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  Then he sauntered around to join the policeman who was rummaging in the back of the ute. Jack hissed angrily at his oldest son.

  ‘You keep your mouth shut, boy. Wanta go to jail, or somphin’? Just let ’em be boss for awhile, then we can go.’

  Clayton was surprised and hurt as well. He had thought a lot of his dad. Now the old man was crawling and cringing from these three who, after all, were just men, the same as he and his dad. ‘Come here, you! Do you have a licence for this gun?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘No, I never ’ad time to. We’re always movin’, see.’

  ‘Right, Joe, unlicensed gun, red sticker on the car. I think we ought to check this whole outfit out.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Joe, staring coldly at Jack with his unblinking, pale eyes. ‘Never know what these Abos have collected.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ the sergeant said to Jack.

  ‘Jack Little.’ He murmured and anticipating the question that always followed, ‘I only been in trouble when I was a young bloke.’

  The third man wandered over to Lennard, Arley and Clayton. He was thin and sallow, with a cynical smile playing about his lips. He seemed a little kinder than the other two, although Clayton sensed danger lurking behind his face.

  ‘Righto, son, let’s have your names.’

  Lennard gave a cheeky grin.

  ‘My name’s Jimmi ’Endrix, look. Shall I play my guitar for you?’

  ‘Very funny son, but if you don’t give me your real name now I’ll book you,’ the thin man snapped.

  Clayton didn’t even look up from the smoke he was rolling. It was about time these cops got some of their own treatment.

  ‘’Is name is Lennard Bracken Little an’ that’s Arley George, ’is brother. Lennard’s fifteen, Arley’s thirteen, an’ they never bin in trouble before. Anythin’ else you wanta know, well?’

  ‘Quite a bundle of information, young one. Now suppose you tell me what you’re smoking?’

  ‘Drum, like it says on the packet,’ Clayton smiled, full of cheek. ‘Let me check it out, shall I?’

  The policeman took the packet and thoroughly searched it. Clayton ignored him and lit his cigarette. He gave Lennard a drag, then the brothers’ dark eyes swivelled on the policeman again.

  ‘That’s all right, son. We never know what young people of today are getting up to.’

  ‘Where am I goin’ to get the money to buy dope, eh?’

  Clayton could see the man was getting angry and smiled at him again. He would show anyone he wasn’t to be pushed around.

  The thin man stared at him coldly and silently, then beckoned the boy away from the other two. He almost hissed, so the boy was suddenly scared, sensing he had gone too far.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Clayton Little.’

  ‘Ever been in trouble with the police?’

  ‘Nuh.’

  ‘Well, let’s keep it that way, shall we? What I could have done, you cheeky little smartarse, isn’t worth thinking about.’

  This last sentence was said so quietly that only Clayton heard it. He was frozen with hate and frustration.

  Meanwhile, the other two policemen had thrown the Littles’ scanty, ragged belongings all over the dusty ground. Now the sergeant held aloft a wet oatbag containing a cut-up sheep.

  ‘Well, where’d you get this?’

  ‘Mr Wilson gave it to me for work I done,’ Jack mumbled.

  ‘We’ll ask him when we take you to the station.’

  ‘Hey, what? Why for should I go to jail? I done nothin’,’ Jack protested. Lennard, the wildest of the Little sons, shouted, ‘Leave ’im alone, you shitty ole pigs!’

  The thin policeman seized him by the shirt and dragged him over to the sergeant. Clayton was about to spring at him, but Jack yelled, ‘Don’t you dare try, Clayton. It’s orright,’ he added softly, seeing the destruction of his family and not being able to do a thing about it.

  The cold blonde constable, Joe, feeling a hardness in Lennard’s back pocket, pulled out the old blunt vegetable knife.

  ‘What have we here, sarge? A dangerous weapon?’

  ‘Rightio, then. We’re taking you two in,’ the sergeant said, then jabbed a heavy finger at the sulking Clayton. ‘And just be thankful you didn’t get included, son. I hate people who annoy the police.’

  What had the Littles done to annoy them? Clayton thought. In one hour the Littles had turned from a happy family into a headless snake, twisting and writhing in agony, now that the leader of the family had gone.

  Jack and his son, were bundled into the back seat with Joe. They drove off, small, black and alone, not looking back at their destroyed family.

