Wyatt - 05 - Port Vila Blues (13 page)

He got out and leaned on his door. Got
a problem?

She actually stamped one foot and
stood there shaking in the grip of a powerful emotion, bent forward at the
waist. That child should be properly restrained.

Restrained?
Speak English, lady. What are you
on about?

She pointed. Your son

Not my son.

Your ward, then. He should be
strapped into a seatbelt.

So?

What if you have an accident? What
if you have to stop suddenly? He could be seriously hurt.

Baker uncoiled from the door. Any
of your fucking business?

That got to her. Her little fists
were clenched and her eyes were fiery. Yes, if you like, it
is
my
business. When a child is at risk its
everybodys
business.

Baker closed the distance a metre or
two. Listen, slag.

The woman retreated a couple of
steps but wasnt backing down. Its against the law for a child to be
unrestrained like that.

Ill give you unrestrained, Baker
said, and he hit her hard, just once, dropping her like a stone.

He watched her. She shook her head
as if to clear it. When she touched her mouth and saw blood on her fingers, she
yowled and scrabbled away from him, dragging her backside along the street.
Baker imagined that she wasnt wearing much under the tracksuit. He caught up
with her. Surprisingly, she curled into a tight ball. He hesitated, weighing it
up.

Who gives a shit, he said.

He stepped over her. Yeah, he knew
it. There was a little kid in the Volvo, strapped in the back seat, singing to
herself. Little satchel, dinky little dress and socks and shoes. Precious
koochy koo, Baker said. Daddys princess.

He opened the drivers door of the
Volvo and grabbed the womans purse. Eighty bucks, wacky doo. Enough for a hit,
plus he could treat Carol and the brat to Pizza Hut tonight.

He folded the money into his back
pocket and thats when a car came out of nowhere and two guys in plain clothes
pinned him against the flank of the Volvo. One of them, a blocky character in
need of a shave and a mouthwash, got in a few punches before cuffing him. Youre
nicked, he said.

* * * *

Eighteen

Wyatt
walked down through the mall, heading back to Battery Point. He glanced about
him as he went, automatically looking for the face, the gait, the conjunction
of person, place and body language that would tell him hed been found. But the
little downtown streets were benign in the sun, so he went on half-alert and
did what he sometimes liked doing, visited the place as if for the first time.

He noticed the school-leavers in the
mall, kicking their heels and shifting place constantly but never going
anywhere. They had nowhere to go. There were no jobs for them. Wyatt looked
beyond them to the pedestrian traffic. No Asian or Indian faces; no blacks, no
Pacific Islanders. It was a mono-featured city.

He saw plenty of young men wearing
beards, jeans, walking boots and red, green and blue check shirts, and guessed
that they had a four-wheel-drive or a utility parked nearby. And there was
another kind of male, stamped with old money and long breeding. They walked
tall along the streets, braying and impervious, fathers and sons with straight
backs, costly English tweeds and an air of entitlement radiating from them.
They would have been out of place and out of joint anywhere but on the streets
of Hobart.

But, more than anything, the city
breathed wholesomeness and conviction. Perhaps that was the central factor
everyone here knew their place, except the kids in the mall.

He kept walking. The dental clinic
was in a lane off Elizabeth Street. He was five minutes early and was kept
waiting for twenty. At eleven oclock he walked out with a new filling in his
jaw.

That afternoon he was on a bus to
Devonport, and by evening he was on the overnight car ferry to Melbourne. He
slept badly: a bunk bed in a steel tomb below the waterline; young men,
intoxicated to desperation point, stumbling in from the discotheque; all the
unknowns ahead of him.

At dawn he showered, got dressed and
climbed the stairs to an upper deck. He ate breakfast in a dining room in which
the carpet, curtains and fittings were the colour of the vomit that streaked
the iron steps outside. Toast and coffee, as bad as any hed ever had. After
that he stood in the open air, choosing a point near the bow where he could
watch the ferrys progress toward the narrow entrance to Port Phillip Bay. He
could see land on either side: hills, flat country, white beaches and a couple
of fishing towns. Then a lighthouse and the ferry was pitching through The Rip.

