Blood Junction Read online

  “That’s what your mother told you, yes.”

  “Mum lied?”

  “Yes. She had her reasons.”

  “Such as?”

  “She didn’t want anyone to know her true background.”

  India looked blank.

  “Least of all your father.”

  “But why—”

  “India … You don’t mind if I call you India?”

  She shook her head impatiently. “No. Not at all.”

  “India, over the past two months we have managed to trace several of your relatives.”

  India stared at Dr. Child. “Several? How many exactly?”

  “At the last count, sixty-two.”

  “Sixty-two!”

  “Your family includes a wide network of people, many of whom are only distantly related.”

  But India’s brain was jammed on the number sixty-two and all she could say was, “Bloody hell.” Then, after a minute or so, “Who are they? What are they like? Are they—”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say. Lauren went to meet them for the first time at the beginning of December.” Dr. Child put a hand to her mouth. “You don’t suppose they had anything to do with her murder, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” said India, distracted. Sixty-two!

  There was a lengthy silence, then Dr. Child cleared her throat.

  “There’s something else that I have to tell you. But I feel we should go into it another day. Give you some time to digest what we’ve learned so far.”

  India gave a shaky laugh. “It can’t be anything like as dramatic as discovering I’ve so many relatives!”

  “Yes, well, perhaps you’re right.”

  India took in Dr. Child’s tension, the way the lines had deepened on her face.

  “It can’t be that bad,” India said.

  Dr. Child looked away. “Will you be in Sydney for a while? Perhaps you could come back next week.”

  India thought of Mikey, then Scotto, and the unfolding story of Karamyde Cosmetics. “I’m not sure where I’ll be tomorrow, let alone in a week.”

  “Oh dear. I rather hoped …”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, what I have to tell you could be somewhat emotionally devastating.”

  “It’s that serious?”

  Dr. Child shifted her fragile weight and gripped the edges of her desk as though steeling herself for a natural disaster. “Lauren was also searching for your brother.”

  “My what?”

  Dr. Child said, “Toby was born on December the fifteenth—”

  “And two days later he died in hospital.” India was surprised at how belligerent she sounded.

  “That’s what your parents told you.”

  India felt as though her brain was staring to seize up. “Are you telling me Toby’s alive?”

  “As far as we know, yes. Unfortunately we’re having trouble tracing him. Your mother gave him to your grandmother Rose, to look after, but …” She paused uncomfortably. “Sadly Rose lost him. He had a progression of foster homes, five in four years, I believe. His last caseworker reported that he misbehaved continually. Silly pranks … he seemed to like scaring people. For example, he’d catch spiders and let them loose at inappropriate times. Toby was ejected from his last home at the age of eight. We lost track of him then.” Easing her frail body from the chair, Dr. Child walked around the desk and into the living room next door. She returned with a bottle of red wine, a corkscrew and two glasses. “Be a dear and open it for me.”

  India was only too glad. She’d never needed a drink so badly. She drank her glass of wine in three steady gulps.

  “So,” said Dr. Child. “You have a whole new family.”

  India poured herself another glass, downed it and topped it up, then sat there twirling her wineglass slowly between her thumb and forefinger. She was aware of the stem of crystal but she felt suspended and detached, as though she were aboard a space shuttle drifting in eternal weightlessness above the earth. “Where are they?” she asked quietly.

  “They come from an outback town in northwest New South Wales. Cooinda.”

  “I’ve been in Cooinda for the past fortnight,” she said faintly. “There was one family of Tremains in the phone book. They’re from New Zealand. I couldn’t find any more.”

  Dr. Child hesitated, but only for a second. “Your mother lied about her maiden name. It wasn’t Tremain. It was Mullett.”

  India gazed motionless at Dr. Child, who continued, “In October, Lauren undertook some investigative work in Cooinda and discovered your mother had lied about her maiden name. Your mother, Mary, was the second daughter of Bertie Mullett and Rose Dundas. When she was in her teens, Mary turned her back on her family and moved to Sydney, where she married your father.”

