Free country

How’s your mother? Fred asked. Did you get her in at Willow Lake?

Grace unwrapped a wedge of Camembert and sniffed. It was a bleak Saturday afternoon and they stood in her kitchen, Grace arranging crackers and cheese on a cutting board.

We moved her in last week, she said. Mom hates it.

You can’t blame yourself, Fred said.

She threw her drink at Steve, Grace said.

Kumi had been arguing with Grace, demanding to go home, when Steve strolled in with a cheery good morning. Grace had seen her mother’s arm reel back. Duck! she’d yelled. DUCK!

She couldn’t help laughing as she relayed the story. You should have seen it, she said, pulling back her hand to lob an invisible projectile. I swear it flew in slow motion, then splat! Strawberry meal replacement all over the wall. And poor Steve. I feel bad for laughing, but it was so absurd. Grace put her hands on her head to demonstrate how Steve had cowered on the floor.

She’s a crackerjack, Fred said. I’ll have to visit.

Oh, I wouldn’t, Grace said, taking two beers from the fridge. She’s pretty confused.

She didn’t tell him how Kumi had pointed an accusing finger as Steve scuttled out. That’s the man! she’d yelled. He’s the one who took everything from us!

Balancing her beer on the cutting board, Grace led the way to the conservatory. Built as an addition, it had floor-to-ceiling windows and a sloped glass ceiling. The room had inherited Kumi’s ferns and philodendrons, but without her tending they’d begun to brown. Steve had left the weekend papers out, scattered across the wicker three-seater.

Sorry, Grace said, tidying them away.

Fred scowled at the headlines. A terrorist decides to kill himself and now we’re being crucified for it.

It had been two weeks since the suicide and the media were still having a field day. The Opposition were demanding an inquiry. Every evening, pundits weighed in at televised round tables. The ship was once again on the front page. There were more reporters at hearings now. Vultures, Mitchell Hurst called them. Circling around in hopes of a copycat. Grace felt the added pressure of their gaze as she struggled to deliberate cases.

Fred filled her in on a bill he was drafting to crack down on human smuggling. The agents are the real villains here, he said. We have to encourage people to go through the proper channels and not just jump on the first boat that sails into the harbour.

Grace rocked in her favourite chair and watched the sun burning white behind the clouds. The garden was soggy brown, strewn with twigs and dead leaves, blown-in candy wrappers and pop-can tabs.

How? she asked. The claimants all say they were fenced in at a detention camp before they left. And travel was restricted during the war. It sounds a lot like East Germany, to be honest.

We’re using Australia as a model, Fred said. Our generosity is being abused by phony refugees. We can’t continue like this.

Grace remembered something one of the migrants had said, at a hearing months ago. To us, the smugglers were like Good Samaritans. At the time, the statement had incensed her, but now she thought she could understand.

But if the High Commission is in the capital and people can’t physically get there, how do they apply? And then, of course, the situation is dire and people are desperate.

Exactly! Fred said. That’s what the smugglers are counting on, desperation and a soft-touch country.

The sun broke through, flooding the conservatory with an unexpected warmth.

We should airlift people out, she said.

Airlift? Fred choked on his beer and a gremlin inside Grace smirked.

Hear me out, she said.

We’re dealing with international criminal networks, Fred broke in. Drugs, prostitution, racketeering. Human smuggling is just one cog in the wheel. You should sit in on some of these briefings. Then you’d understand the magnitude of the –

I agree with you, she said, holding up a hand. So let’s put the agents out of business. We’d still vet people, of course, but at least –

The fact is, the system is broken, Fred said. Look how much time is tied up in monthly detention reviews.

Well, that’s true, Grace conceded.

After several months of contesting releases, Border Services had finally run out of steam – used up all their bogus arguments (that was Mitchell’s opinion) – and only the most questionable migrants were still behind bars.

The detention reviews, just like the smugglers, were a distraction from the real issue, Grace felt. Were these people dangerous? That was the million-dollar question. After the suicide, Grace had gone back over her files and discovered she’d adjudicated two of the dead man’s detention reviews. Both times, she’d denied his request, but only out of caution, because no one else had yet been released. She could see in her notes that she’d thought him harmless, and that made her question her judgment, all the people she’d deemed admissible, all the potential terrorists who were now one step closer to citizenship. She didn’t dare confess her misgivings, but they haunted her as she lay awake every night, as she listened to the news in rush-hour traffic and wondered where the twins were. What if?

The pouches under Fred’s eyes were more pronounced than usual. As they carried their empties to the kitchen, she noticed the sheen of sweat on his brow. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief. Grace could have offered ice water or turned on the fan, but she felt spiteful and didn’t.

We need to renovate the system so bona fide refugees can be processed faster, Fred said. He brought the side of one hand down on the palm of the other. Mandatory detention for irregular arrivals with reviews twice a year instead of every month.

Grace hooked her fingers around the necks of the empty bottles and opened the cupboard door under the sink. Who’s a bona fide refugee? she asked. What’s the definition? I’ve been at this nearly nine months, Fred. And I have to tell you, the evidence isn’t so neat and tidy.

You don’t know everything, she thought. And the realization made her feel both superior and disappointed.

What’s going on with you, Grace? Are they making you soft over there?

Of course not, she said quickly, avoiding his eyes. But consider a hypothetical. A man admits to doing mechanical work on a car that’s later used in a suicide bombing. Maybe he had his hands on the bombs and maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was coerced to do the work or maybe he wasn’t. There’s no evidence either way.

He aided and abetted a terrorist organization, Fred said. Deport him. End of story.

What about a doctor who operates on a Tiger?

Did he know who he was treating? Did the patient go on to fire a missile?

You make it sound so simple.

Who do you want in this country? People who share our values, or warmongers who bring their fights here?

Meg wandered into the kitchen. She loitered in front of the open fridge, nibbling her thumbnail, the door resting against her hip, the light illuminating her face.

How may I help you? Grace asked.

I just want a drink, Meg whined. She took out the carton of apple juice and twisted off the cap.

A glass, please, Grace said.

Fred was on a roll, speechifying as if the cameras were on him. Five hundred illegals arrive en masse, having destroyed their documents, and it’s impossible to identify them or separate the legitimate from the criminals.

Grace was aware of Meg, lolling with her back against the counter, watching Fred.

Don’t you have homework? Grace asked.

It’s a free country, Meg said. She raised her glass to her mouth, stared at Fred over the rim, and mumbled, Unless no one wants you.

Megumi Jane Flynn!

I should go, Fred said, dabbing at his forehead then pocketing his handkerchief.

I’m so sorry about that, Grace said at the front door. She’s going through a phase. Both of my children are going through a phase.

You’re speaking to a veteran, Fred said.

Back in the kitchen, she asked: Was that really necessary?

Meg turned away to set her glass in the sink. Gran says he’s the kind of person history will judge.

That’s an ugly thing to say! Minister Blair has been a friend to this family for years.

He would have sent us to Slocan first chance he got, Meg said. He likes people best when they’re behind bars.

Grace was infuriated to hear Kumi’s words, her irrational prejudice against the government, aped so unthinkingly by her fifteen-year-old daughter.

Little girl, Grace said, turning to leave. Talk to me in twenty years, when you’ve learned something about the world.