Pig Boy (28 page)

I have to suck a quick breath in before I can say, ‘No comment.' I wonder if Graham's seen that I'm wounded because he's sitting forward again, leaning over the desk and almost frothing with delight.

‘But I guess if you take a job with Mr Jovic,' he's saying, ‘a professional hunter, then there's the perfect opportunity to cram in a heap of target practice. Especially on the more challenging targets, the ones that move.'

‘No comment.'

‘And the photo that you sent to Cleopatra – that's her name, isn't it?' he continues. ‘The photo where you're dressed in army fatigues with the big dogs and a rifle in your hands – did your girlfriend like it? Do blokes with guns make her wet? Oh, I suppose you wouldn't know. Cleopatra's not real, is she? She's just some random that you game with who lives on the other side of the world. But that's as close as you get to having a girl. That's if Cleopatra is actually female and not a fifty-year-old pervert …'

‘She is a female!' I shout. ‘I've heard her …' But Graham's grin silences me.

‘But she's not a real girl in the real world. Not like Bridie Tebble, because those real girls wouldn't spit on you.'

‘No – comment.'

They bring up my history of creative writing and the collection of
Australia's Worst Crimes
journals and internet sites I've visited. They discuss what they call ‘my profile' – a loner who keeps grudges, has a preoccupation with death and has suffered significant episodes of rejection which apparently adds up to making me a perfect candidate to murder the inhabitants of my school and town. Through the seventy-three and a half minutes it takes them to sum me and the situation up, all I give them are two words: ‘No comment.'

If I wasn't planning on murdering the whole town, why wouldn't I be now?

I'VE SPENT THE LAST THREE hours pacing around my cell. Everything's bolted to the floor, so there's nothing to chuck. All I could do to keep my mind off my fingers' searching for anything to pull or twist or destroy was to walk. Walk up and down and up and down the small square of my cell.

Now the handcuffs are back on and I'm being led out the door. It's 4.40 am.

Outside, I don't feel quite so bad. The morning air is cool. I want to pause for a second and breathe it in, feel the space around me, but the night duty cop is herding me towards a white truck.

‘So this takes me to the local court in Mereton?' I ask.

‘Correct.'

We stop, waiting for the back door of the prison on wheels to open. I try not to look to my left because that's where the cop's standing. I don't want him to catch my eyes in case he sees how scared I am and reports it back with smugness to Peels and Graham. But something is drawing my attention over there, through a tiny space in the fence.

It's Miro's ute, parked up on the nature strip right next door to the police station.

I start to laugh. I just can't help it.

‘Get in,' the cop tells me. ‘Ya fuckin' weirdo,' he mutters under his breath.

Inside the truck is a central corridor with individual cells on either side. All the doors are closed so it's impossible to see whether anyone else is in here on their way to plead their case.

At Mereton Local Court I will finally see a lawyer, someone who will listen to my story and take it seriously. I hope. I've decided that if by some disaster my lawyer's from Strathven then I'll opt to represent myself. But that's as far as I've planned.

My mobile cell is a cross between a toilet cubicle and a time capsule from
Dr Who
. There is room to stand or sit and that's it. But all I need is room to think. It's hard to plan and be one step ahead when you don't know what's waiting for you on the other side.

For a second I allow myself a comforting thought. I sit back with my eyes closed and remember Miro's ute parked on the nature strip. That's what he meant when he said he wasn't far away.

In seconds the nice thoughts start to turn. Just say Miro wasn't in the ute. Perhaps it's been impounded by the cops. Maybe the rifles were in there and they're keeping them for forensics. And what about Sara? Who's looking after him? Is he at home with no water? Has Mum poisoned him out of spite for me?

I start to count. When I get to twenty the bad thoughts will be gone and only constructive ones will come, like ideas for planning and preparation. Direct, decisive and in control is how I must be when I'm led out of this truck in forty minutes. The exhausting game of being one step ahead.

A WET BALL OF WHITE bread is still stuck to the top of my mouth. I've rolled it over my tongue in an attempt to swallow it down but it's like my throat's locked, closed for business, no through traffic. But I know I should eat.

It's 8.10 am. Twenty-four hours ago I was asleep, dreaming of rolls of salami. How quickly things can change. A few weeks ago I was a Year 12 student preparing to sit my final exams. Now I'm here in another interview room, this time in the Mereton Local Court, having been tagged with a homicidal personality and accused of planning to shoot up the only place I've known, Strathven.

How did it get to this? My stupidity in Year 10 put me on Strathven's radar. The hurtful but harmless ‘Damoink oink oinks' were replaced with the more sinister ‘psycho'. Maybe I just saw it as a logical progression; as one gets older the insults get worse, the bullying edgier. Whatever it was, I obviously underestimated what Parker and Geraghty and everyone else really thought of me.

‘Damon Styles?' A woman enters the far side of the room. The good bloke's half. A perspex screen shields her from the bad bloke on the other side: me. ‘My name's Beck Richmond. I'm the duty solicitor.' Her arms are piled high with folders.