  “I don’t believe this,” India said.

  “Have you heard of the stolen generation?”

  India managed a nod.

  “I have a photograph of your grandfather, sent to us by Link-Up. Link-Up provides family tracing, reunion and support for forcibly removed children and their families.” Dr. Child paused to let this sink in. “Would you like to see what your grandfather looks like?”

  “He’s black,” said India faintly. “Bertie Mullett is black.”

  “Yes, he is Aboriginal.”

  “Lauren was searching for Bertie when she was murdered.”

  “She was also searching for Toby. Because he is, unfortunately, one of the stolen generation. Unlike you and Mary, he was born very dark, but his skin lightened after the first year …”

  Suddenly the reason why her father had gone berserk that long-ago Christmas became clear to India; it wasn’t a case of being overwhelmed by grief at Toby’s death, it was because his son was black.

  TWENTY

  INDIA LAY IN THE DOUBLE BED IN DR. CHILD’S SPARE ROOM. She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t keep her eyes closed for more than a few seconds at a time. The same thought bounced around her head like a superball and wouldn’t let her rest.

  I’m black.

  Well, quarter-black. But it explained why she had skin the color of caramel, and hair that was thick and springy and black as jet. Little questions she’d had all her life were beginning to be answered: why she rarely burned in the sun, why her limbs were so straight and long.

  She thought of the chart Dr. Child had showed her, and all those names—her relatives. Rose Dundas, daughter of a sheep farmer, married Bertie Mullett in 1955. They had six children, the second being India’s mother, Mary, who left Cooinda and married a policeman. Mary eventually settled in Sydney’s northern suburb of Dee Why. Bertie’s eldest son, Jimmy, was born in 1957, married Nellie and had three children: Victor, Clive, and Rhona. Rhona married a man called Greg Cooper and they had five children: Albert, Bobby, Ray, Hannah, and Rosie. Clive was single but had a daughter called Polly. Victor married Lizzie and had two children: Louis and Clara.

  Polly.

  India slid out of bed and padded downstairs. Streetlights laid orange marks across the kitchen table, the cool blue floor tiles. The big station clock above the cooker gave the time as a quarter to three. She closed the door, turned on the light. Squinted as her eyes adjusted. She unrolled the chart Geraldine had shown her earlier, using salt and pepper shakers, a packet of muesli and a bag of flour to secure it. Wonderingly, she ran a palm over the paper. Dr. Child had told her Lauren had taken a copy to Cooinda. Planned to wrap it in red paper, with a gold-red blow. My relatives, sixty-two of them. My Christmas present from Lauren.

  She gazed at the name Polly Cooper for a long time. Was this distant cousin the Polly she knew? She couldn’t remember Polly’s surname. Could it be Cooper?

  You betcha.

  Lauren?

  Who the hell eke would it be?

  I’m half-black, you know. Isn’t that weird?

  Not half as weird as some folk here, believe you me. How’re things going? Caught the guy who did it yet?

  I’m working on it.<
br />
  Well, get your bum in gear, babe, I want you to chew ass.

  Lauren, is Polly a blood relative?

  Who gives a monkey’s? Either you like the girl or you don’t.

  I like her, Lauren. I like her a lot.

  Then you’re her relative. Blood doesn’t mean shit. Remember that, hon, when the time comes.

  India jerked upright, unsure if she had been dreaming.

  Holy shit. The superball bounced back. I’m black.

  The following morning she and Mikey were stuck in traffic at Bondi Junction. The road was being dug up and had caused a traffic jam half a kilometer long. Mikey had stayed the night with an old cop friend of his at the southern end of Bondi and she’d collected him, as agreed, at eight o’clock. They’d had croissants and coffee in the Lamrock cafe overlooking the beach, which India had thought was fabulous and said so.

  “But it’s crap,” Mikey had said, expression bewildered. “It’s full of fast-food outlets and money-scrimping backpackers and overpriced apartments—”

  “It’s so big!” she exclaimed. “Look at all that space and sky, right in the center of a major city. And look at the surf!”

