The Songmaster (56 page)

Barwon sat back in the truck, the door open, his head resting against the seat, his eyes closed. The far-off sound of a power generator and vehicles faded from his consciousness. Images of Lisa came to him, her laughter and gaiety, her love of art, the way she’d made him watch as she screened the little owl design onto the cloth. It had been a brief fling before he’d set off back to Sydney. He hadn’t loved her deeply, but he’d made a baby with her and the sadness and regrets were burned into his heart forever. He thought again, as he had so many times, of the TV news grabs of the police carrying the covered remains of a body out of the State park. And he tried to imagine his baby, what did she look like, would she want someone like him for a father? The mere thought of a child that was his responsibility stabbed at him. How could he deal with this? How could he support her? How
could he raise her when he didn’t even know who he was? The deep-seated pain he’d run from all his life was now a constant that ached to the marrow of his bones. He cursed the authorities, the protection board, the Church that’d marched him away from his family, and the Brothers who’d abused him, physically and emotionally. Maddening snatches of childhood memories came to him, but with not enough clues to lead him where he needed to be. The frustration of his powerlessness bit into him.

‘Wake up, dreamboat.’ Something sharp prodded Barwon’s ribs and he jerked back to reality. A horrible reality that centred on Giles Jackson stepping back from the vehicle, holding the rifle he’d just jabbed into Barwon. The farmer’s face was flushed, his eyes red-rimmed slits, his mouth a tight thin line. ‘Get down from there, you bastard. I told you never to come near here again. Figured you’d learned a lesson. But being such a thick-headed black bastard, you can’t take a hint.’

Barwon climbed out of the truck and slouched against the mudguard. ‘I’m waiting for Andrew Frazer, go and whinge at him. He’s with the miners somewhere. I just drove him out here. Anyway, you don’t own this mine, Jackson, it’s a lease and you don’t control access. So piss off.’

Jackson almost had apoplexy. ‘Don’t give me cheek, you black shit,’ he exploded. ‘Who do you bloody well think you are? I’m sick of the
lot of you with your bloody claims and handouts and stirring and bringing in bloody do-gooders who cause trouble. Fuck the lot of you.’ He waved the rifle as he came close to hysteria.

‘Just who the hell do you think you are, messing up my life!’
Suddenly the languid pose of Barwon, the handsome half-caste Aborigine thinking himself as good as a white man, blew Jackson’s rage to exploding point. These blacks were the cause of all his problems – financial, his uncertain future, his relationship with his wife. How dare she suggest he cooperate with these black morons. ‘You should all go back to the trees!’ he yelled. ‘Just get the fuck off my place. I’d bloody well put a bullet up your arse if it wasn’t wasting a decent shot.’ As he was screaming invective, he unlatched the safety catch. ‘Go on, get away from that fancy vehicle and walk. Go walkabout, you, piss off, get off my land.’

Barwon tensed. ‘Listen, you redneck bastard, it’s not going to be your land much longer. You’re never going to make a go of it out here. This country doesn’t want your kind. The problem with you is, you just don’t get the message, do you?’

‘It doesn’t belong to you, that’s for sure. You might think you’re as good as white people but you’ll never be as good as us, mate. You’re a blackfella.’ Jackson raised the rifle pointing it at Barwon’s waist. ‘Go on, you son of a bitch, get back to the desert, before I drive you there myself. Get back where you belong.’

Barwon barely saw the rifle. Jackson’s words had summed up exactly what Barwon wished he could do – go back where he belonged. And they blew a fuse. It was as if a short circuit had closed down part of his reasoning processes – and his emotions ran out of any control he had left. This red-faced oaf of a man was suddenly every white man who’d jeered at him, challenged him, discriminated against him and failed him. In what seemed like slow motion, Barwon tried to grab the rifle from the other man’s hands. Jackson was enveloped in fury as the two men fell to the ground still clutching the rifle. How dare this black bastard . . . It was his last thought. The bullet blew through the top of his head. Barwon watched him, sprawled in the dirt, seeming to shrink, shiny red blood spurting into the dry red earth.

