Blood Junction Read online

  They all rose, the judge left and India sank back on the bench between Jerome and a constable with downy-blond stubble like rabbit fur. The constable gave her a sympathetic grimace. He crimped a cuff around her wrist for the trip back to jail.

  Tears trembled in her eyes, then spilled down her cheeks. She didn’t want to cry, hadn’t cried for as long as she could remember, but the strain and fatigue of the last two days had left her with an overwhelming sensation of grief and defeat. Jerome passed her a cream cotton handkerchief. He stood up, patted her distractedly on the shoulder and walked out of the courtroom. At the far end of the room she saw a young man watching her. He was the only spectator. She looked away. She felt like a small child as she clutched Jerome’s hanky in her sweaty fist. The constable tugged on her arm and led her outside.

  The following morning India was sitting on her bunk, staring helplessly at the newspapers on her lap. Whitelaw had brought them, and seemed to be waiting for her reaction. She was the main story. She was HEADLINE NEWS. Her face, blown up grainy and gray from her passport photograph, took up most of the front pages. Like most passport photographs it was unflattering, and her pointed chin seemed sharper, her dark curly hair wilder, her nose longer and eyes black as pits and as emotionless.

  Beautiful India Kane in Cooinda custody … Melbourne journalist held on suspicion of murder … Jealous woman accused of killing best friend and her lover …

  The Goodmans were reported as being “shocked” and “appalled” at the fate of their house guests. What Lauren’s parents were thinking, God alone knew. India thought of Sylvia’s cheery voice on the phone.

  “They’ve already found me guilty,” India said, her tone subdued.

  “Not everyone believes what they read in the papers.”

  “Don’t you?”

  When he didn’t reply, she looked up at him. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  Whitelaw looked away and took a step back. He folded his arms across his chest.

  “You know I’m innocent, don’t you?” She felt a rush of energy and jumped to her feet. She barely noticed the newspapers sliding to the floor. “Let me go! You can do that, can’t you?”

  “No, I can’t. It’s not only Stan who refuses to accept that Frank Goodman’s your alibi but Judge—”

  “But you’re a detective! If you think I’m innocent, I shouldn’t be here!”

  “Keep your voice down,” he hissed. With a shock she saw sweat beaded on his brow.

  “Jesus Christ, Whitelaw, what the hell’s going on? What’s put the wind up you? Is there a police conspiracy going down or what?”

  He walked to the cell gate and shouted for Donna.

  “Whitelaw,” she said warningly. “This is my third day in this jail.”

  He didn’t respond but waited until Donna had unlocked the gate, let him through and locked it behind him. He turned his head slightly towards India. “Anything I can get you?”

  “A cake with a file in it.”

  Whitelaw walked away without looking back.

  Face pressed against the bars, India watched him follow Donna down the corridor. Think positive, she told herself. Whitelaw thinks you’re innocent. Don’t think about why he won’t or can’t help you right now. You’ve a friend on the inside. That’s got to be good.

  She turned her mind to her friend on the outside, Tom Worthington, and wondered whether he’d found Scotto. Without his help she stood little chance of regaining her freedom. She had discovered that banks didn’t care to loan money to someone charged with murder and whose address was Cooinda jail.

  Dispirited, she went and slumped back on her bunk. She couldn’t face the newspapers, so she lay down and tried to sleep.

  Whitelaw returned two hours later. He gave her a handful of books and put a poinsettia beside her bunk. India was astonished.

  “Is this an apology?”

  He turned the poinsettia a fraction so the petals faced into the cell.

  “Whitelaw?”

  “We can’t talk here.” His voice was low.

  “Shall I get Donna to take me to the Ladies’? Then you can—”

  “We can’t. Not in the station.”

  She digested this along with his anxiety. “Okay, I get the message.” She inhaled deeply and exhaled several times. She rotated her shoulders to ease the tension in her neck. A bone popped audibly. “I need a massage,” she said. “Or maybe shiatsu. Any massage parlors in Cooinda, Detective?”