  Mikey had sent the breakers a disparaging look. “Small bananas.”

  “Regular small bananas,” she said. “Look at the hordes of surfers out there.”

  “The only good thing about this place is its shark attacks.”

  She sent him an alarmed look.

  He tapped the cocktail list. “Shark Attack. Best Bloody Mary you’ll find anywhere in the world.”

  Now India wished she were still in the cool of that cafe. The Ford’s air-conditioning had packed up and she was uncomfortably sticky in the heat. Surely, she thought, if I’m Aboriginal, I should like this heat. Shouldn’t I?

  “India, what is it?”

  “What’s what?”

  “You suddenly looked … I don’t know, out of sorts. Like you don’t feel well.”

  She squirmed in her seat. The temporary lights changed to amber, then green. The queue of cars and trucks began to move.

  “Mikey,” India began cautiously, “you know Jed’s a lost child … Well, he joked about my skin. The color of it. How I could be an Aborigine.”

  Mikey looked blank for a second, then frowned. “I bet he didn’t realize you’d be insulted. He’d have been teasing.”

  “I wasn’t insulted,” India said indignantly.

  “So what’s your problem then?”

  “Listen,” she said fretfully. “You know I saw Dr. Child yesterday. Well, she’s a genealogist—”

  “Ah, I see.” Mikey engaged a gear, inched forward. “Does this mean that India Kane is Lady Kane of the Round Table, or the garter … which is it?”

  “Neither.” Something in her voice silenced him with that one word.

  There was a long pause.

  Her heart was beating a little faster, and she felt ridiculously nervous. “My name is Mullett,” she finally said, and in a fit of insanity wanted to add: “India Mullett” in a James Bond tone.

  For a second Mikey’s foot came off the accelerator and the car slowed. The vehicle behind blasted its horn.

  “Bertie Mullett is my grandfather.”

  Mikey went completely silent. He pressed on, past the traffic lights and down Oxford Street. Turned right into the heart of the chic suburb of Paddington and drove past its antique and homeware shops, boutiques, cafes, bars and pubs. They were in Hargrave Street when suddenly he took a deep breath and started laughing.

  It was the last thing she expected. “Look, I’m sorry, but I honestly don’t see the funny side of it.”

  “Oh … oh, God, I’m an idiot!” He clapped a hand to his forehead. “I mean, everyone knows Abos love hanging around the bush at night with no clothes on! I should have guessed then!” He gave her a look he’d give Polly; one of exasperated affection. She wasn’t sure whether she welcomed it or not.

  He leaned across and patted her knee. “Black and white or pink or purple, you’re simply the person you are, and don’t forget that.”

  Surprised, she said, “Thanks,” and watched him calmly run a red light before diving left along New South Head Road and then right toward Darling Point. He pulled up outside a neat block of apartments overlooking the harbor. “I’ll see you at one,” he said, leaving the engine running as he got out. “If I don’t turn up, report me missing, presumed garrotted.”

  She felt the horror show in her face. “I thought you were seeing Rodney’s wife?”

  Mikey grinned. “I am. But it sure got a reaction from you.”

  She stuck out her tongue at him before she drove away.

  India parked the car right outside the address Catherine Buchanan-Atkins had given her where she could keep an eye on it. From the looks of this neighborhood it wouldn’t be wise to leave a vehicle unattended.

  She rang the bell of a dilapidated semidetached house and stepped back. A dog started barking inside, then the door was flung open.

  “What?” demanded an angry-looking woman of about India’s age and height. She had bloodshot eyes and reeked of beer.

  India’s smile evaporated.

  “I’m looking for Jinny. Louis Mullett’s girlfriend.”

  “She scarpered ages back.”

  “What about Louis, he still around?”

  “He buggered off months ago. She wouldn’t stop her bloody crying. Went looking for him at Central, haven’t seen her since. Glad she left, miserable cow.”

  “Are any of their relatives around? Any other Mulletts?”