‘Hello.'

‘Okay,' she says. I want her to sit but she's still standing. It's making me agitated; all I'll get is three minutes of her time then a bell will ring and she'll be off to fight the next battle.

She talks fast. ‘I wanted to see you first. You're my challenge for the day, actually probably for the week. As you know you've been charged with possession of an illegal firearm that the police found at your home. Are you planning on entering a plea? You don't have to, not today.'

‘I'm not guilty,' I tell her. ‘Haven't you looked at my file? The cops are insinuating all kinds of stuff.'

‘I know,' she answers. At last Beck Richmond takes a seat. I must've been holding my breath because I hear it let go in one long sigh. She puts the folders down on the desk except for the green, which remains in her hands. ‘Are you okay?' she asks, waving the folder at me. ‘This is reading like a bit of a witch-hunt.'

I nod.

‘The report here says you claim you've witnessed a murder. And that you took the firearm from the scene. Is that correct?'

‘I took a bag and the weapon was inside the bag.'

‘But you knew the weapon was in there?'

‘Yes,' I answer. ‘I panicked. Look, I need to explain what happened. It's not just a simple case of –'

A tiny hand waves me down to be quiet. ‘The Police Prosecutor is going to suggest – and I mean strongly suggest – that you had intent to use the weapon against members of your community. You do understand that, don't you?'

‘Yes! I've had two cops in my face all night. I know what they're suggesting. But it's total crap. Please believe me. Please.'

‘They've dug up a whole lot of evidence: lists, games, magazines, although I can argue it's circumstantial,' she explains. ‘Anyway, we're getting way, way ahead of ourselves. Today is just about bail. I assume you want me to make an application for bail? There is a presumption against bail for serious firearms offences and you definitely come under that category. The Police Prosecutor will stand firm on that one. But I'll argue that it's not that black and white.'

Again I nod.

‘And you have no prior convictions.'

‘No.'

‘I don't suppose your mother will want you at home. But I'm sure there's somewhere you can stay. Anyway, you're an adult.' Beck Richmond is back on her feet. She bends over and scoops the folders under her arm and I wonder if she's held her breath the whole time she's been talking. ‘Now, you call the magistrate “Your Honour” and –'

‘Hang on!' I interrupt. ‘You can't just go. I want you to tell the magistrate what's happened. I want you to say what I saw. I mean, some bloke was friggin' shot in the head and no one seems to give a stuff.'

‘Today's just about applying for bail and setting a date for your –'

She's not hearing me. I have to butt in again. ‘I want you to say that I'm pleading “not guilty”,' I snarl. ‘Today! Get it?'

Beck Richmond sits back down. She keeps the files tucked under her arm.

‘I'm sorry,' I say to her. ‘This has been really tough. You know there were people outside my house heckling when I was arrested. But I haven't done anything wrong.'

‘Damon, I have to advise you that a “guilty” plea is seen to be favourable. It entitles you to a discount in your penalty.' Her hand rises to silence me before I've even opened my mouth. ‘But,' she continues, ‘if you would like to put in a plea of “not guilty”, today, then I will.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Give your face a wash, tuck your t-shirt in. Try to tidy up a bit. Are you going to be okay in there?'

‘Yes.'

‘The crowd that was outside your house could very well be in the courtroom this morning.'

I wrap my arms around my head.

‘Okay. I'll see you soon.' Beck Richmond's little shoes go clicking down the hallway. Then I hear them coming back a little faster. ‘Damon?' She stands by the door, speaking as though she's about to miss her bus, like I have three seconds to answer. ‘This is perhaps premature but would you agree to assist the authorities by giving information regarding what you saw if the opportunity arose? That's just an “if” at this stage.'

I go to answer but her little hand goes up again. ‘The police are committed to getting you on the firearms charge but I'm told these Marshall brothers are of interest to the police here in Mereton, even if Strathven's boys in blue are still able to ignore their comings and goings. Although I've been reassured the station is undergoing a reshuffle and some new blood's arrived …'

‘What's in it for me?'

Beck Richmond smiles. I think it's a weary smile for such a young face. ‘Your assisting the police benefits the court proceedings and can be looked on with favour. I can't promise you anything.'

But before I get to say I want to help, she's off again.

How different things would be if I'd gone straight to the police. Yet I didn't even contemplate it. Watching Steven Marshall hurl Princess Anne over the ravine and into the trunk of a tree, hearing his brothers clap and cheer at his perfect shot was all I could think of. Not a nameless man cowering at the mercy of Steven and Billy. Perhaps that morning in the bush I was even a little relieved that their attention was turned on him and not on me.

I wait for the guard to escort me back to the cell where my drunken roommate is probably still snoring for Australia. Soon the walk of authority echoes down the corridor. It's an efficient stride, a strong footstep, the heel then toe distinctly hits the floor as two different sounds. I wonder if my gait sounds like the walk of a guilty man?

