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  Cathy McLennan is the winner of the 2014 Queensland Literary Award for Best Emerging Author and has written for the Courier Mail and the Townsville Bulletin.

  She has more than twenty years experience in criminal law, from her early days working as a barrister for the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Legal Service in North Queensland, to appearing in the High Court and deciding cases as a Queensland Magistrate. She has a Masters of Law and was the recipient of the 2015 Chancellor’s Award for Outstanding Alumnus of James Cook University. Cathy is well known for her dedication to vulnerable Queenslanders. She lives with her husband and their two children.

  Dedicated to Olivia Lily Farrell, a little girl who deserved better.

  And in memoriam Samuel John Andrew Jackson.

  Two of many.

  This book is a personal account based upon real events, real crimes, real people and real court cases. Some details, particularly of communications between lawyer and client, may have been altered, and the names of clients changed, to protect legal professional privilege and confidentiality.

  This is the last time this story will be told.

  The red Ford Fairmont zigzags across double lines. In the driver’s seat, Peter Lewis, white forty-something, takes another swig on his beer. He laughs and pulls hard on the steering wheel with one hand. The car swerves. The Aboriginal kids in the back seat squeal with delight as the rim hits the kerb, firing bright sparks into the warm night air.

  ‘Like that, youse mu-mu-murrver-farkers?’ Peter slurs, pulling the wheel back and forth. The car bounces and crosses to the other side of the road. He yanks the steering wheel hard left. The boy in the front passenger seat bumps his head against the window and slowly turns a cold glare on Peter.

  ‘Where’s that fucken beer?’ Peter reaches into the well of the back seat, fingers scrabbling amongst the rubbish for a smooth, heavy can.

  A light shines through the windscreen, showing black legs buried in crumpled cigarette packets and crushed beer cans.

  ‘Pongs like piss back there. Mother-farkers are stinkin’ up the car,’ Peter mutters as he rummages.

  The bright lights of an oncoming truck blaze into the car.

  ‘Shiiiit!’ The boy in the front passenger seat screams.

  Paaaaaarrrrrp. A horn blares.

  ‘What the faaaark?’ Peter swivels to see a truck coming full bore towards them. He pulls the wheel, tyres screech and rubber burns. Wind rushes through the car, rattling cans and hurling papers as the truck races past.

  Paaaaaaarrrrpp.

  ‘Muvver-farker!’ A boy hangs out the back window, shaking his fist at the rapidly disappearing vehicle.

  ‘Holy crap, you’ve got lungs on ya,’ the white man hoots.

  Everyone howls with drunken laughter. They’ve been drinking all day, first under the Nathan Street Bridge, then out at Happy Valley. The other window goes down and another boy leans out, shouts, ‘Sheet-head!’ at an industrial bin.

  ‘It’s shithead, stupid.’ Peter upends the can into his mouth, emptying the beer. The boy in the front passenger seat stares at him as he crumples the can and tosses it over his shoulder.

  ‘Ow! Watch it.’

  ‘You watch it, fucker. This is my car!’ Peter shouts.

  The boys are quiet.

  ‘Can’t you take a joke, you mob of tossers?’

  ‘We’re thirsty,’ says the boy in the front passenger seat.

  ‘Well, fuck. Why don’t you buy some beer?’

  ‘Give us some money. You said you’d buy us grog, eh.’

  Peter glances in the rear vision mirror. They’re all looking at him.He rubs the small v-shaped scar above his right eye ‘Oi, you. Lend. I said I’d lend you money for a carton.’

  They all nod.

  ‘We’ll pay you back, mister.’

  Peter jerks the wheel and hits the brakes. The car spins ninety degrees, rubber burns and it stops in the middle of the road. There is a screech of tyres nearby. The boys howl with laughter.

  The horn blares from a white Camry angled behind them.

  ‘Fuck you, muvver-farker!’ a boy in the back seat yells.

  The boys grab empty beer cans from the floor and hurl them at the Camry. Peter puts the car in gear and stamps on the accelerator.

