Dorothy is funny, cheeky, naked, but after that there is not much to Dorothy. I try to engage her in conversations about what she wants out of life, the future of the islands, independence, about her family. She is not interested. I want to talk to her about her religious beliefs, her Christianity, but she swears she has none, even though she attends church every Sunday. She says she does it for her father.
Your father? I ask.
Yes, she says. My father is a big man.
What does he do, the big man?
He is a police captain.
Oh. Where?
Not far from here. In the next district.
Does he know about us?
If he knows, he will not like.
Why not?
He is a proud man, and my tribe is a proud tribe.
It’s true, there are racists on both sides. He is a black man and he wants his daughter to hang out with black men. On the other side, the white bastards in the bank want me to hang out with white women, or no women. Dorothy and I are overlappers and I’m a gin jockey.
You know they call me a gin jockey, I say.
No, what does it mean? says Dorothy.
It means I have sex with gins, black women. So what do they call you?
They call me Dorothy. We have no word for this. Black women have sex with black men and white men.
Dear Mum, I write, my black girlfriend is the daughter of a police captain and if he finds out we are fucking he will kill me.
I flush the letter down the toilet.
I am on the little path that leads to Dorothy’s house. I see movement in the bushes. There is something there. I know there is. Oh, Jesus, not the thing, the haunting thing, the thing I think is there but I know it can’t be, can it? No, not here in the village. I am safe here. Stupid boy, there is no such thing. It’s just someone on the move. I think no more of it, because locals are always on the move, delivering parcels, collecting bags of stuff, visiting friends, family. I have no idea why they are forever moving, but they are. I am almost at her house when a man in a police uniform emerges from the bush and stands in front of me. Was it him in there, following me?
He looks like he has a job to do. His truncheon is out of its holster, in his hand, and swinging.
Yes, I say.
You, he says.
There is movement again, either side of me. More police. More truncheons.
Not this way, he says.
Why not? What’s going on?
No. No.
He begins swinging his truncheon in an arc. I turn slowly, no sign of panic. Stay calm. I walk back the way I came, towards town. He follows. I quicken my pace. He increases his. I run. He runs. I am confident I can outrun him because I have always been a good runner and he is wearing police boots. Then I hear more than two feet running after me. I don’t look back. Someone enters the path on my left and a truncheon or a lump of wood strikes my shoulder. It hurts. It doesn’t stop me. Another blow catches my right ear. It makes an ugly sound and I think I might have lost my ear lobe. I run harder and thank my legs for their speed and their willingness and all those years of high school athletics. I keep running until I no longer hear feet behind me and my lungs gasp, then I stop and put my hand to my ear and it comes away with blood. My left shoulder hurts. All I can think is that Dorothy’s police captain father has heard, has taken action, has sent his men to beat the shit out of the white boy and that he’s a racist bastard, wants me gone, or dead, or at least maimed and maybe my lizard removed and shoved down my throat because although he is a police captain and a man of some education he is still a savage and brutal beast.
I lie on the ground. I have no idea where I am. Because I don’t wear a watch I have no idea how much time passes. My shoulder hurts, my ear bleeds, but it was worth it all to have that brief affair with Dorothy Sogata. I also know that Dorothy and I are finished, that I will never see her again, except in the bank. I don’t, not for three weeks. She stays away. She knows. Her dad’s boys have been to her as well, or dad has. Then she walks in and I don’t get up. I send Franky to the counter, pleading a toilet break. By then my ear is almost back to normal, but it will carry the scar forever. My left shoulder still hurts. I am left-handed and that side of my body is taking a beating in the islands. First the Volkswagen over the cliff in the capital, then the police attack.
When I come back from the toilet, Franky asks: So, you and Dorothy?
What do you mean, me and Dorothy?
Come on, Jack.
I can see he knows.
Who else knows?
Don’t know, but Haines has made some comments.
Fuck Haines. Anyway, it’s over, Frank. Done. Dusted. Finished.
Fuck, Franky, you knew about him?
Yes.
Why didn’t you say?
Well, I wasn’t really sure about you and Dorothy, until now. Don’t worry, there’s plenty of fish in the sea.
Thanks, Frank, that’s a big fucking help. How many more have police captain fathers who beat the shit out of white boy lovers?
Arr, that’s how you got your ear and shoulder. It wasn’t a game of rugby up at Curtin’s place after all.
Frank, you and me, right, no one else. Or we’re both dead.
Mum’s the word, he says. And, Jack, I’m no racist, but you might be walking a fine line here. This isn’t our country, it’s theirs and one day soon they will be taking over completely.