Fox. Bill Robertson
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smiled in the dark. ‘That’s a change: a white sheila indebted to a black fella.’ There was wry humour in his voice. ‘Eh, ya shirt’s buggered. Do you want a lend of mine? It’s a bit sweaty but it was fresh tonight.’
She considered his offer, examined her own torn fabric then nodded. He removed his T shirt and watched as she pulled it on over her blouse.
At ten the next morning, Connors met Fox at the Darwin Police Station in Mitchell Street. The night before they had been interviewed and given copies of their statements. Connors and the offenders, three German tourists, had been medically examined and treated. The attackers were then locked up after being charged with abduction, attempted rape and assault. By the time they were through it was after midnight and the pair agreed to meet at the police station the following morning and go for lunch.
Connors arrived in a soft lime linen frock, her thick blonde hair wound into a knot on top of her head; she carried a cobalt blue shoulder bag and wore matching sandals. At thirty-eight, Caroline Connors was an attractive woman. Fox wore pressed moleskins, polished brown boots and a crimson shirt rolled to the elbows. His wavy black hair was brushed loosely. With his regular features, unusual grey eyes and smooth skin, he was a picture of vitality. Patiently, he waited in the foyer until Connors was finished and the best part of an hour later, they set off for lunch.
‘How did you sleep?’ he enquired
‘Well, all things considered, not too bad. I ached a bit and found when I showered I was covered in bruises. They must have belted me more than I realised. Men,’ she exclaimed with venom. ‘Those idiots are here backpacking from Germany. Now they’ve buggered up their holiday, their lives and the lives of their families. Too much beer – straight to their balls!’
‘Did ya call home?’
‘Yes, I phoned John this morning. We decided not to tell the kids.’
‘Ya lucky but I’m glad.’ Fox was pensive, thinking of Lucy. ‘I often wish Lucy ’ad your sort of luck.’
Immediately Connors placed a consoling hand on his arm. ‘I know,’ she said softly. ‘That must have been a nightmare for you – you were only ten for God’s sake. And poor little Lucy. What a tragedy.’
They walked in silence, Fox flushed with pain after vividly recalling the chapel at Sister Kate’s.
‘I’m pretty sure that’s what killed Mum.’ His voice was soft. ‘They said she was depressed. But it was us – being taken. Utter crap it was. Mum thought she ’ad no one left and nothin’ to live for. Dad was dead, Lucy was dead and I was missin’. What’s to live for? She was a good person.’
Connors heard pain in his voice. She knew there was nothing she could do to reverse the harm. She said nothing and they continued in silence.
Eventually she spoke. ‘In a strange way it’s because of you I’m here in Darwin.’ He peered at her quizzically. ‘Lucy’s death upset me so deeply I resigned. My old boss, who’s dead unfortunately, said I was being too hasty. He’d spent a lot of time in the outback and reckoned there were things we could do to help Aboriginal people. He was a rare one. Not many thought his way and his views weren’t popular. But he believed in doing the right thing and often that meant sidestepping policy.’
‘So what are you doing ’ere? Did ya change police forces or somethin’?’
‘No.’ Connors smiled at him. ‘You may not remember but you asked me to contact Brigitte Murphy. I did, and after a bloody big effort to convince her to tell what she knew, the result eventually was a whole new world for me. I now work in child protection. I’m still with the WA Police and I’m attending a child protection conference here.’ She pulled a face. ‘Most cops I know think this work’s bullshit – not real police work. They reckon it’s for “do-gooders” in welfare. But when I think of Lucy, they did her no good and neither of you fared well.’ She smiled tautly. ‘So, I’m in the vanguard of this field. It’s new work and, over time, I hope to help lots of kids.’
‘Yeah, well,’ he paused, ‘that bloody Wildman. I can see now ya stuck ya neck out. Didn’t appreciate it then but I never forgot. You spoke for me!’
Connors nodded. ‘You won’t be surprised to learn that Wildman’s bad habits caught up with him. He belted someone once too often. That someone had influence and the Discipline Board sacked him. Last I heard, he was a hopeless alcoholic.’
‘Yeah … well, the grog’s no good, but that’s justice.’
Connors laughed, a soft warm sound. ‘Enough of him. What are you doing here?’ She didn’t want to think any more about what could have happened the previous night had Fox not appeared. Having him talk kept that darkness at bay.
‘Where do I start? Long journey.’ As before, when he’d spoken of Lucy, Connors discerned an underlying sadness.
‘Tell me about Darwin. When did you come here? Why did you come here? What do you do? From the look of you, you seem to be doing alright.’
Fox laughed aloud. ‘Spoken like a true copper. Did ya think I was on the dole or somethin’?’ He continued to smile, liking her warmth and interest in him. ‘I’ve been ’ere a couple of years workin’ in the Botanical Gardens. Before I used to work with Darrigan’s Boxing Troupe. Done a bit of work on boats in Broome and with horses. But really, I’m on the run.’ His dry tone and sparkling eyes suggested the contrary.
Connors gazed at him speculatively. ‘I don’t believe it, pull the other one! Let’s go in here for lunch and you can tell me the real story.’ They walked into the Bluebird Café on Knuckey Street, a place grounded in the fifties. It was long and narrow with comfortable, high backed, six-seater wooden booths. A short, dumpy, balding man with pencil-line moustache stepped forward to escort them to a seat. He had a happy lived-in sort of face and an impossible Greek accent. As they walked towards the back, Fox noted the cafe was close to full. Conversation and laughter mingled with the rich aroma of good food.
They settled into a booth and sank into the thick, padded blue cushions and slid towards the wall. As they moved, the high backed seats creaked and the scarred wooden tabletop rocked, small features confirming the café’s popularity. They ordered hot coffee and waited for the menu.
‘You first,’ he said pre-emptively.
Connors smiled, knowing he was buying time before committing himself.
‘Not much to tell really. I wasn’t married when I first met you. I am now, to John McNulty, a wonderful man who is a doctor at Royal Perth Hospital. We have three children and live in South Perth. John and I both love swimming so we take our kids to the beach as often as possible. Cottesloe is our favourite. And, as I said, I’m helping develop a new field of police work in WA which is due mainly to you and Lucy. I’m happy, I love my husband, my kids and my work. That’s me!’ She smiled again, a gentle engaging expression of pleasure.
Fox gazed at her enviously. He would forever regard her as a considerate person genuinely interested in the welfare of others, and yet, by the mere colour of her skin, she was unlikely to experience the sorrow and pain inflicted upon him and so many like him. But that was not her fault. To the contrary, her compassion and good spirit were focussed on change, however limited it might be.
They both ordered barramundi, chips and a Greek salad. Slowly, over the meal, Fox recounted his life in the missions at Moore River and Mount Barker. He watched Connors pale as he described “the line”, the sexual and other assaults by the Brothers and their favourite older boys, bouts of solitary confinement, poor meals, incessant lying about families and the constant repudiation of their culture. Brother John loomed as a gargantuan bully obsessed with young boys. His activities were overtly encouraged through the wilful blindness of his institution and by government indifference. Fox spoke softly of the violence he encountered for defending younger boys and the punishment he’d meted out to offenders in return. Eventually, he told Connors of his escape and the long ride home to Turkey Creek for a bitter and empty purpose.
Connors