Busted
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 21: Hidden Queensland
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Edwina Shaw
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Edwina Shaw's biography and other articles by this writer
There's a banging on the front door. So early on a Monday? Don't they know I'm a student? I roll over and clamp the pillow to my head but the pounding doesn't stop. I rub the sleep from my eyes and get up. Through the bubbled glass of the front door, I see dark shapes too big to be anyone I know. I edge the door open.
The police. Even though they're not in uniform, I know it's them. No necks, red faces. Slimy as hell.
I'm in big trouble.
‘Do two flamboyant homosexuals live here?'
Suddenly I'm wide awake. Oh no! Pete and Byron – my housemates. ‘Has there been an accident?'
Feeling sick, I clutch my nightie close around my throat.
‘We'll take that as a yes. Taringa CIB, here under the Health Act.' And they barge past me into the house. No need for a warrant. It's 1984, Brisbane. Homosexuality is illegal, and under the new Act the police don't need anything other than suspicion to do a search.
The house shakes on its stilts as they up-end the cane lounge chairs and haul the sarongs from the windows. This is serious, not just the usual kind of hassle I get because of my punk hairdo. They're looking for something, systematically tearing the place apart. What do they think we've got? We just muck around with dope, nothing heavy. Hugging my nightie tighter, I drift behind them as they storm from room to room like brown shirt troopers.
Thank God the boys are at work – they've been bashed by cops before. Pete's safe at Sportsgirl, teasing the hair of store dummies, and Byron's doing much the same above the shoulder pads of rich, old New Farm ladies. Still, I wish there was someone here to hold my hand: I feel like I'm eight, not eighteen. What are the police going to do to me once they get tired of destroying furniture?
In my room, they overturn the mattress and tear apart my pillow, sending feathers into the air like fake snow at a pantomime. Crossing my arms, I somehow find my voice. ‘What's going on? What am I supposed to have done anyway?' My voice is shakier than I want it to be. I wish I felt tougher, looked tougher. I wish I at least had a bra on. It's hard to be tough in your pyjamas.
They don't even look up, intent on destruction.
‘Got any communist literature?' the blond one asks.
That brings me back to the real world. These men aren't kids from high school, or anything like the handsome actors in the cop shows on TV. They're Queensland Vice Squad, Lewis's henchmen, corrupt to the core, bored shitless and looking for laughs at my expense. Wrenching the drawers from my dresser, they tip my undies and t-shirts into heaps on the floor. Whole shelves of books thud on to the carpet with one sweep of their ham-hock arms. It's like some bad movie except it's real. And I'm in it.
Down south, people call Queenslanders banana benders and think Joh's a harmless old fool. But up here we know he's no joke. I'm certainly not laughing now.
The police don't find anything, and that's making them angry. They trash the house, stomping over records and clothes and crockery as they rage from room to room, thumping, ripping, kicking. Byron's prized Gary Newman album cracks under a police boot. The Virgin Mary statue Pete got from his Gran is hurled against the wall so hard her head's knocked off.
That makes me angry.
‘Hey!' I shout, putting my hands on my hips to help control the shaking of my legs. ‘That stuff belongs to people. There's nothing here. Why don't you go now? You've got no right!' My voice squeaks and I feel the heat of a bright red blush in my cheeks.
‘Did ya hear that, fellas? She says we've got no right. We've got every bloody right. We're the police. You and your poofta mates have been breaking the law,' says the fat one who appears to be in charge.
I fold my arms back around myself to stop him glaring at my boobs. ‘What are we supposed to have done? We haven't hurt anyone.'
His hand comes thunking down on my shoulder.
‘I've had enough of your crap.'
‘Why don't you go, then?' I jut my chin, despite feeling all my strength oozing through my feet into the floorboards.
Dog's breath and spittle fly into my face as he shouts, ‘Shut up you smart-arsed little cow. Sit down and shut up or I won't need an excuse.' His too-tight tie is cutting off the blood-flow to his face so he looks like an inflamed pimple about to burst. Shoving me into the kitchen, he raises his fist in front of my nose – thumps me down into a chair. ‘Now just sit there and shut the fuck up!'
My heart's beating so hard it feels as if my ribs aren't strong enough to hold it in my chest anymore. I'm shit scared. It's just me, alone in the house with four huge, angry men, each of them strong enough to snap my neck. Who am I going to call for help? The police?
