, are they?” She scanned the crowd with narrowed eyes. “No, that’s right. Not good enough to shop in your stores, drink in your pubs, sit in a decent seat in the cinema, but we’re good enough on a Friday night. Goddamn hypocrites, the lot of you.” The woman waved her hand at the men, now on the road between the parked cars, their snarl and bark gone.

Groups scuttled to cars. Mothers herded children up Main Street, pushing them ahead like dogs working sheep. Wright, lip curled, jerked his head. At his signal, he and the others rode towards the river. Marian and Sally followed, scowling at the students and Aborigines.

Twiggy went to his wife and took her elbow. He guided her along the street, towards their home.

Only a handful, including Bull Jackson, stood their ground. “Righto,” he said to the students. “You’ve made your point.” He glanced at Reggie. “Tell you what, Reggie, fill out a membership form, and Des and I will look it over. See if you’re a suitable member.”

“So you can decide if I’ve paid a big enough price?” Reggie scratched his right shoulder. The empty sleeve flapped.

“No, no,” blustered Bull. “All membership applications are … scrutinised.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Reggie. “The last time I applied you two ‘scrutinised’ my application to the bin.”

“Have you applied before?” asked Ann, one of the students.

“Twice.”

Bull Jackson folded his arms as if protecting himself from Reggie’s glare. His voice was so sweet my teeth ached. “Can’t have reached the executive. Resubmit it, Reggie. In fact, drop it into the yard first thing Monday.” Bull turned to the students. “Happy?”

Sergeant Axford pushed off the car bonnet and strolled across the road. “You’ve made your point. Pack up your little signs and leave.” Thumbs in his belt holders, he swayed from his heels to his toes.

“You guarantee you’ll accept Reggie?” Trev asked Bull.

Bull dropped his head to the side. “I’m a man of my word, sir.”

At this the students exchanged glances and lowered their placards.

“Come on.” Sergeant Axford sauntered towards the Aborigines, arms outstretched. “Time you were off the streets and tucked up all cosy in your beds.” For a moment they stood their ground. I held my breath.

When Morph swaggered over, hand resting on his police baton, the woman in the faded cotton dress nodded and the group turned and left. Except for Micky. Hands on his hips, he glowered at Morph.

“Why aren’t you trying to find out who killed my uncle?” He said it slowly.

The students, gathered on the footpath, seemed to buzz.

“Lucky for you I’m in a good mood this evening, Abo,” said Morph, taking the baton from its holder. “Move on before my mood changes.”

Micky glared at Morph, Bull Jackson, then me.

Glued to the seat, I watched him wander after his friends, head still high. The air around him seemed to spark and crackle.

The students moved towards Morph. Barry was quicker and blocked the way.

“Goodness, that was ugly.”

I started at the sound of Mrs Gregory’s voice. She stood beside the bench.

“How long have you been there?” I said.

She sat on the seat beside me. “I came over when Barry stepped into the fray.” She sighed. “I hope this doesn’t backfire on him.”

“What do you mean?”

She nodded at Bull and a few other men, including Dad, glowering at Barry.

“Oh.”

“Robbie, are you all right? After what Nancy said?” I knew she was talking about the stuff the Aborigine woman had said to Dad.

“That was Micky’s mum?”

Mrs Gregory nodded. “The one in the red dress.” She pushed to her feet. “Coming?”

“I’ll meet you at the car.” I studied my lengthy shadow on the footpath.

Twiggy had a part-Aboriginal son.

Dad visited the Crossing.

As I plodded towards the road, a dark shape blocked my way.

“Robert.”

“Dad.”

“Where have you been?”

My hands curled into fists. “Nowhere. Riding my bike. Work.”

He stepped closer. The cigarette smoke and stale beer smell of his breath swirled around me. “How long have you been here?”

The street, the cars, even the heat of the evening faded away. There was just Dad and me.

I shifted my weight so I stood with both feet planted on the ground. “I heard what she said, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the dwindling crowd. “Stupid boong. No idea what she’s talking about.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed. It was a mixture of a scoff and a snort, but still a laugh. “Yeah, made it all up. That’s why half the town cleared off before she named them too.”

He leaned closer and raised his pointed finger to my face. “Do not be a smart-arse.” His eyes, the tautness of his body, reminded me of the snake coiled on the shower arm.

“You were at the Crossing last Friday, weren’t you?”

The ruddy colour drained from Dad’s face. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

A clawing sensation gnawed at my stomach. “You ran over Dwayne Menzies on the way home.”

Emotions swirled across Dad’s face – anger, shock, fear. He lurched forwards and grabbed my arm. “Don’t talk shit. Does my car look damaged?” A fine spray of spittle dusted my face.

“I saw the bonnet and the windscreen, right before Bull and Twiggy arrived last Friday night.” I took a slow breath to steady myself. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know if I’d put the puzzle together correctly. “Bull fixed it at his workshop, didn’t he? Fixed it up overnight so no one would know. You’re the one, I know it. You killed Dwayne.”

The slap was hard and fast. I reeled backwards, hand to my stinging cheek.

He advanced, hand raised.

I pressed my fingers against my pocket, where the paper with Mum’s number still nestled. “You don’t get to hit me, and you don’t get to boss me around any more.” My voice shook and my hands ached from being clenched tight. “You lied. You told me she was dead. Nan said Mum’s family didn’t want to know me. She said you were the only ones who cared about me. And the whole time, Mum was trying to contact me. You took that from me. Took her from me. You had no right.”