  As soon as they were gone, Clayton savagely kicked a battered brown case. Then he began loading up the ute, ignoring Reenie, who was crying and trying to comfort the young children. He worked in a world of his own, angry and puzzled. Then Arley’s timid voice broke through his barrier.

  ‘What we doin’, Clayton?’

  ‘We’re goin’ to go into the reserve there, in town, and find a place to stay, and wait till Dad gets out. Might be we can get some money to pay for bail or a fine or somphin’.’

  ‘You reckon Dad’ll go to jail, well?’

  Clayton didn’t answer that question. He was too upset to think what life would be like without his silent dad.

  Suddenly Reenie cried, ‘What you think you doin’, Clayton? ’Ow you think we goin’ to drive, with no one ’avin’ a licence?’

  ‘I can drive,’ Clayton said over his shoulder, then jumped, when his mother sprang for him and held him against the ute. She was still full of life and could give out a good hiding if she wanted to.

  ‘You listen to me, boy,’ she cried as the others gathered around. ‘I aren’t havin’ any more of my kids sent away. They took Dad and young Lennard, but they not takin’ you! ’Ow you think we’ll live if you go to reform school, Clayton? We goin’ to stay here and send Arley to town to git someone to pick us up.’

  ‘What good’ll that do?’ Clayton flared. ‘You ask them kids if any of them wanna go off walkin’ in the dark. I’m drivin’ us to town and fuck the pigs, I reckon.’

  For a moment Reenie stared angrily at her oldest boy, then dropped her eyes and turned away. Her floral cotton dress hung from her thin frame, and a holey, brown cardigan tried to keep out the cold. She looked more like a woman of sixty than forty. A lined, wrinkled, sad old woman, with her eyes red with tears and her hair messed up by the wind; her round, brown face blank and bewildered. Clayton felt sorry for her.

  ‘Clayton, you changed today. I ’ope you goin’ to learn to stop that anger, like your dad done, before it’s too late,’ she said quietly, remembering.

  ‘Yeah, orright. But we just goin’ to get wet ’ere. Let’s go into town,’ Clayton said.

  So they set off along the road; Clayton, Reenie, baby Howard, and young Vera crowded in the front. The rest huddled up on the hack, getting wet.

  The rain drummed with regularity on the rusted cab roof. The trees were being whipped to and fro like feather dusters tickling the dormant grey belly of the sky.

  The police were waiting two kilometres off, hidden among some low, bushy shrubs. Arley’s twin sister saw them coming up behind and banged on the roof. Arley himself, to prove he was as good a man as Clayton, gave the occupants in the car the up sign and swore. Then the car was pulling up beside Clayton, who had stopped and was now sullenly looking out of the window. His dark, angry eyes watched as the sergeant strode over, confident and supreme.

  The big man pushed his face through the window.

  ‘This ute’s got a red sticker on it.’

  ‘You oughta know. You put it on, unna?’ scowled Clayton, ignoring his mother’s hand on his leg. He remained staring into the blue, angry eyes, refusing to be beaten’ by this man who had demolished his family.

  ‘Have you got a licence, son?’ the sergeant spat.

  ‘Nuh.’

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nbsp; ‘Then get out, you little bastard!’ the policeman suddenly shouted and his face, contorted in rage, scared the thin dark youth. He was pulled out by his patched shirt and pushed against the policeman’s car. The door was opened, and he was pushed in next to his father and brother. Jack gave him a sad, dejected look, all life gone out of his round, brown eyes.

  ‘I told you, Clayton. You gone too far, young ’un.’

  ‘Fuckin’ pigs,’ Clayton mouthed and beside him Joe the policeman looked at him coldly yet triumphantly.

  ‘What did you say, Clayton?’

  ‘Nothin’,’ and the boy cringed away. Now he was scared as well, and, because of this, he was angrier than ever.

  The following day Jack Little was sentenced to nine months for possession of an unlicensed firearm and stealing a sheep, despite his protestation that the carcase had been a gift. Mr Wilson, the supposed donor, had left for a holiday on the coast and an impatient magistrate was not prepared to allow an adjournment. After all, everyone knew Aborigines were liars as well as thieves.

