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 noticesâ 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 meâthe standard police notice with a photograph of a missing person. Two females, one male, ages from twelve to fifteen. The notices werenât 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 couldnât hear what he was saying but it didnât matter because he wasnât 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, Iâd often been taken for Aboriginal. Not by Kooris, though.
The woman became free after dealing with three clients quickly, and beckoned to me.
âThanks,â I said. âBut if thatâs Mr Manuma I have business specifically with him.â
The big man glanced up quickly but went on with what he was saying.
âOkay,â the woman said and waved a man whoâd 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.
âFuckinâ do âim, Archie,â she yelled. âFuckinâ cunt.â
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 womanâs mouth and wrestled her away. Manuma grabbed both men by their long hair, lifted them from the ground and brought their heads together. Itâs 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 Manumaâs 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. âJohn Manuma,â he said without offering to shake hands. âWhat can I do
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 noticesâ 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 meâthe standard police notice with a photograph of a missing person. Two females, one male, ages from twelve to fifteen. The notices werenât 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 couldnât hear what he was saying but it didnât matter because he wasnât 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, Iâd often been taken for Aboriginal. Not by Kooris, though.
The woman became free after dealing with three clients quickly, and beckoned to me.
âThanks,â I said. âBut if thatâs Mr Manuma I have business specifically with him.â
The big man glanced up quickly but went on with what he was saying.
âOkay,â the woman said and waved a man whoâd 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.
âFuckinâ do âim, Archie,â she yelled. âFuckinâ cunt.â
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 womanâs mouth and wrestled her away. Manuma grabbed both men by their long hair, lifted them from the ground and brought their heads together. Itâs 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 Manumaâs 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. âJohn Manuma,â he said without offering to shake hands. âWhat can I do
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