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Published by Brolga Publishing Pty Ltd ABN 46 063 962 443 PO Box 12544 A’Beckett St Melbourne, VIC, 8006 Australia |
email: [email protected]
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission from the publisher.
Copyright © 2016 Bill Robertson
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data
Author: Robertson, Bill H.
Title: Fox / Bill Robertson.
ISBN: 9781925367126 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781925367614 (ebook)
Subjects: Detective and mystery stories - Australian fiction.
A823.4
Cover design by Chameleon Print Design
Typeset by Tara Wyllie
For Bob,
My friend of decades.
Mentor, consummate historian and fearless author.
GLOSSARY OF TERMS
| Aboriginal English | The language used by Aboriginal people to identify with each other and to express an Aboriginal world view; how Aboriginal people relate to each other through body movement and language. http://www.whatworks.edu.au/4_2_1.htm |
| Kartiya | white person |
| Wadjella | white person |
| Ngarrangkarni | The Dreaming |
| Nyigiwa | tomorrow |
| Wia | no |
| Yuwii | yes |
ORIGINS
Kings will be tyrants from policy
when subjects are rebels from principle.
EDMUND BURKE
(1729 – 1797)
CHAPTER 1
1960
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