‘I want to go to the bathroom,' I tell the guard.

‘Come on then,' he says. ‘Here's a toothbrush. Your mouth must feel a bit furry, eh? Being held up in Strathven all night – I can't imagine they would've given you one there.'

‘No.'

The guard chats to me like I'm a regular person. If you took away the handcuffs the only sign that I'm not is his flat palm firmly placed across my back.

‘You'll probably be called mid-to late-morning, depending how fast Her Honour makes it through the list. I reckon she's working on breaking her record of thirty-nine before lunch,' the guard says as he holds the bathroom door open for me. ‘There's the toothpaste by the basin. Take your time. I'll be waiting here.'

I have the brush in one hand and the paste in the other. It's a clumsy job, squeezing the tube while both hands are almost together in prayer. The handcuffs seem to be a few links too short. The toothpaste and bristles of the brush keep missing each other, just like I used to imagine kissing a girl could be like.

‘Give it here,' the guard says. ‘I'll do it.'

‘Thank you.'

‘You're a freshie, aren't you?'

‘Huh?'

‘This is your first time.'

I nod, concentrating on the floor tiles in case a kind face renders me into a sobbing mess.

I brush my teeth and wash my face but I won't look in the mirror.

‘Number two-one-five, Damon Styles,' a voice announces.

The guard opens the side door to the courtroom and I see a line of people being ushered out of their seats. They're not happy. There seems to be a commotion of some sort.

‘Thank you, Sheriff,' the magistrate's saying from where she sits. It's like a stage raised above the rest of us in case there's any confusion as to who holds the power around here.

‘I will not have this in my court,' she chastises. Her warning seems to be directed towards a particular group of spectators clumped together in the middle rows. ‘So if anyone feels they are not able to behave in a civilised manner, I advise them to leave now.'

Quickly, I risk a glance over there. I spot Moe's parents and Miranda. There's a man whose face I've seen before but I can't remember from where or who he is. He obviously knows me or he wouldn't be here.

But I tell myself I will not be put off by them. They can come here to stickybeak at the disturbed boy who they believe was planning to shoot them all to pieces. They can stare and point as much as they like. I know I'm innocent.

I keep my eyes peeled on the magistrate, who's fumbling with a pair of glasses. Finally they're perched at the end of her nose and she instantly looks twenty years older.

‘Number two-one-five,' she reads. ‘Yes?'

‘I'd like to make an application for bail,' Beck Richmond says. ‘The defendant has no priors and isn't a flight risk.'

The other woman standing, who speaks now, is in uniform. She must be the Police Prosecutor because she's doing her best to stop me from being granted bail. ‘Your Honour, the defendant is considered a risk to the community. Suspect material was found at the site of arrest.'

‘Mr Styles,' the magistrate says, looking up. It's taken her this long to notice me. To realise that number two-one-five is a breathing human just like her. ‘I'm going to grant you bail –'

‘What!' The cry comes from the man whose face I didn't recognise before. But now I do. Clearly I see him turning around and watching me as I take a seat in Room 3 at the Mereton Shooting Club. The parent with the ‘child' at Strathven High who went to the police to report my attendance at the safety awareness course. It was the word ‘child' that must've thrown me. I think I imagined a kid in Year 7 because this man isn't the parent of a child – he's the father of Bridie Tebble.

The magistrate ignores him. ‘… on certain conditions. You are to report second daily to the Strathven Police Station between the hours of 11 am and 11 pm. Ms Richmond, do we have a name of a surety who can guarantee the specific conditions that need to be met? Is there someone who can –'

‘Yes, Your Honours.'

You can almost hear the whiplash as the whole court turns.

‘Excuse me?' says the magistrate.

Miro stands alone in the back row. He's wearing a suit. It's brown with white stripes, the one he bought for his sister's wedding.

‘Sir, are you saying you will act as the surety?'

‘Your Honours, I take care of spch – spec …' He fumbles on the ‘specific'. I have to hold my breath because I'm not sure if it makes me want to laugh or cry. ‘… of, of things you say. Your Honours.'

‘Bail is set in the amount of three thousand dollars,' she announces.

Beck Richmond hasn't even time to smile. She's straight on to the next matter. ‘My client is ready to enter a plea of not guilty, Your Honour.'

The magistrate plays bland-face even better than me as she says, ‘I'm making brief service orders …'

Beck Richmond nods with every word but the Police Prosecutor's nodding too so I've got no way to gauge if this is a good or bad situation. ‘Brief to be served by 12 November and reply by …'

My hands are clasped in front of me, my fingers tied up in knots. I keep my teeth firmly over my bottom lip to stop from calling out, ‘What the fuck are you all talking about?'

‘Next,' the magistrate says.

‘Number two-one-six, Miss …' I am given a slip of paper and led back out the side door.

‘Am I free?' I ask the guard.

‘Not till bail's been paid and the paperwork's processed.'

He takes me back to the cell where my roommate is now awake and looking cranky.