  From that day, Clayton changed. The Littles moved out in the same week that Jack went to Fremantle. Their uncle, who lived in the town, drove them to the next town and said he would let Jack know where they were. The lived on the Social Service—or whatever Lennard found. He had become quite a wild youth now and, in the first three months that his father was away, he blundered on down the road of destruction. He fought and drank and stole. Then in the end he knifed a man.

  One day, Lennard and Clayton were out in the bush hunting when they came upon their little brother and sister, Darryl and June, crying.

  ‘These two cryin’, look. Whaffor you cryin’, well?’ Clayton squatted down and pulled the slight, small bodies to him. His hard eyes softened and his smile wiped away their tears. He hated to see his family cry, especially these two who only had their happiness and laughter to protect them; they would lose those soon enough as they grew older.

  ‘Mr Douglas shot Flannagan and tole us never to come there no more,’ Darryl said.

  Clayton stiffened in anger. Old Flannagan was the Littles’ hunting dog. No one knew what breed he was—all they knew was that he was as fast as a flick of the fingers and could bring down a kangaroo of any size. Flannagan had been happy and gentle, and loved all the children—especially Darryl and June, whose dog he had been. Besides, Flannagan had been more than a dog to the Littles. How often had he brought down their next meal with his big, bloody, white teeth? Whenever the children had needed comfort, the kind that only silence brings, they would bury their heads in Flannagan’s matted, tattered, wiry coat, and their worries would go away. Now Flannagan was dead, murdered by a man who could buy a dozen dogs if he wanted to, who had no understanding of the calamity he had caused the Littles and wouldn’t have cared anyway.

  That night at tea Lennard was moody and afterwards he disappeared. He came back late at night but wouldn’t tell anyone where he had been, not even Arley or Clayton, who shared a room with him.

  But the family found out soon enough. The local policeman came down to the reserve, asking for Lennard. With him was a white-faced Mr Douglas. Clayton was reading in the sun, Lennard sitting propped against a tree near him, when the shadows fell upon him. Lennard opened his eyes. His face grew frightened when he saw who was there, then it settled into the blank hostility it had worn since his father had gone to jail.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ the policeman fired at him.

  ‘I was ’ere, unna, Clayton?’

  ‘Yeah, we was playin’ cards with Arley, just muckin’ round,’ Clayton agreed.

  ‘I’m afraid you weren’t, son. I know this knife is yours.’ The policeman held up Lennard’s new Bowie knife.

  Lennard shrugged and grinned.

  ‘Orright, I done it. You goin’ to tell me brother what I did so ’e can tell Mum?’

  The night before, Lennard had gone over to the Douglases’ farm. He had killed every one of the farmer’s dogs, two of which were champions. However, Mr Douglas had been aroused by the noise the dogs made, and caught Lennard just as the boy was leaving. Then Lennard had attacked him with his knife and, after slashing his arm, had run away.

  Lennard was sent to Riverbank for two years. Clayton’s mind moved even further away from this white society that could allow such injustice, for nothing happened to the murderer of harmless Flannagan.

  It was in this year of turmoil that Clayton started boxing. He would buy books on famous boxers and read and read. He got old Harry Bennett, a scarred refugee from a boxing troupe, to teach him. Then every Sunday the kids would set up a ring in the bush and have competitions. That had been fun; dancing with hard, bare feet on the dusty ground, ducking, weaving, and darting out, short sharp punches, like the bite of a snake. With the trees’ shadows boxing each other as well, and playing on the boys’ supple brown backs.

  ‘Look ’ere! They don’t call me Lionel Rose for nothin’,’ the winner would shout, and laughter would ripple from the crowd of youths. Sometimes one boy would talk like the spruiker at the local show.

  ‘’Old it, ’old it, ’old it! Now ’oo we got ’ere, well? ’Oo wants to fight young Clarry Lawson, lightweight champion of Australia, look? Fifty dollars if ya knock ’im out, bugger all if ya don’t, ’cept a boot up the bum.’

  Clayton filled an old oatbag with sawdust from the mill and hung it on a tree. Then he would pummel it until sweat ran down his back, oblivious of the admiring crowd that stood silently around him. Soon he knew just where to place his punches to get the best effect, when to block or duck, all on that old bag.

  Harry Bennett said, ‘Ya could go a long way, Clayton, or ya could fail, it’s up to you. I seen plenty o’ young blokes go down ’cos they give up early. Even though they got promise, look.’