  Up to the left, a green neon sign reads: ‘Hotel Allen Drive-Thru’. They roar in and stop. Peter opens his door and falls from the driver’s seat to the ground. He staggers to his feet and grabs a bright yellow carton from the pile on display. At the cash register he glances back to the car before furtively pulling a yellow fifty from his wallet.

  The attendant barely glances up from his magazine as Peter hands over the money. He lugs the carton back to the car, loads it into the boot and rips it open.

  He cracks one open for himself. He sculls it and grabs an armload, tosses a couple at the kids, gets in the driver’s seat and revs the engine.

  There are giggles from the back and the ‘psst, ppsst, ppsst’ of beer cans being opened.

  Peter drives. All is dark. The occasional halogen light casts a ball of yellow on the grey, dusty road. Palm leaves whisper in the salty breeze.

  A huge metal sign off to the right reads, ‘Cemetery’. Peter turns the car down a side road toward Happy Valley. They crunch over rough ground near the headstones. There is a loud crack as something breaks.

  ‘Holy shit,’ someone laughs. ‘You just knocked over a grave.’

  Peter downs the rest of his can and brings the car to a halt in a cloud of dust.

  The headlights shine on several dark shapes huddled amongst the gravestones. Red eyes glint. Blankets lie in a pile beside an empty flagon. Broken glass. Green weeds struggling amongst the dust and stone. A ghostly gum, luminous grey, towers overhead, like a skeleton reaching out its bony fingers. One man coughs and raises his fist in an angry gesture.

  1

  Ten years earlier …

  My heart thuds as the small plane races towards the end of the runway. The landscape blurs and the noise rises. There are squeals as the cabin shudders and twenty of us primary school kids are jolted in our seats.

  I grasp the armrests tightly. Trees at the end of the runway double in size every second. The pilot pulls back on the controls. The engines roar and I’m pushed deeper into my seat as with one final burst of power, we take flight. We soar over the trees and out to sea, up, up until all I can see is the clear blue sky.

  I exhale and rub clammy hands on my school shorts. We are on our way. A cheer starts from the back seats. I can’t hear my voice among the happy chorus, but I can feel the vibration, I know it is there.

  Our flight will take thirty minutes. We’re about to circle over our school on Magnetic Island. Then we are going to Palm Island, a small Aboriginal community, twenty nautical miles away.

  There are too many faces for the small windows. A fight breaks out between the boys in the back seat.

  ‘Stop pushing.’

  ‘I want to see, too.’

  ‘Wait your turn.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Cut it out, or you’ll be spending the rest of primary school in detention.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Only one week left. Big woop.’ This boy is unafraid. He’s spent more hours in detention than in the classroom.

  Mr Hardy is squeezed in halfway up the aisle. He swivels his head, trying to watch the boys in the back. But the lure of the bright window is strong and soon he turns to peer below. Except for the constant hum of the engines, all is now quiet. This is the moment we have anticipated for months.

  The plane roars through brilliant blue sky. Below, the Great Barrier Reef expands into
a mosaic of colour. Boats dot the shimmering ocean, white foamy trails petering out behind.

  Excited chatter fills the cabin as we bank towards Magnetic Island. The plane dips, descending over rocky grey and green hills. I search the landscape for a glimpse of my house. There’s the creek nearby. The beach, bright yellow in the sunshine.

  ‘Hey! There they are! There they are!’

  The pilot waggles his wings. Down below, the students are waiting on the sporting fields. They are arranged in formation, human letters that seen from the sky are supposed to spell Good Luck Year 7. I blink and try reading the words: Goo Cuck Fear ?

  There are squeals from the cabin as we pass over the field and a bare white bottom flashes a greeting.

  ‘I can see Harry’s arse!’ a boy yells.

  ‘Where?’ ‘Where?’ ‘Where?’

  ‘Down there!’

  ‘Look at that big white arse!’

  ‘How do you know it’s Harry? You seen his arse before?’

  Laughter ripples through the cabin. Even Mr Hardy smiles.