  He gave her a small smile and said, “Not in particular, but there is Susie.”

  “Ah. Susie. Fill me in, will you? It’s not like I’ve anywhere to go, after all.”

  As they talked, India began to wonder what the hell was going on. And why the plant? It was positively bizarre that one of the investigative officers was chatting away to her, a felon, let alone buying her gifts. After a while she watched Whitelaw’s unease gradually dissipate. He showed her the books he’d brought, including one called The Lost Generation. “Might help you understand how Australia ticks,” he said.

  “How come the plant? Do you have a predilection for poinsettias?”

  “I didn’t want you to forget Christmas is around the corner.”

  “I’m not a fan of Christmas,” India replied, “but it was a nice thought.”

  He pulled a mock-shocked face. “What, are you telling me you’re not a Christian?”

  “No less than anyone else.” She gave a shrug.

  “I’m not a fan either,” he admitted. “It’s the family thing, I guess.”

  “Don’t you get on with your family?” she asked, curious, ever the journalist.

  He looked around as though debating how to redecorate the cell. “I don’t have a family. Christmas simply reminds me …” His expression darkened.

  “Surely you must have some family?”

  “Nope. Not a single one.”

  “Are they dead?”

  “I wouldn’t be able to say. I was stolen when I was four years old.”

  India looked at him, shocked. “Who on earth stole you?”

  He stared at the ceiling. “The Australian government.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t get it. Why did they steal you?”

  “Not just me. About a hundred thousand Aboriginal children were taken from their parents and either put in care or adopted by white families. Which looks okay on the surface considering a lot of kids were being abused or their parents were incapable of caring for them. But some folks had a very real plan to wipe out the entire Aboriginal race, to ‘breed us white.’”

  Appalled, India said, “I’d heard something … There were articles about it in the papers back home, but I had no idea of the scale.”

  He indicated the book he’d brought. “That’ll tell you all about it, if you’re interested. It’s harrowing though. A lot of the kids were used as the sexual toys of the outback … by missionaries, clergymen, nuns …” He took in her expression, gave a sad smile. “I was one of the lucky ones. Sure, I got shunted around for a while—I was an awkward bastard—but then a solicitor and his wife in Sydney adopted me and kept me for good. It was fashionable to have a mixed-race baby and they were one of the few who really cared about their adopted child.”

  “I hope you don’t mind my saying that you’re very dark. You look full-blooded, not mixed race.”

  “Aborigines can also have very light skin.” Whitelaw looked across at her with a glint of amusement. “You could easily be an Abo with your coloring. Sure you weren’t a lost child?”

  “Is that what you’re called? Lost children?”

  “Officially, we’re known as the stolen generation.”

  “How sad.”

  “Genocide usually is.”

  EIGHT

  IT WAS SEVEN P.M. AND INDIA HAD JUST REACHED THE END of her chapter when a shadow moved outside her cell. She immediately dropped the book on the bed as she recognized the large figure clutching a greasy paper bag in his right hand.

  “Steak sandw
ich all right?”

  Her mouth watered as the smell of fresh onion and warm bread and steak hit her nostrils. “Albert, you are an absolute peach, feeding me like this.”

  “And Polly’s brung dessert.”

  The young girl crept into view, her dress hanging limply, her skin mottled with dust. In her hand was a chipped china plate of Lamingtons: floury yellow cakes topped with sickly chocolate icing and a sprinkling of dessicated coconut.

  India looked at Polly, who shrank behind Albert. Given half the chance she would be living outside the cell. India found the puppy-like devotion hard to take and last night she’d almost snapped, told her to find someone else to cling on to. Polly had sensed her irritability and fled.

  “I love Lamingtons,” India lied, and felt ashamed when Polly flashed Albert a proud smile. “Come on, guys,” she said, “don’t just stand there, pass them through!”

