The Betrayal of Bindy Mackenzie (36 page)

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
Late Thursday
What an unexpected twist.

Maureen did not notice.

A week's worth of midnight escapades. That bookshop gleamed! But she did not say a word. She said she'd been in Queensland these last few days, but she did not wear a suntan nor the air of one who had relaxed.

‘Bindy,' she said, sounding agitated, ‘have you noticed the spare key? It usually hangs on this hook above the counter and I can't find it.'

She was frowning, distracted. She was rummaging in her handbag, pulling things up and pushing them back down. A notebook fell to the floor with a slap, open at a page. ‘
Markus Pulie?
' said the page. Maureen jumped, swept up the book, and stuffed it back into her bag. She returned her gaze to the empty hook.

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
Late Thursday
Does she think I stole the key? How dare she?!

Well, I suppose I did.

But who is
Markus Pulie
? A name in her notebook. Why the question mark? I have a strange conviction that he will
replace me. She was so harried and distracted today. She hardly looked at me. Is she going to
fire
me? And hire this
Markus Pulie
in my place?

The Philosophical Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
Still late, Thursday
Let us count our small blessings.

At least I don't need to worry about school tomorrow— I'm going into the city to see a lawyer.

And tonight I convinced Auntie V. that I am perfectly well.
I do not have glandular fever! I do not have glandular fever!
(That is my new chant.) I ‘confessed' that my problem is my eyesight.

‘I can't read the board any more,' I explained. ‘My glasses stopped working months ago.'

‘What! Why didn't you say anything!'

She's going to take me to the optometrist next week.

It was not a total lie. My eyes
are
blurry on occasion. And there is a buzzing in my ears. And I feel, sometimes, like I just got off a fast-moving ferris wheel.

Night Time Musings of Bindy Mackenzie
Late Friday night

Have you ever seen a burst of light explode?

It happened to me today, and everything fell into place.

I saw the lawyer. I took the train to Redfern and found my way to Cleveland Street.

I wore my school uniform. It seemed formal enough for a legal office.

But the legal office was nothing but a bare, little room. An exposed electric light. A scratched table.

A young man in a suit.

Blake Elroy.

His face was puffy and his voice pompous.

He ushered me into the office—where was the receptionist? Where the glamorous harbour view?

But the office was at street level, and bedraggled men and women peered in, or bounced against the glass.

I sat opposite the lawyer, trying to ignore the bouncing.

‘Now then,' he said, straightening his shoulders. ‘You know what this is about?'

‘I understand it's about the dispute between the two substitute teachers last year,' I said, adopting his official tone, trying to show at once that I was more than a mere schoolgirl.
I would make an exquisite witness!
‘They were arguing about a Polish exchange student,' I declared. ‘The blonde woman struck the redhead with her right hand. This left a bright red mark on her cheek. The redhead dropped her books.'

I sat back, waiting for the praise.

I realised something—I missed waiting for praise. It had been so long. In the past, I was
always
sitting back, waiting for
praise. But at school these days there has been a drought of it, I suppose because I don't do any work. All this time I had embraced my decline, but really I'd never stopped believing I would soon climb back, that I would soon reclaim the praise. Now I thought:
but how?
How could I ever catch up?

‘Very well,' said the lawyer, pursing his lips. ‘But what makes you think they were substitute teachers, these two women?'

‘Well!' I began. ‘It was clear—they were—'

Why had I believed they were substitute teachers?

‘Because' he said, ‘they were not substitute teachers. The women you saw fighting were in fact computer programmers. Contractors. Working for the Board of Studies. Installing new software. But, no matter! Tell me, what makes you think they were arguing about a Polish exchange student?'

On this, I was more certain.

‘I heard them,' I explained. ‘I heard the name.'

‘The name of a Polish student at your school? Hmm. An exchange student, you say?'

‘Well—' I realised, as I spoke: ‘Well, I don't
know
that it was an exchange student. I just heard a Polish name. And I assumed it must be an exchange . . .'