Wyatt remained on deck, breathing
the cool air, as the ferry skirted the Bellarine Peninsula and cut up the
centre of the bay. A year ago hed travelled these waters alone in a stolen
motorboat. Having shot a man whod sold him out, hed been on the run. He
usually was, in those days.

The ferry berthed at 8.30 a.m. and
Wyatt filed off with the passengers. As usual, he swept the docks, looking for
men standing featureless and still in the background. There were men like that
in every port in the world, waiting to nab someone in particular or simply
watching to see who was new in town, intelligence they might later tie in to a
robbery or a killing.

There was no one, but Wyatt had
altered his appearance again anyway, this time with a wad of chewing gum in his
cheek, a baseball cap on his head and a football-club scarf trailing from his
neck. Not that Wyatt knew or cared about football. Everything about football
was collective, and Wyatt had never joined or wanted to join or feel part of
the herda trait that had kept him free and more or less unknown, unreachable
and uncorrupted for all of his life.

He caught a taxi. Thirty minutes
later he was at the Budget car rental place in the centre of the city, mapping
out a route to the little town of Emerald in the hills.

* * * *

Nineteen

The
day began badly with a female duty lawyer at the Magistrates Court calling him
Terry. Not Mr Baker, Terry, as if he didnt deserve the respect of
Mister.
Then again, in Bakers experience of the court system, the only people ever
to call him Mr Baker had been the beaks whod sat in judgement of him.

Sit down, Terry, she said. Thats
the way.

Baker pulled up a pouchy vinyl
chair, orange, scabbed with cigarette burns, and leaned back in it, giving the
Legal Aid bitch the once-over. Her name was Goldman, that made her Jewish, and
Baker peered at her face for confirmation. Given that your Jew is fond of cash,
what was she doing Legal Aid shitwork for? Baker pondered on that for a while,
then he had her: classy dresser, sharp brain, the type who likes to slum it
once in a while. He grunted, satisfied with his analysis, folded his arms and
waited. But he felt twitchy. He badly needed a hit.

The Goldman woman turned the pages
of the charge sheet. Assault, theft, threatening behaviour . . .

You know how they like to throw the
lot at you, hope some of it sticks, Baker said.

She looked up at him. So, what are
you saying, Terry? Youre denying all of it? Is that how we plead you, not
guilty?

Baker rolled his shoulders around,
searching for the right words. I was aggravated, wasnt I?

Aggravated?

Yeah. She come at me.

She attacked you?

Sort of, yeah.

So it was self-defence?

Yeah, Baker said.

He watched Goldman pick through his
file. Now and then she pursed her lips, made a clicking sound with her tongue,
as if she didnt like what she saw there.

Terry, according to your record,
you have a drink problem, correct?

Ive been known to down the odd
coldie. Why?

And drugs.

You know, Baker said, recreational.

According to a previous assessment,
made just six months ago, you were on a downward spiral.

Downward spiral? Baker stared back
at Goldman. What the fuck does that mean?

It means your psychological and
physical conditions were deteriorating, Terry. You were obliged to seek
treatment at a clinic. According to the clinic, you dropped out after three
visits.

I wasnt sick, Baker muttered.

The lawyer clutched the edge of her
desk with both hands, leaned toward him across the paperwork. Terry, Im
looking for our line of defence, okay? Its called mitigating circumstances. A
history of drug and/or alcohol abuse can be taken into consideration, helping
to account for your actions.

Baker bristled. What do you mean,
abuse? Im fucking not an alky, not a junkie. Fucking watch it, lady.