  With Albert and Polly watching her, India devoured her steak sandwich. She was working her way bravely through one of Polly’s revolting Lamingtons when Whitelaw appeared. He stared at her as if she were eating boiled sheep’s eyes—she had informed him only yesterday she’d rather starve than eat a Lamington.

  “I thought you said you loathed them,” said the detective.

  Instantly Polly looked crestfallen.

  “I love them,” India said earnestly. The girl’s face split into a broad smile.

  Whitelaw turned to Albert and Polly and shooed them away. When they were out of earshot, he said bluntly, “Your bail came through.”

  India nearly choked. “What?”

  “It came through, the full two hundred and fifty thousand, in cash. About half an hour ago.”

  She sat there dumbly, plate on her lap, unable to take it in.

  “Jerome asked me to tell you your trial’s set for January fifth. In the meantime, you can’t leave the town.” He gave her a wry smile. “You can’t leave the country either. We’re going to hold on to your passport.”

  She put the plate on her bunk, got slowly to her feet. “Who paid my bail? Was it Scotto? Is he here?”

  “No, it wasn’t him.”

  Whitelaw appeared discomfited.

  “Was it you?”

  He gave a bark of startled laughter. “What, on my pay?”

  “Who then?”

  “A Mr. Arthur Knight paid it.”

  “Who the hell’s Arthur Knight?”

  “Well, he’s the man who’s stumped up the cash, which means you’re free to go.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Whitelaw unlocked the cell door. “How about you ask Jerome? He arranged it. He’ll know who the guy is.”

  “Yes. Good idea. Yes, I’ll do that.”

  She was still off balance as they walked into reception. Perhaps Tom had gotten a message to Scotto and Arthur Knight was his solicitor? That had to be it, surely. She had no other friends who could raise that sort of cash in under twenty-four hours, even if they wanted.

  Whitelaw paused at the reception desk. Constable Crawshaw, rabbit-fur stubble now smoothly shaven, passed him a form and a cassette tape with a white sticker on it: KANE. “You sign for this,” Whitelaw said to India. “You also get to report to the station every day until your trial.”

  India signed where he indicated and pocketed the tape.

  The constable gave her a self-conscious smile.

  “Backpack?” said Whitelaw.

  The constable wiped the smile off his face and bent over and came around the counter to pass India her backpack.

  “Thanks,” she said. She shrugged the straps over each shoulder and settled the backpack on her back. She had an urge to run for the door but suppressed it and followed Whitelaw outside and into the softened evening heat.

  It must have been in the midseventies and the air felt like velvet on her face. She raised her head and looked at a handful of stars set against the darkening sky. She could smell meat barbecuing and hear the faint sound of music. A rush of joy soared from her belly and into her heart. Freedom.

  She gulped the air over her tongue and into her lungs. Her senses became more refined. Beef sausages and Macy Gray singing about trying to walk away from her love.

  I’ve been inside just three days, she thought, and I’m ready to burst into an insane song and dance routine. Imagine what I’d do if I’d been inside three years. She turned to Whitelaw, a grin on her face.

  He was grinning back.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “No need to thank me. Thank your bail partner.”

  Despite the heat, she gave a shiver.

  “I’m sorry your car’s impounded. Will you be okay to walk?” he asked her.

  She readjusted the backpack more comfortably on her lower back. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone.”

  India squinted through the darkness and saw the shadow that was Polly slip towards her. “It doesn’t look like I’ll get the chance,” she said. At his frown she added cheerfully, “I’ll find some champagne somewhere. Polly will know where to take me.”

  The girl took India’s hand. It was sticky, but India found herself squeezing the small fingers gently, finding the contact a comfort.

  “I’ll look after her,” Polly said shyly to Whitelaw.