  A hat shape approaches the bottom and it disappears, its owner a streak of red and blue as he dashes over the playing fields. Cameras click.

  I sink deeper into my seat as the plane rises. Far down below, our shadow races us across the ocean.

  ‘Got your speech ready, Centimetre?’ My initials are CM.

  ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘No problem.’

  I couldn’t get to sleep last night. Yet now, I’ve never felt so wide awake. So excited, nervous, exhilarated.

  In the next seat my best friend, Juanita, leans over, her straight white-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  ‘I can’t wait to meet Rosie,’ she says.

  ‘I know. I can’t wait to see Alissa.’

  ‘I spent my birthday money on this. Think she’ll like it?’ Juanita reaches into the pink sparkly gift bag on her lap and holds up a bright red t-shirt with a picture of a shark over the words: If you can’t swim with the sharks, get outta the water.

  ‘It’s great.’ I pull a small, pink shell necklace from my pocket. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘She’ll love it,’ says Juanita. ‘Where did you get the money?’

  ‘Saved.’

  There is a sharp pain in my side. ‘Ouch!’

  A dirty fingernail retreats through the seats behind us.

  ‘Cut it out, Laney!’

  ‘Wasn’t me.’ Dale Lane pops his head over the seat, freckles dot his nose. ‘Hey, Centimetre, I’ve never been to an Aboriginal reserve before, you reckon it’ll be dangerous?’

  Juanita rolls her eyes. ‘Idiot! It’ll be just like home.’

  Alissa, my pen friend, sent me pictures of Palm Island. Same sparkling sea, golden beaches, green forests and waterfalls as my home. We have heaps in common. Alissa’s the class captain. She hates doing dishes and her little brother drives her crazy. One day, Alissa’s going to be a model and I’ll be a movie star. In our letters we call each other ‘sister’.

  The plane hits an air pocket and jumps. There are muted shrieks. Everyone leans toward the windows on my side, craning for the first view of Palm Island. I lean away, afraid all the weight leaning in one direction will cause the plane to roll. Then, as blue makes way for lush green, I bend towards the window, using my elbows to make a small space.

  ‘There it is!’

  ‘Hey, is that little shed the airport?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Palm Island International!’

  ‘Ha-ha!’

  ‘Can you see them yet?’

  ‘They’re probably inside.’

  As the plane descends the bumps get stronger. We fly through a gap between two hills. The seatbelt strains against my lap. My heart beats fast. I go over my speech in my mind.

  ‘I bet they’ve made us a big banner!’

  ‘Do you think there’ll be balloons?’

  ‘Move over! I can’t see!’

  With a jolt we hit the tarmac. The engines roar, the propellers rotate at full bore. Our seatbelts are off before the plane reaches the end of the tarmac. Everyone talks at once.

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Can you see a banner? What does it say?’

  We stand and get our bags. The plane shudders and keeps moving. I grab the seat back. Oomph. Someone sprawls in the aisle.

  ‘Sit down!’ Mr Hardy shouts.

  The moment the plane stops kids jostle toward the exit. Bags are squashed, toes crushed, elbows stick into ribs.

  On the tarmac the heat blasts us. I put my foot on the edge of a small pothole and it’s sticky. There are black spots on the sole of my shoe.

  ‘Come on, you guys. Hurry up!’

  We walk to the shed in one big group. Backpacks slung over shoulders, gifts in hand.

  I am the first. When I see what’s inside, I stop. Several bodies bump into my back.

  ‘Watch out!’

  ‘What’s your problem?’

  I can’t move. Can’t speak.

  The shed is empty. Deserted. There’s not even a face at the ticket desk.

  Silently we walk through to the dusty car park. It’s empty. We look around, wide-eyed.

  ‘Maybe they forgot?’ My voice is soft.

  ‘Aw, Mr Hardy, you got the wrong day.’

  ‘Yeah. You mixed it all up, Sir.’

  The teacher pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He opens it and reads. His lips move, but make no sound. He shakes his head.

  ‘Nope. Sorry guys. Right day.’