“Shut up,” hissed Dad. His face and neck were red, and a vein bulged in his temple. “Shut your mouth.”

But I couldn’t. “And now you’re too weak to own up to killing a man. You let your mummy fix it all up for you.” I fought the urge to vomit. “All the lies, the pain. And for what, Dad?”

Dad glanced around him, a sparrow wary of a hawk. The expression on his face changed from angry to worried. “You’re right, Robbie. I stuffed up. But let’s go home and talk about it. Just us. Okay? No one ever needs to know.”

I closed my eyes to block out his blotchy, pleading face. “I’m not going back there. Ever.”

Dad grabbed me by the collar of Barry’s old T-shirt. “Listen, you little shit. You will come home right now or–”

“Or what? You going to run over me too?”

“Stop it, Bird, not here.” Bull Jackson grabbed Dad’s arm and held it until Dad released me. “We’ll talk to him at your place.”

“I said I. Am. Not. Going. Back. There.”

“Where are you going to go? The Crossing? Think those Abos want you there?”

“Robbie has a home with us.” I’d always thought of Mrs Gregory as a little woman, but at that moment she towered over me and Dad and Bull Jackson.

“Why don’t you two gentlemen go do whatever it is you do about now, and leave us alone?”

Dad stepped forwards, finger pointed. “You have–”

Barry jogged over, face twisted with worry. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing at all, Barry, dear. I was just telling Mr Bower that Robbie will be staying with us.”

Dad’s lip twitched.

Barry glared at them. “That’s right; he is.”

“I’m tired, Barry, please drive us home.” She slipped her arm through mine and guided me to the car.

Dusk painted the trees and gardens lilac and gold. My head lolled against the car seat. My thoughts murky and my body heavy.

Barry parked in the garage.

“Anyone hungry?” he asked.

I opened Mrs Gregory’s door.

“I’ll make sandwiches,” she said. “Or perhaps eggs on toast.”

“If it’s okay with you, I might go straight to bed.” I shut the car door and followed her to the house. “I don’t mean to be rude; I’m just so tired.”

“It’s fine, Robbie,” said Barry.

“If you wake and are hungry, help yourself.” At the kitchen door, Mrs Gregory kissed me on the cheek. “And Robbie, if you need to talk …”

“I know. Thanks.”

I squatted in the middle of a glass box, surrounded by hissing snakes. Tigers, browns, death adders, taipans, copperheads. A gap of two feet separated me from the snakes slithering over each other, tongues darting in and out.

My muscles screamed in pain. If I moved, the snakes would attack.

Outside the glass, Dad, Nan, Bull Jackson, Bat Face Fielding and other Walgaree people sipped tea and sucked cigarettes. Nan looked into the glass box, but instead of being horrified or even surprised, she smiled and waved.

A huge snake with red eyes, brown, orange and tan scales and a black belly slithered out from under the writhing pile. It raised its head and blinked at me. Snakes don’t have eyelids, I wanted to scream. They can’t blink.

But the eyes weren’t snake eyes. They were human eyes. Dad’s eyes.

The snake reared, its head level with mine. It opened its mouth. The fangs were white and sharp against the pink.

It struck, latching onto my thigh.

I screamed and fell.

The other snakes stopped moving and stared at me. Each had either Dad’s or Nan’s face. They raised their heads and hissed, “You did it. You drove her mad. You did it. You.”

I screamed.

The glass box shattered.

I sat up, a sweaty, tangled mess of pyjamas and sheets. My heart thudded against my chest. My mouth was dry and my tongue thick. I scratched my head and looked around.

The Gregorys’ spare room.

I was safe. I reached out for the creased square of paper on the bedside table.

After wrestling myself free from the sheet, I crept to the kitchen for a glass of water.

The light was on. I thought about going back to bed, scared of what I might discover. But this wasn’t Nan’s house, overflowing with secrets and lies. This was the Gregorys’ home.

I eased the door open. Bright light seared my eyes.

Barry walked towards me, holding a blue leather bag and a battered suitcase. Material, maybe clothes, spewed out of the bag’s open zip. I rubbed my eyes and tried to refocus. There was something familiar about the bags and the stuff spilling out.

“Robbie. Did it wake you?” he asked.

“Did what wake me?” It took a huge effort to force the words from my parched throat.

“The office window.”

When I frowned, Barry continued. “Dickheads threw a brick through it. These were on the front verandah. I’d be careful with them. There could be glass inside.”

My brain snapped awake. I recognised my schoolbag and the case from under my bed at Nan’s. “It’s my stuff.”

“There are books still out there.” He looked at my bare feet. “I’ll get them.”

I slumped against the counter. “Do you think Dad broke …?” I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

Barry put the bags on the floor. “Nah, these were dropped off before the window. Heard a car roar off from the drive, spraying gravel.” He looked tired. Defeated. “The window just happened.”

A rush of guilt surged through me. I started pacing. “I’m leaving. You and your mum don’t need this. Don’t deserve it. It’s not fair. It’s all wrong.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Barry held up both hands. “Slow down, Robbie.”

I stopped pacing, but my fingers tapped the bench.

“How about we have a cuppa and talk?” When I didn’t move, he added, “Go on, put the kettle on. I’ll grab the books.”