As a last resort, I say a Hail Mary under my breath, ‘Please Mary, don't let them find anything. I'll never even puff on a joint again. Please.' There shouldn't be anything for them to find. We scraped the bottom of the bag clean last night, and everything else is in well thought-out hiding spots. We know the drill. Queenslanders don't leave stuff lying around on coffee tables.
The young blond policeman with flared suit pants comes in like a triumphant hunter, waving a scrawny potted dope plant in his meaty hand.
Shit. Forgot about that.
‘Look what I found down the backyard,' he skites. ‘A bloody plantation.'
‘Oh come on,' I say, shock giving me back a voice. ‘It's only got three leaves.'
‘A plant is a plant,' says the porky one with the exploding face. ‘It's yours then, is it?'
‘Never seen it before in my life.' Thank God for cop shows. At least I know what to say.
It is mine, a pathetic attempt at growing my own. I keep it way down in the backyard by the old chook shed hidden between some overgrown tomato bushes, but the poor thing never gets a chance to get any bigger than a bonsai because Pete prunes it whenever the home supply runs out.
Now it's a plantation.
Blondie plonks the plant down in front of me on the table between the crusted pots, dishes and ashtrays. Suddenly I wish I'd never moved out of home. I want my mum.
My stomach churns in time with the frenetic rhythm of my heart. Thanks for nothing, Mary.
‘Aha! Lookie, lookie, what've we got here?' A man in a brown suit comes in rattling the Orchy bong like it's first prize in a cake wheel. ‘What's this, then?'
‘Suppose you've never seen that before either,' says Porky.
Oh my God. They must've found the hidey-hole under the back stairs. That stinky, oil-smeared orange juice container with a bit of garden hose sticking out the side means trouble. Big trouble. Combined with my scrawny plant, it's jail kind of trouble. I know about these things. The new laws. I've heard the bust horror stories.
I have to think fast. A rumour about a friend of a friend flashes into my brain. She ate her stash when she got busted and got off because there was no evidence. So, while Porky has his back turned and the others are still rampaging through the bedrooms and garden, I grab the plant and uproot it, shovel it like stringy noodles into my mouth. Coughing and spluttering on all that grassy fibre, I chew frantically and try to swallow, almost choking.
‘What the fuck!' Porky grabs me by the shoulders and shakes so hard my eyes rattle in my head. ‘You stupid little bitch.'
His right hand hovers striking distance from my cheek. I wince and turn away, waiting for the blow.
Blondie comes in, rattling a box of matches. ‘Jackpot!' he says.
Porky lowers his hand.
‘Look what I found. It was in that room out front.'
It's my room but I'm not even going to lift my head. A box of matches isn't illegal, not yet anyway, not even in Queensland.
I sit slumped in my chair like a first grader who's been caught cheating, feeling weak and stupid. I don't want the tears to come, but I can't stop them.
‘What's the matter with matches?' I ask, through the remains of stem stuck in my teeth, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.
‘You, shut up. You're in enough trouble as it is. She destroyed police evidence.' Porky nods at the empty pot plant and stringy green bits on the lino.
‘It's not matches,' says Blondie. ‘It's a potential bloody plantation.' He slides the Redhead lid open to reveal seeds. ‘Every one of these is a plant in the eyes of the law. You're in deep trouble.'
‘So shut the fuck up,' chimes in Porky.
My guts sink then rise to the back of my throat. Those seeds have been sitting at the back of my desk drawer for so long I'd forgotten they were there. They're so old they probably won't even sprout in cotton wool.
I'm not a criminal. I haven't hurt anyone or stolen or cheated or done anything bad. All I've done is have some fun. Like everyone else my age. I don't want to go to jail.
I don't want them to see me cry but there's no stopping the tears now. Not because I'm sad, but because I'm scared, and mostly because I'm angry. I want to yell and scream and fight these bastards who are wrecking my house and my life all in one terrible morning. Why don't they pick on someone their own size?
‘Okay everyone, let's get back to the station. We've got enough to put this one away,' says Porky, tucking his shirt-tail back into his pants. ‘I'm dying for a coffee.'
On their way out, they pick up my diary and photo album, treading a path over the mess they've made. Sweat collects under Porky's hand on my shoulder.
‘Can I get dressed?' I mumble.