‘It’s privately owned and managed,’ the woman said. ‘Like the ones in Queensland.’
Eileen skimmed the pamphlet. There were artist’s impressions of long, narrow buildings laid out in the form of a hexagon, the open ground in the middle crisscrossed with sheltered walkways. There were smudges that were trees and several lines of cheery text about the philosophy of the place. American and Australian money was behind it. ‘You learn something new every day,’ Eileen said. ‘What are the screws like in a place like this?’
The woman put her little hands together in her lap and tightened her little mouth. ‘We don’t call them screws, we call them-’
‘A screw’s a screw,’ Rossiter said, then stopped, irritated with himself for getting involved. Eileen cut in: ‘When can we visit him?’
‘Tomorrow morning, if you like.’
Ross said no, so on Thursday morning Eileen drove herself in the VW. The Bolte Remand Centre was on a grassy plain west of the city, close to Melton, close to muddied tracts of land where unsold houses reproduced themselves among billboards, snakes of bitumen and ribbons of new kerbing. But there were also established estates with Hills Hoists in the backyards, cars in the carports, tricycles on the pockets of lawn, and Eileen guessed that those people had things to say, living right next door to a prison.
She saw the razor wire first, coiled around the perimeter fence, viciously reflecting the sun. There were several inner fences, heavy gates, then the low buildings with their corrugated roofs and barred windows, everything new looking, all metal, no wood anywhere and no grass to speak of. What she really hated, what she could feel winding and slicing around her body, was the razor wire. It was slung across fences and at ground level around the buildings as if someone had opened a lid on a box of evil objects.
It took her forty-eight minutes to pass through to the visiting room. Inside the Bolte it was one door after another and all of them heavy, locked. There were screws for escorting, screws for buzzing the doors open, screws for poking around in your handbag, patting you down, running a metal detector over you. The screws seemed more dead than alive, but sullen and dangerous with it. They were overweight, and if they spoke the accents were Pommie. One man ran his metal detector idly over the brass end of a fire hose, and the squawl set Eileen’s nerves on end. He did it again, he did it ten times while Eileen waited to be buzzed through. There were plenty of people milling around, Eileen didn’t know who they were, and for some reason none of them minded that hellish sound.
She waited at a plastic table, plastic so you couldn’t brain anyone with it. There were wives, sweethearts, a couple of whole families in the visiting room. Niall swaggered, curling his lip, as he came in from the cells, but when he saw her he dropped the act and she could see the anxiety under it. There were others like him in the Bolte, a brotherhood of skinheads, so she hoped there were people to protect him in the showers, but still, under it all he was only twenty-one. Like half the men in the place he wore shorts, blue stubbies, work boots and an institution-brown windcheater. She leaned over and kissed him. ‘Hello, son.’
‘Good on you, Mum. The old man wouldn’t stir himself?’
‘He’ll get over it.’
‘He must have a short memory. He’s done more time than I’ll ever do.’
‘You can see his point, though, son. What possessed you to wave that crossbow around?’
‘Fuckin’ wog had it coming.’
Eileen let it go. ‘They should’ve given you bail.’
Then Niall’s face crumpled. ‘I can’t stick it, Mum. Not again.’ He grabbed her forearm and dropped his voice. ‘Can’t we give them Wyatt? You know, don’t let on to the old man we’ve done it? Christ, Wyatt should be worth every bloke in here and half the blokes in Pentridge.’
Eileen put her hand over his. She’d been playing with this idea herself.
‘He’s got to be putting a job together,’ Niall went on. ‘He didn’t come around just to apologise and chat about old times.’
Eileen knew exactly what Wyatt had in mind. Ross had let it slip. Late at night, in the comfort and darkness, his bony flank cushioned against her, Ross liked to murmur to her, end-of-the-day murmuring, after love and before sleep, expressing hopes and doubts. It was something they’d done together since the first night. Pushing down her guilt, Eileen said, ‘I think you could be right.’
Niall said in a rush, ‘Look, have a word with Napper. Tell him I want out of remand straight away and I want a suspended sentence.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better if you talked to him yourself?’
‘Christ, no.’ Niall leaned back, folded his arms. ‘My reputation would be shot if I did that. If the others knew he’d been here they’d think I’m dogging them and I’d wake up with a shank in my guts. Has to be you, Mum.’
Eileen closed her eyes, picturing a biro with a razor melted into the end of it, a canteen fork with a sharpened handle. Just then a loudspeaker crackled into life. It was unintelligible but prisoners were standing and screws were coming into the room, so Eileen knew her time was up. ‘Not a word of this to Dad.’
‘Mum,’ Niall said, ‘you have to get Napper onto this straight away.’
She left the prison. The heartache in her son’s face and voice had Eileen chafing in frustration at every one of the doors and gates, every one of the dozy screws that passed for human beings in that place.
Sixteen
Two days ago Napper had been hassled by his solicitor, then by a whole lot of women snapping wet towels at his legs. This morning his ex-wife’s solicitor had had a go at him, ringing him at work, reminding him of the court order, reminding him he was nine thousand bucks behind. So now Napper was knocking on a door in Richmond, a move he hoped would help him reduce that nine thousand.
The house was owned by a man called Malan and it presented a face full of bluster and threat. ‘No trespassing’ and ‘protected by electronic surveillance’ stickers were plastered to the fence, gate, windows and doors, and, judging by the sounds coming from inside, the front door had been triple-locked. As if that would keep the junkies out. Napper waited.
Malan opened the door. He was slight, greying, pursing unhappy lips in a wedge-shaped head. His face always seemed out of kilter to Napper, as if something on it was missing or lacking in size. ‘Councillor Malan himself,’ Napper said. ‘Just the man I want to see.’
Malan regarded him carefully. ‘What about?’
‘Business.’
Malan stepped aside and extended his arm into the hall. The house smelt of hot stale air. Napper saw four cats in the doorway, come to see who had arrived. Cat fur was caught in the hall rug. Malan led the way to a back room and waited while Napper sat down before sitting himself. ‘What do you want?’
‘I don’t know if you remember our little talk a while back,’ Napper said. ‘That ALP fundraising bash?’
‘I remember it.’
Malan was being sour and wary, so Napper held up a calming hand. ‘Take it easy, old son. I’m not here to arrest you.’
‘It was just talk,’ Malan said. ‘I was drunk. You haven’t got a thing to arrest me on.’
Napper glanced around the dim room. ‘You need a skylight in here.’ He sorted idly through some leaflets and magazines in the rack next to his chair. ‘Ah, here we are.’ It was a handbill. It read Stop the Asian Invasion.
Malan said, ‘Somebody slipped it under the door.’
‘Sure they did.’
Malan scowled. ‘Spit it out, Napper.’
Napper rested his forearms on his knees and butted his big head into the space between them. ‘You remember how you told me Eddie Ng has got the numbers to make mayor next month?’
Malan nodded curtly.
‘Well, I’ ve been reading the local rag, listening around the local waterholes. I reckon you’re right.’
‘Boat people own half of Victoria Street,’ Malan said passionately. ‘Now they want to take over local government.’
‘Exactly,’ Napper said. ‘I mean, where will it end?’
Malan said nothing. They were watching each other. Napper spoke first. ‘What are your chances of making mayor, if Councillor Ng was out of the running?’