The bus shelters were heavily graffitied and a good few of the graffitists were hanging about-loose clothes, big sneakers, caps reversed. Many of them had dark faces and some had the big, bulky Polynesian build. There were a lot of young children in the streets and a lot of women pushing prams. Another sign of disadvantage-almost half of the women and children were fat.
Nobody paid me much attention as I wandered around: too occupied with their own concerns. I strolled across some scruffy parkland to a low brick building where there seemed to be some activity and sound. As I got closer I could hear the singing. It had that tuneful, plaintive note I'd heard in Fiji and New Caledonia in my few Pacific sojourns.
I went as close as I could without intruding and saw that the hall inside was packed with Islanders, men, women and children, being led in song by one of their own. Unlike them, he was wearing smart clothes that didn't conceal that he was enormously fat. Sweat glistened on his bald head, and when he raised his arms I could see dark patches. At this rate his suit was going to need dry-cleaning after every singsong.
When you hear the singing in the islands, you seem to be able to catch the sound of the sea on the reef and the wind in the palm trees. Not here. All the cadences were of the Pacific, but the words were from a militant Christian hymn, promising salvation for the faithful and misery for sinners. It reminded me of the Methodist Sunday school my father had vainly tried to make me attend. I went once, and every time thereafter nicked off to the beach and spent the collection plate money on lollies.
The commercial hub of Liston was a long, low-slung building on the edge of the open space fronted by a car park that wouldn't have held fifty cars. I parked and walked down steps to the building that resembled an extra long and wide Nissan hut partitioned to form shops. There was a liquor outlet at the east end but it was shut and heavily padlocked. A sign warned that alcohol was not permitted to be consumed on the premises or in the adjacent area. At the other end was a health centre where about twenty people were congregated. I could hear coughing and babies crying.
The shopping precinct boasted a takeaway food shop, a video store, a newsagent, a supermarket and a couple of small shops that looked like Pacific island trade stores with goods piled up and hanging as if there was no real expectation of them being sold. I could smell cooking going on at the back of one of these shops. None of the shops were doing much business. There was a lot of litter and a carpet of cigarette butts on the cement surrounds.
The community protection office was next to the supermarket. The window was covered with notices- appointment times for a JP, Crime Stoppers and Neighbourhood Watch stickers, advertisements for alternative medicines, whacko therapies of different kinds and religious attractions. The glass in the window was clean and the area in front of the office had recently been thoroughly swept. Looking through the open door I saw two desks with people behind them and someone on a chair in front of each. There were a few more people in the room waiting their turn. I went in and leaned against the wall. There were noticeboards carrying flyers for community meetings, garage sales and work wanted. On one board three familiar documents jumped out at me-the standard police notice with a photograph of a missing person. Two females, one male, ages from twelve to fifteen. The notices weren't new.
Both people behind the desk were Islanders, a woman and a man. The man fitted the description of John Manuma that Terri Boxall had given me. He was talking in a low voice to another Islander. I couldn't hear what he was saying but it didn't matter because he wasn't speaking English. The woman was dealing with a white woman and they appeared to be discussing the advisability or otherwise of an AVO. Of the three other people waiting in the room, two were dark; I made it an even split. With my olive skin darkened by the sun, my nose flattened by boxing and professional hazards and my scarred eyebrows, I'd often been taken for Aboriginal. Not by Kooris, though.
The woman became free after dealing with three clients quickly, and beckoned to me.
'Thanks,' I said. 'But if that's Mr Manuma I have business specifically with him.'
The big man glanced up quickly but went on with what he was saying.
'Okay,' the woman said and waved a man who'd come in after me forward.
Raised voices and the sound of a scuffle brought Manuma to his feet. He was a giant, over 200 centimetres and heavy in the upper body and legs. He strode through the door and I moved after him to watch. Two men, one white, one black, were shouting abuse at each other while a dark woman with two clinging children stood by looking anxious. A white woman was egging the black man on.
'Fuckin' do 'im, Archie,' she yelled. 'Fuckin' cunt.'
Archie lurched forward, clearly not sober, and threw a punch the other man easily avoided. Manuma shouted something and an Islander woman emerged from one of the shops, clapped her hand over the white woman's mouth and wrestled her away. Manuma grabbed both men by their long hair, lifted them from the ground and brought their heads together. It's not something you see very often, if ever. The effect on both of being treated so contemptuously was more shocking than painful. The fight went out of them and they stumbled away in different directions.
It surprised me that no crowd had gathered. Evidently such conflicts were a common occurrence and Manuma's summary justice not unusual. Nevertheless, the incident prompted a feeling of tension and I noticed that the outnumbered whites waiting outside at the medical centre moved slightly away from the dark people.
Manuma returned to his seat and to his discussion with his client as if nothing had happened. When he was free he nodded at me and I took a seat. 'John Manuma,' he said without offering to shake hands. 'What can I do for you, Mr Hardy?'
6
Terri Boxall phoned me about you.'
Now we shook hands. As well as being taller than Terri had said, he had considerably more than a hundred kilos with it. He wasn't particularly friendly and his big, broad face wore a sceptical look as I gave him a version of the story.
'Lot of people out here, brother. Lot of coming and going.'
I read off the address where Lou had talked to Billie Marchant. I'd driven past it-indistinguishable from dozens of others, perhaps a bit more rundown looking than most. 'D'you know the people there now?'
He shook his massive head. 'Nothing comes to mind.'
'Terri said she thought you'd be helpful.'
'She shouldn't have said that without me hearing your story first.'
'You've heard it now.'
'Yes, and I reckon it's a lot of nothing. I don't think there's anything here for you, Mr Hardy.'
He gave me a hard stare, then looked over my head at whoever was next in line. Not hard for him to do; sitting down, he was bigger than me in every way. His hands, on the paper-strewn desk, were the colour of teak and the size of shovel blades. He oozed impatience and aggression, and the combination lifted me out of the chair as if a hook had taken me by the collar and swung me aside. It was a new experience-being dismissed with a curiously strong element of indifference. I left the room struggling to maintain dignity.