He looked down at the papers on his desk. ‘And what was that name?'

‘I don't know,' I whispered. ‘I can't remember.'

‘Well, no matter. We'll get a list of the names of Polish students at your school and you can go through it. You don't happen to
have
a list on you, do you?'

I gasped, slightly.

It was like walking into the wrong exam.

‘No matter,' he sighed again. And then, sharply: ‘Are you
sure it was a
student
? How do you know this Polish person was a student?'

I thought I might burst into tears.

I couldn't speak for a moment.

How did I know?

Then I rallied: ‘But, why does all this matter?' I pleaded. ‘I clearly saw that woman hit the other one! Isn't that all you need for an assault charge?'

‘An
assault charge
! Who said this was an assault charge?' The lawyer looked amused.

I chewed on my nails like a teenager.

‘No, no,' he said. ‘This is a copyright dispute. It matters not a
whit
that one struck the other. What matters is the
words
they spoke. Our client tells us that, when you were eavesdropping on them, (a) the copyright issue was being discussed, and, (b) important admissions were made about that issue, which the other party now, of course, denies. So, what we want from
you
is what you heard. Tell me. What did you hear?'

A copyright dispute?

My head seemed to me to be revolving.

‘But all they were talking about,' I murmured, ‘was a Polish exchange student.'

He seemed, then, to pounce.

‘That's all you heard?' he pounced.

I nodded, miserably.

‘Tell me precisely what they said about this Polish exchange student.'

Helplessly, I shrugged. I had no recollection of particular words.

We regarded one another for a moment. And then I whispered, ‘A copyright dispute?'

He lifted one of the papers on his desk, to reveal a disk in a paper envelope.

He held it up.

‘Over this,' he said. ‘Software.
Enlightenment
it's called. A rather new age name. Some educational software that the Board plans on rolling out. It's a consolidation tool for teachers, basically—brings together information about education in this state. You've got your student records, your teacher qualifications, your exams, your assessment tasks, your model answers, you name it . . .'

He droned on but my head had caught these words, and was chanting them:
your exams, your assessment tasks, your model answers
.

On that disk?

If I could just distract his attention!

If I could slip that disk into my pocket!

Exams, assessment tasks, model answers . . .

All there! The solution all there!

But the lawyer was raising his voice.

‘See, your school's agreed to do the test run,' he explained, waving the disk gently back and forth before my eyes. ‘It's loaded onto the teachers' computers there—there's an Ashbury password. The teachers have the password.'

Ah.

The password.

The disk, on its own, was useless.

What had I been thinking anyway?

Of cheating?

Never!

‘But you're telling me you heard nothing about software?' He leaned forward, examining my face.

‘No,' I whispered.

An inscrutable expression seemed to flit across his face— something almost like triumph. Was he pleased that I was failing as a witness? As if he'd always known that a schoolgirl would be no help?

He continued to prod at my story for a while, trying to find a way into
copyright
and
software
when all I had to offer was a student and a slap.

At one point, he paused.

‘Well, now—this Polish student—could that have been the
password
do you think? I can't
tell
you the password, but I
can
say that it sounds like a name—it might even sound a bit like a Polish name, I
guess.
Was it the password, do you think?'

And so the meeting went on.

My memory of the fight had been a neat wooden structure—and here was a lawyer, dismantling it, one plank of timber at a time.

‘Well,' he said, as the meeting closed. ‘You've got my number. I want you to spend this next week really
thinking
over the event, and, let's say you remember anything at all? Give me a call.'

As I caught the train home, the burst of light exploded.

I saw why I had been wrong.

I had believed the women were substitute teachers because
I
had never seen them before, and furthermore,
I
disapprove of substitute teachers. So I am always looking out for them, ready to disapprove.

I had believed they were discussing an exchange student because
I
was caught up in the issue of exchange—at that time, my friend, Kelly Simonds, was about to exchange me for Vienna.

And these last years I'd seen only the flaws of my classmates because I was caught up with flaws of my own. The events of Year 8 had caused me to obsess about those flaws.