  But Clayton hadn’t given up. When the next show came along, he was there, amongst the crowd; sizing up the boxers on the bare, narrow stage. He had gone to shows ever since he was a young, skinny, shy little boy. Like every Aboriginal, he was attracted by the noise and colour and bustle. As he grew older, Willy Cole and Harry Casey had taught him how to pick pockets. With the money they had gone on rides or tried out the shooting gallery or the darts.

  They had never gone into the boxing tent, however. But this time, a lanky, lithe youth stood alone in the seething crowd, staring at the boxers and guessing their weak points. Then he had advanced, out of the ordinary crowd, onto the platform of truth, and life and reality.

  ‘Well, and what’s your name, young ’un?’

  ‘Clayton Little.’

  ‘Ever done any fighting before, Clayton?’

  ‘Aah, you know, just muckin’ around down the camp,’ Clayton had muttered, feeling shy and unsure.

  ‘Who do you want to fight, Clayton?’

  ‘The bloke in the red shorts,’ Clayton said quietly.

  ‘Hang on, son, he’s the champion. What about one of these other—’

  ‘No,’ Clayton had said decisively. ‘I wanna fight the champion.’

  The man had tried to persuade him, but Clayton had been insistent. He had seen Arley staring stupidly up at him from the crowd, then run off, slipping in and out between legs. Off to tell their mother. ‘Mum, Mum! Clayton’s goin’ to get killed by th’ boxin’ champ, look,’ and he thought of all the fuss there would be.

  From the back of the crowd, Harry Bennett called, ‘The young bloke’s good, mate. Give ’im a go, and if ’e loses then ’e learns, don’t ’e?’

  So Clayton had fought the champion. In the first round he rushed and forgot all he had learned. The champion had knocked him down easily, but the boy had risen before the count of ten and in the second round everything became clear. He moved so fast the champion couldn’t touch him. Clayton sent a volley of blows about the man’s flat stomach, then two sneaky, short jabs to the jaw, and the champion reeled. He finished up with another blow to the jaw and the champion was knocked out. Clayton’s mother, who had just burst through the flaps an
d witnessed her son’s success, didn’t know whether to cry, laugh or scold.

  Clayton earned much praise and $60.

  After the show, Mally Price had come down to the dusty reserve. He had spoken of riches, fame and glory, standing amongst the dirt, discarded objects and the little gathering of Aboriginal people.

  ‘Come with me, boy, and I’ll make you a real champion no one can beat.’

  So he had gone, the second son to be peeled away from the tight-knit family. But he was going to be someone and make everyone respect the Little name. Then there would be no more pushing or bullying of his family he loved so much. Instead, there would be awe and praise and pride for his poor old beaten parents. He kissed his mum, and told Arley to behave himself because he was the man of the family now. Arley was all right, anyway. Wasn’t he the quiet one of the family and clever, too? He would look after his mum better than sullen Clayton or wild Lennard or unlucky Jack.

  So Clayton had gone off with the show and for eight years had been boxing and beating. For that was life, really—keep on fighting and you come out tops; give up and you are kicked to the canvas and forgotten or just given a black eye. Boxers had come and gone but Baby Clay had stayed on; ever dominant, ever powerful. People would flock to see his thin frame weave and duck and jab out those vicious punches. If an Aboriginal came to try his luck, Clayton would be gentle with him. But, with any white person he fought angrily, remembering the shame of his father and the cruelty dealt out to his brothers, sisters and friends.

  When he was young, he had been alone and afraid, shy and silent. But now he was part of the show life’s gaudy, canvas body. Now he would grin down on the crowd of upturned mostly white faces, which reminded him of clumps of toadstools or fungus, and enjoy his grandeur.

  Whenever he passed the town he visited his mum and dad and grown-up brothers and sisters. Arley was working in a bank up in Perth, Boo had a little son and was pregnant again. Darryl and June were the same as most other teenagers, just discovering life. Clayton would look at Darryl and hope the youth, who still found a joke in everything, would never turn out like him—he who had to use his fists because that was all he could do. Lennard was lost somewhere in the restless bowels of the naked city, probably in trouble again. His mum and dad, going grey and sterile, still lived in the old tin shack he had helped build. Only Howard and Vera kept them company now, playing in the sunny sand outside and sometimes going to school.