Читать книгу Fox - Bill Robertson - Страница 8

He lay among the sandstone and spinifex, obscured by stunted acacias — watching. Squeals, shrieks and laughter floated upwards as children hurled themselves into the waterhole from the rocks below, each attempting to outdo the other with their bombs and bellywhackers. Focussing on the four-year-old paddling at the bank, his erotic fancies bloomed rapidly. She looked so innocent and plump, a wholesome little morsel. He wanted to rush down and take her but it wasn’t safe. Too many kids. And her older brother was a protective little prick — he’d be a bloody handful. Still, they didn’t know what they were in for and he could wait. He licked his lips, it wasn’t far off.

A dust devil rose lazily in the blistering afternoon air. Sweat trickled into his left eye, flies stuck, gluelike, to his thin whiskered face. Heat from the steely blue cauldron overhead was remorseless, yet the scantily clad Gija kids seemed immune to it. Here, in the blistering north east of Western Australia, the cool waters of Turkey Creek were an oasis of fun. Mullett, now tense with anticipation, fondled himself to relieve his maddening desire and groaned with pleasure.

In March, he was back. Mullett and two others, a man and woman. They came in a small truck equipped with a wire cage and bench seats. Empowered by warrants, cloaked in the might of the Anglican Church and authorised by the State of Western Australia, they would seize the kids from Turkey Creek for assimilation into white Australia. Mullett’s earlier reconnaissance had confirmed several mixed-race kids scampering about the dusty settlement. The raid wouldn’t be large, five boys for stock handling and six girls for domestic work. He was satisfied with that. His pleasure was close now, he could almost feel the four-year-old in his rough hands …

Still, they had yet to grab the kids. Mullett hated that part. It set him on edge and he resented being out of sorts. All that weeping and wailing. He had no objection to taking the noisy little buggers, they brought him new pleasures, but he detested their howling mothers and the other caterwauling women. Some of the men could be aggressive too. That’s where having a copper with them was handy — he could give ’em a righteous tap if they played up!

They sat in the truck about a half mile from the settlement, shaded by an old pandanus. Though not as hot as January, the truck was uncomfortably warm. Rogers, the policeman, was impatient.

‘What the hell are we waiting for Mullett? Let’s just get in and get ’em,’ he grumbled.

‘I told ya before Skinny, we have to think about this otherwise the bloody lubras will hide their kids in the caves or cover ’em in charcoal. We’ve gotta try to get ’em all.’ Mullett’s pinched face wore a sulky scowl.

John “Skinny” Rogers was a constable from Wyndham. Just over six feet tall, thin as a whip, he had a short fuse and dynamite fists. With his bronzed angular features, his police mates thought rawboned was a kind description.

‘Yeah, well I got a new sheila waitin’ for me back home Mullett, I just want to get it done. I don’t wanna be stuck out here a minute longer than necessary. What about you Brigitte?’

Brigitte Murphy, a former Anglican nun had, at the age of forty-five, passionately fallen for a primary school teacher from Bayswater near Perth. Before marriage, she had worked at the Parkerville Children’s Home founded by Katherine Mary Clutterbuck. Sister Kate, as Katherine Mary was affectionately known, had chanced the rough watery passage from Ireland and started the Home in 1903. Previously, Murphy had lived there and cared for its young inmates but she now managed the Anglican Church’s response to official Aboriginal integration and protection policy. Over the years, she had become hardened to the complaints of brutality and violence from black kids. Most of them, she thought, didn’t appreciate the chance they were being offered. But recently, a “situation” forced her to take stock, a case involving Mullett and a little girl. She had joined Mullett and Rogers on this occasion to see how the collection of Aboriginal children was carried out.

‘John, like you, I’d rather be home, back in Perth. But, I’m here to learn. I don’t really know how things are done on the ground so I’ve come to find out.’

Mullett muttered under his breath.

‘Did you say something Mullett?’ she asked sharply.

‘Only that I dunno why you’re here. It’s not normal and as far as I’m concerned, ya shouldn’t bloody be here.’ Mullett’s surly tone was both cutting and dismissive. The chip on his shoulder was flourishing under her continuing presence. He knew that he had to be careful around her and felt shackled.

‘I told you before Mullett, some people in my organisation think we’re doing the wrong thing. I don’t. As far as I’m concerned, these kids are up for a new life. But, I’ve been directed to look at the effect on families when the kids are taken. That’s why I’m here. So,’ she said acidly, ‘leave it.’ Mullett’s skinny frame, constant body odour and thin, reddened features repulsed her as much as his niggling attitude of self-importance. Truly, she felt like whacking him.