  “Okay,” he said, and made a vague gesture with his hand before letting it drop to his side. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  Polly tugged India along the street, past its fibro houses and utes parked in driveways. Nearly every window sported a plastic Christmas tree, blazing with colored bulbs, and most doors were hung with garlands imported from China and Korea. One house had lights strung around its windows and front door as if declaring itself proud to be a happy family home. India glanced inside as they passed but the rooms were empty.

  She found her joyful mood evaporating as she walked with Polly through the muffled streets. A humorless little voice inside her kept saying, “Happy Christmas.” Other horrendous Christmases began parading past her eyes: her little brother, Toby, dying the week before Christmas, her mother’s fatal heart attack on Christmas Eve, her pet dog having to be put down the week after Christmas.

  And now Lauren, two weeks from Christmas, was dead.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” said Polly, stubbornly tugging India’s hand and trying to drag her past the Royal Hotel’s front entrance.

  “They seemed nice. They’ve vacancies. Look, it says ‘newly renovated charming single and double rooms available.’”

  “Not the Royal. Please.”

  “Polly, I’m knackered. All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep for a week.”

  “Come home with me.”

  “You told me it’s over three hours’ walk away. I don’t have the energy.”

  “This ain’t a good place to stop.”

  Polly tugged once more and India, in one abrupt movement, yanked her hand free. “I’m staying here tonight.”

  There was a smell of polish in the foyer. Through the open doorway that gave on to the bar, she saw a man with spiky red hair drink his Scotch straight down and then push the glass to be refilled. “Give me a pack of crisps, will ya?”

  Then he glanced up and saw her. She didn’t think she recognized him, but he obviously knew her.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  The barmaid’s fleshy face peered around the door and looked at her carefully. “I’d beat it if I was you,” Debs advised.

  “All I want is a room. Just for tonight.”

  “Hey, guys,” Spiky Hair said over his shoulder. “Lookey who’s here.”

  He was quickly joined by three men with alcohol-reddened faces.

  “It’s Tigers killer,” one of them said incredulously.

  “She’s got a fucking nerve.”

  “Go fetch Ken, he’ll have something to say to her, I’ll bet.”

  India picked up her backpack.

  “Sorry,” said Debs, not unkindly.

&n
bsp; Polly didn’t say a word when India joined her outside.

  After an hour of searching for accommodation and being rejected at every turn—one man even fetched his shotgun and waved it at them through his fly-screen door—they finally bought some fried chicken and chips from Albert’s cafe, and sat on the pavement to eat. It had cooled a little and the stars had gone. A breeze was stirring the dust in the gutters. India opened her carton and withdrew a crispy drumstick. Up until now Albert’s food had been spot on, but tonight her tastebuds weren’t functioning properly and it was like eating battered cardboard.

  “India …” Polly paused uncertainly.

  “What?”

  “Stan says he found a teddy bear in your backpack.” She sounded dubious, as though she shouldn’t believe what she’d heard.

  “That’s right.”

  “Why do you have him?”

  “Because sometimes he’s a comfort.”

  “But you’re grown up!”

  “That may be so, but we adults still need comforting from time to time.”

  “Can’t I have him? I don’t have any toys.”

  The miniature teddy bear was the only reminder of Lauren she had with her.

  “No. I’m sorry, you can’t”.

  Polly’s eyes filled with disappointment but India didn’t have the capacity to feel any shame or remorse. She was drained of all emotion. When they’d finished their chicken, a man came out of Albert’s and crossed the street towards them.

  “I heard you can’t find nowhere to stay,” he said. He carried a pie and a bag of chips and his face was shadowed under his Akubra hat.

  “You heard right,” India said.

  “It must be tough, having the whole town close their doors against you. Kind of rude in my opinion.”

  India shrugged.

  “How about you come and stay with me?”

  “I’m fine, but thank you anyway.”

  “I saw you in the Royal. Read the papers. Know how you feel, being shunned and all.”

  She looked up at him, wary.

  “I don’t live nowhere smart. But I’ve a sofa. So long as you don’t mind Elvis sharing with you.”