Now she did call him Mr Baker.
Temper up, the bitch spat at him: Mr Baker, Im appointed by the court to help
people who cannot afford a lawyer and who do not wish to conduct their own
defence. Im not deciding guilt or innocencethats the courts job. Youve got
to meet me halfway here. The police prosecutor is going to give you a very hard
time. Ive seen Sergeant Day in action many times. Hell try to rattle your
cage, get you worked up so you look bad in the eyes of the beak. Is that what
you want?

No.

No. So why dont you help me work
out a line of defence?

Suit yourself.

Not suit myself. Not suit myself at
all. I want you to meet me halfway here.

Baker frowned at her. Its a
committal hearing, for Christs sake.

So? Are you saying you dont want
me to try to find grounds for a dismissal first?

Baker shrugged.

Goldman pushed on. And if I cant
find grounds for a dismissal, dont you want a good defence mapped out for when
trial time comes around?

I can always shoot through.

Goldman regarded him coldly across
her desk. Do that and you wont get bail next time youre picked up.

Maybe there wont be a next time.

Goldmans voice softened. Terry,
listen to me. Look at your history: in homes from the age of eleven, juvenile
court at fourteen and again at fifteen and sixteen, six months suspended for
possession, a community order for going equipped to burgle ... At this rate youll
be the next chicken in the yard at Long Bay, Bathurst or Goulburn.

Baker flushed. People like you,
think youre so great. He wanted to explain what it had been like for him, but
the words wouldnt come, only pictures in his head and hot shame and anger
choking in his throat. His father had started fiddling with him on his fifth
birthday. Fiddled with his twin sister, too. When they were eleven the old man
and the old woman had taken them to Penang, supposedly for a holiday, except
they hadnt stayed long and on the way back he and his sister had worn condoms
packed with smack taped to their waists, little angels who wouldnt arouse the
suspicion of customs officers. There had been other trips after that, a lot of
the smack finding its way up the old mans armhim
and
his matesputting
them in the mood for a bit of kid-fucking, the old man happy to oblige his
mates, two kids already in the house. Baker felt a lot older and wiser than any
Legal Aid bitch fresh out of law school, who couldnt understand why he was
wasting himself on dope and booze. If Baker had the words, hed explain to
Goldman that the world looked a lot better skewed than it did real, that the
dope and booze blunted the pictures in his head. The seconds went by. He
swallowed, caught his breath. He tapped his chest. Think I couldnt handle the
yard? Piss it in, lady.

She gazed at him calmly. You almost
sound as if you welcome the prospect.

Lady, when I go to prison its
going to be for a fucking good reason, not some pissweak assault charge, theft,
whatever.

They watched each other for a few
moments. Some of the heat had leaked away now, as though Baker had stated his
case and the duty lawyer hers and the result was a stalemate, maybe mutual
regard.

Goldman moved first. Okay, Terry,
well do our best with what weve got. Youre on the slate for two oclock. Dont
be late, dont wander off. Now if youll excuse me, Ive got another dozen
people to counsel this morning.

Baker stood. The action was sudden,
the chair crashing over behind him. That embarrassed himhe hadnt meant it to
happen and it must have seemed like aggression or disappointment. He righted
the chair, all of his movements contained and careful, and saw only one way of
retrieving the situation. He stuck out his hand. Thanks. Much appreciated.

The duty lawyer was occupied with the
papers on her desk and didnt notice his hand. He made her notice it, leaning
completely over the desk and wagging it at the level of her breasts. Mrs
Goldman? I just want to say thanks.

She blinked.
Ms,
not Mrs.
Then she shook with him, her hand small, dry and firm, and Baker suddenly felt
that the day was on the mend.

He walked down the corridor, past
other duty lawyers in other offices, and came to the waiting room. Nowhere to
sit. It was a place of writhing children, fat women striking out suddenly,
junkies chewing their nails to the gristle, bewildered parents, young car
thieves and break-and-enter merchants leaning like James Dean on the walls.
Baker looked around in disgust. Behavioural problems, medical and physical
disabilities, tears, ethnics in their best suits, not to mention the uniforms,
cops and court officers.