  Standing on one foot, then the other, we wait, shuffling anxiously in the dust. We are quiet. Listening. At every sound we raise our heads and look eagerly at the road.

  At last, Mr Hardy shoulders his bag.

  ‘Come on, guys,’ he says. ‘It’s not far.’

  ‘Aw, Si-ir.’

  We trudge in silence, accompanied by the steady flip-flop of our thongs on the road. Birds make sweet chirruping calls from the bush. The sea breeze barely cools our sticky bodies.

  *

  During a trial ten years from now, a judge will chip me in court for overemphasising the distance from the airport to the township. ‘But surely it is not that far, Ms McLennan?’

  It is only a kilometre of winding, hilly road, but in my mind it will always be longer. A desolate road, strangely empty of the children we have come to meet.

  This is the day that changes the course of my life.

  *

  Trudging down the road with my Grade Seven class, I see the Palm Island school, surrounded by a chain link fence. I see the beige demountable classrooms, the playgrounds, the tamarind trees. It’s all familiar. Just like home. My legs walk faster. My blood pumps. A smile forms on my face. With the cool salty breeze at our backs, we adjust heavy bags and hasten our pace.

  Conversation floats around me.

  ‘Probably just a mix-up. They’ll be here.’

  ‘No way. Ya think?’

  ‘Yeah, numbnuts. They’ll be here. We’ve only been fundraising and writing to each other for a year.’

  We walk faster and faster, shoulder to shoulder, until we are almost a stampede when we arrive at the school.

  ‘This is it!’ says Juanita as we wait for Mr Hardy outside the office.

  ‘Finally!’ I agree.

  But the classroom is empty. Our smiles fade. Not one Grade Seven student has come to school. Quietly we gaze at our letters pinned to the walls – a feature, with bright drawings and sparkles and coloured paper.

  ‘Where are they, Mr Hardy?’

  Mr Hardy gives the only answer he can. ‘I don’t know.’

  Juanita nudges me. ‘Least you don’t have to give that speech. Thanks for inviting us. Great to be here. Blah blah blah.’

  Mr Hardy slumps in a chair as we wait. Over in the
corner, a boy scribbles graffiti with a permanent marker on the wall. A couple of kids join him. Mr Hardy doesn’t look up.

  The rest of us sit in a group.

  ‘Weird, hey?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What time does our plane go?’

  ‘Four.’

  For the first time we recognise there are differences here.

  We leave the empty classroom and eat lunch under a large, shady tree. We are cooled by the rippling green leaves and the moist breeze coming in from the bay. We are quiet.

  ‘What about a swim, guys?’ Mr Hardy sits up straight. He seems brighter.

  A few of us shrug. ‘Might as well.’

  We walk down to the jetty. The water is so clean and clear I can see corrugated lines in the sand and a flash of silver far below. As I lean over, someone pushes my shoulder. My heart jumps as I teeter on the edge. Arms outstretched, I manage to steady myself.

  ‘Got ya!’ laughs one of the boys.

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘Last one in is a rotten egg!’ yells Dale. Stripped down to his underwear, he bolts down the jetty and takes flight off the end. ‘Yee haaaa!’

  Soon we are all jumping into the clear blue sea, five or six metres below. As I climb back onto the jetty I turn my head and notice little dark faces peering at us from the bushes at the edge of the beach. Creeping forward.

  Slowly but surely our pen friends appear. Shyly glancing from under long, black, lowered lashes. Looking to each other for joint courage to move forward. As they watch us leap, shout and laugh, they become bolder. Gradually, one by one they join us, till we’re a little crowd jumping off the jetty together, splashing, losing our tummies in the drop.

  On that magical afternoon, we hold hands as we sail through the air. Kicking out our legs in tricks and poses that impress ourselves. Hitting the water, descending into deep, eerie coolness. We spring up from the bottom and rocket to the surface. Smiling at each other we strike out for the ladder. White bodies and black bodies alike glisten with saltwater. No words, only laughter. At that moment, for that brief time, two worlds become one.