Susan’s scream dragged his eyes from the enemy on the ground and he smiled. Now he could start afresh. All his problems had disappeared with Jackson’s last breath. He was still smiling as Andrew rushed at him, grabbing the rifle.

Susan knelt beside Jackson. ‘Oh my God, I can’t tell if he’s breathing. I can’t find a pulse, what do I do, Andrew. Quick.’

‘Here, hold this.’ He shoved the rifle at her and crouched down. Jackson’s eyes were unfocused, the expression on his face one of astonishment.

‘He’s dead. Christ, Barwon, what happened . . .?’

The miners were running down the track,
shouting, two of them waving guns. Susan went to Barwon and took his arm, feeling the quivering shakes still running through his body.

‘Be careful, Barwon. Don’t say or do anything. Just try to stay calm.’

There was mad confusion for a few minutes as Kev Perkins tried to help Jackson. With the realisation he was past help, frightened shouts and accusations were hurled at Barwon till Andrew stepped in, speaking with a cool firm voice. ‘Someone has to call the police, the Flying Doctor. Did anyone see what happened?’

‘We heard a shot,’ said one of the men. ‘What did you do that for, you stupid boong?’

‘Barwon, don’t say anything. Wait.’ Susan turned to the three mining men, ‘I’m a lawyer. I’ll deal with this.’

‘Jesus, what a mess. You’re in deep shit, mate.’ Kev Perkins looked at Barwon. ‘Who’s going to tell his missus? Someone better watch that bastard. Never figured that blue they had would come to this.’

‘Jackson went for me first,’ said Barwon quietly.

‘Barwon, don’t say any more,’ snapped Susan. ‘Andrew, we’d better go to the homestead. Mr Perkins, nobody is to talk to Barwon about this. If they do, then I’ll see them in court . . . Is that clear?’

‘Okay, let’s call the police right now.’ Perkins moved away, leaving Barwon with the miners.

Andrew touched Susan’s arm. ‘I’ll tell
Norma when we get there. And we’ll have to contact the others on the radio phone in the Oka and tell them what’s happened.’ He gave her arm a small squeeze and helped her into the truck, trying to frame the words he had to tell Norma Jackson.

K
ev Perkins grabbed Barwon’s arm and yanked him to his feet, the miner nearly stumbling as there was not the expected resistance from Barwon who stood subdued, his shoulders slumped, his eyes vacant. The drill operator took Barwon’s other arm and started issuing instructions.

‘The gear shed, we’ll lock him in there. Clear it out. The cops will be here at first light, they said.’

Perkins, empowered by his talk to the police, took control. ‘The cops have told me to apprehend him and keep him out of trouble.’

‘He doesn’t look like he’s going to cause any trouble,’ said one of the miners.

‘Yeah, what’s that then?’ One of the other men jerked his head towards the body of Giles
Jackson, now covered by a blanket. ‘Can’t trust these yellafellas.’

‘Listen, mate, we’ll sort things out in the morning. You’re probably safer under lock and key till the authorities get here in the morning,’ said Perkins to Barwon, as two of the miners began heaving equipment out of a galvanised iron shed.

Perkins handed him a water bottle and a rolled-up ground sheet and nudged Barwon towards the shed, now almost empty of gear. Barwon moved into the dark little hut, still stifling hot from the heat of the day. He turned and gave an ambivalent shrug before the door was slammed shut, the bolt jammed in place and a padlock clicked.

‘What are we doing about . . . him?’ asked one of the miners pointing at the body.

‘Cops said not to touch anything. But we’ll have to camp here tonight to make sure that stupid bastard doesn’t get out.’

Twilight became night light in a tide that washed away shadows, swallowed sky and clouds. Stars that had glowed timidly were now, in the blackness of the Kimberley night sky, growing bolder, glittering hard and shiny close. Shooting stars and satellites made trajectories across the jewelled blanket.