  The woman belched, scratched her belly. “Whole bunch scarpered together. Bought themselves a property out bush. Hadn’t the money to pay for it, mind, but that didn’t seem to bother them. Louis spoke about some weird job getting paid for taking drugs.”

  “Where’s the property they bought?”

  “Middle of bloody nowhere. Near Biloella.” She suddenly looked suspicious. “Whatcha want to know for?”

  “I’m a relative of theirs—”

  The woman slammed the door in India’s face.

  India stood looking at the doorbell. The dog continued to bark. A truck roared past, belching blue smoke. India worked up her nerve and raised a finger, let it hover over the bell.

  She jumped when the door was flung open and a handful of mail was thrust at her. “Jinny’s. You’re a relly of hers, you can have ’em.” The door slammed shut again.

  India read the letters as she walked. Three were from a school friend of Jinny’s, the rest from Louis. They were love letters. Short, painstakingly written in capitals, and heartrending in their simplicity, they spanned a period of two years. The most recent was dated the seventh of July this year. It appeared to be the last.

  Not gone long. Back quick. Wish words could tell what in my head. My body. Want you. Love you. Smell you.

  None of them gave any indication Louis was disenchanted with his lover in any way. Pocketing the letters, India continued walking to Central Station.

  It took her over an hour of scouting the station and the surrounding area, asking questions, before she hit on success. A taxi driver remembered seeing a dozen or so Aborigines hanging about on the steps of the station around July-August time, and being surprised when a new-looking white transit van had collected them. He’d expected them to be moved on by the police, not chauffeur-driven by a college-looking white bloke.

  The taxi driver talked to his mates, who had by now gathered around India like bees to a honey pot, and she gleaned the information that small groups of Aborigines used to gather outside the station fairly regularly.

  No, they hadn’t seen any lately.

  Yeah, mostly last year. Every two months or so, there’d be a bunch of them hanging about.

  Yeah, a van usually picked ’em up. Yeah, reckon the last lot would’ve been November time. Early November, mind. Maybe even late October.

  Nah, wouldn’t know the rego of the van. It was white though, with a crumpled wing on the
driver’s side.

  India thanked them, walked away. Her throat felt tight, her eyes scratchy as she consolidated what she’d learned. The Mulletts had answered a printed advertisement, gone to Central Station as arranged by the advertiser, climbed aboard a white transit van and vanished. Her family. Vanished.

  India headed towards the Opera House. Circular Quay was crowded with tourists arriving off the ferries, and already people were staking their claim for the best vantage points to view the fireworks later on. Restlessly, she waited outside the Sydney Cove Oyster Bar, shaded by palms and white umbrellas. Tall purple and yellow flags fluttered in a slight breeze.

  She scanned the street. A black Ford with tinted windows nudged its way through the crowds and around litter bins and benches. Must be a VIP, she thought, or an unmarked cop car. All traffic had been discouraged from entering the city since first thing that morning and the streets, although full of people, were virtually empty of vehicles.

  India noticed a swatch of sun-bleached hair through the crowd and felt an immediate fizz of excitement, but it wasn’t Scotto. Shifting from foot to foot, she tried to quell her agitation.

  “You look like a kid.” She heard Mikey’s voice behind her. “Itchy with excitement.”

  “He’s late,” she said.

  “I am too.”

  People were pouring past her. India was craning over the mob, looking for blond heads. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the black Ford sliding closer and was about to check it out when, striding into view, came Scotto.

  He had lost weight and his jeans hung loosely on his hips. His face was longer than she remembered. He carried a briefcase in one hand and his expression was withdrawn. His eyes flicked across to the oyster bar, over India. Then they clicked back, and he looked straight at her. He smiled. A broad wide smile of delight that banished his earlier glum expression and filled his face with warmth.

  India plunged into the crowd.

  “Scotto!” she yelled.

  He started for her. Panting with excitement, she dodged and skidded around the mass moving relentlessly towards the Opera House. Bouncing up, she could see Scotto being drawn to her, and she grinned. Then she saw a black shape pull up just behind him. She felt the first inkling of something wrong.