Bemused, Rogers listened to the exchange. He had been on these trips with Mullett a few times and thought him a strange coot. He was sleazy and rough with the kids. Not that Rogers cared too much about that. Shit, they were only coons!

‘Yeah, well, nothing like first-hand experience Brigitte. I reckon you’d best stop with the mothers – they’ll be kickin’ up a right bloody fuss. Mullett and me will chase the little buggers. And Mullett, if you have any trouble with the bucks, I’ll deal with it. Keep out of it. Right?’

‘Skinny, why does it have to be like this every time?’ Mullett whined. ‘I’m in charge! I’m the one with authority from the Commissioner of Native Welfare. I’m the one with the power to take these kids. You’re just here to see I’m okay. But, seein’ as you’re so bloody smart, we’ll just go in and grab ’em now. They should all be in for tea anyway.’ Pissed off, Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrawny throat, Birmingham accent thickened by emotion, Mullett started the truck, threw it into gear, spun the wheels in the sand and fishtailed down the track.

They roared into the camp sliding to a stop in the main clearing. Dust billowed around them. Women, bent over their cooking fires, straightened in fear. Children slid closer to their legs. The men stiffened but stayed under the trees.

Mullett stepped from the truck, pulled a crumpled paper from his hip pocket and began reading, his voice cracked and irritated. The hasty words were meaningless because at law, Aboriginal parents with children of mixed race had no rights or protection. Mullett had all the authority he needed to seize the kids. The Aborigines Act of 1905 gave it to him. Nevertheless, while reading the warrant appealed to his perverse sense of decency, his tone made the women nervous. Then, when he and Rogers marched over to the camp fires and seized four little ones at their mother’s sides, all hell erupted!

Women screamed and cried, children ran and the men charged from the trees. Hurriedly, and none too gently, the white men dragged the shrieking, struggling children to the truck, threw them into the cage and locked the gate. Mullett saw the little girl he’d spied on his January trip squatting unobtrusively beneath a gum at the clearing edge. He made a beeline for her. As he reached her, a woman dashed across and swept the child into her arms. Mullett clutched at the girl, trying to tear her from the woman’s grasp. Terrified, the child bawled. The battle was ferocious with the younger woman proving stronger than the older, slightly built Mullett. Suddenly, drawing back his fist, Mullett belted her on the jaw. As she staggered, he kicked her legs from under her and tucked the child beneath his arm. In the same instant, he slipped his hand beneath the little dress, hard against her naked crotch. His eyes dilated and darkened with pleasure — it was just as he had dreamed.

Fuck! He became aware of the nun bitch screeching at him.

‘Mullett! Mullett! What are you doing you filthy bastard. Put that child down!’

Reluctantly, he moved his hand to the child’s knees. ‘She’s old enough to go,’ he growled defensively, ‘I’m puttin’ her in the truck.’

Brigitte said no more. Mullett’s sordid behaviour had confirmed the need for her presence.

‘Mullett!’ Rogers roared from the other side of the clearing. ‘Round up those bloody kids while I deal with this pack of bastards.’ He stood ringed by five or six men, some bearing waddies. Completely fearless, he shuffled forward and rendered the man nearest him unconscious with a massive blow to the head. Whirling, he repeated the assault on a man behind him and then cut loose with a flurry of fists and kicks until the last man ran from the clearing.

Mullett zigzagged around the settlement. Three more children were caught and thrown into the truck, another three ran into the bush. The air was riven by sobbing, screeching, keening mothers and the terrified howling of children.

Looking on, Brigitte felt ill. If this was standard practice, no wonder the kids complained of violence when they reached the Home. She watched, retching, as Mullett viciously thumped two small boys who had valiantly tried to outrun him.

Flushed with success, Rogers returned to the truck.

‘Have you got ’em all Mullett?’

‘No. Three of the little shits got away. Still, we got eight from eleven, that’s not bad. The boss’ll be happy with this lot.’

He leaned into the cabin to get a padlock for the cage gate. Looking up, he found two furious unblinking eyes glaring at him through the passenger side window. It’s the brother, Mullett thought. The boy showed no fear and continued glaring.

‘Skinny, grab that bloody kid!’

‘No need, he’s decided to come with us.’

Unusually, the boy had moved to the corner of the truck. About seven, he was lean and sinewy and his stormy, silvery-grey eyes smouldered angrily from a fine, intelligent face. Mullett stomped to the back of the truck and opened the gate. Unable to contain himself as the boy moved to enter the cage, Mullett unleashed a mighty backhander. With a deft sense of anticipation, the child swayed to his left and Mullett’s knuckles hit the iron door with such force that he roared in pain. A sly smile slid over the boy’s face. Nimbly, he jumped into the cage and went straight to the tiny girl Mullett had assaulted.