Perkins and the three miners sat in their camp, angrily discussing the day’s events, bottles of rum and beer circulating in an increasingly sloppy manner. Glasses sloshed to the top,
voices slurred, resentment and righteousness part of the brew.

At Marrenyikka, the circle round the campfire was tight-knit, the conversation subdued. No stargazing this evening. They’d travelled back without Andrew and Susan, horrified at Susan’s call from the Jackson homestead, where she and Andrew had decided they needed to stay the night with Norma.

Now the group had problems of their own. Rowena was lost. Refusing to talk to Lilian or Jennifer when they returned from food gathering earlier in the day, she’d disappeared.

It was dark when the group from Birrimitji on Boulder Downs had returned. They found Rusty and Digger walking into camp. They had tracked Rowena’s footprints until the last rays of light made any more searching impossible.

‘Did she say anything, Veronica? What sort of a mood was she in?’ asked Beth.

‘I never saw her. She was in her room. We went out for lily roots and stayed at the wunggud water . . .’ She looked over at the two Aboriginal women.

Jennifer shook her head. ‘She wouldn’t come with us.’

Ardjani threw a couple of sticks into the fire. ‘I took her to the Wandjina spirit place this morning. She might have tried to find her way back there.’

‘Surely she knows by now not to go to a spirit place without a custodian, Ardjani. Do you think she might be there?’

‘No, Beth. She couldn’t find that place again, too far, on foot anyway. We’ll find her tracks when first light come.’ He looked at Rusty and Digger on the other side of the fire and they nodded confidently.

‘No worries,’ added Rusty.

The sliver of moon was well on its way across the midnight sky when the miners finished the last cans of beer. One of the men, drunk and angry, began hurling them at the tin shed in which Barwon had been locked. ‘Take that, you boong bastard. None of your white mates can get you out of this one. You’re done for, you great big bloody dickhead.’

He was joined by the other two; whooping and shouting obscenities, they bombarded the shed with cans and bottles. ‘Poor bloody Jackson. He was a hot-headed bloke but that’s no reason to shoot the bugger.’

‘See, once they got black blood in ’em, they go violent. Can’t trust any of them.’

‘Pleasant dreams, you fuckwit,’ yelled the man next to him, hurling another beer can at the shed.

‘I know what’ll wake up the bastard real good.’ One of the men went over to Perkins’ truck and returned with a rifle. The others
chuckled as he cocked it and then fired a shot through the roof, the blast ripping the tin, the sound reverberating in the still night and echoing off the nearby ridges.

‘Jees, mate,’ exclaimed Perkins. ‘You’d better go easy. You’ll be on the cop plane tomorrow too if you shoot him.’ He took the man by the arm. ‘Let’s crash, mate. Big day comin’ up.’

They staggered to their beds. Perkins, stepping into the shadows to relieve himself, cursed as he tripped over Jackson’s body.

During the barrage of abuse and hurled missiles, Barwon sat with his head on his knees, arms folded over his head to cover his ears and try to block out the noise, the hatred in the voices. How had he come to this?

Pangs of hunger were ignored as the pain in his head swelled. A pain caused by the pressure of a million anguished thoughts.

One by one he saw the procession of faces that had dictated his life, his mother with her gentle eyes, the Brothers at the mission, Shirley with her warmth, her good times and her voluptuous body. And there was Lisa with her trusting eyes and child-like ways. The pregnancy had frightened him. Who was he to look after a child? He’d told her of being taken from his mother after his father died in a mine accident, of his need to go back to the Kimberley and find
his roots. She’d tried to understand but he’d seen the tears in her eyes.

Once he’d left, it had become easier to push thoughts of her to one side. The phone calls had become fewer, briefer, cooler. He knew he was hurting her. He’d promised, when the baby was due, he’d come back. But he hadn’t even rung to find out if it was a boy or a girl. Then he’d seen the stories on the news and his world had collapsed.