Chapter 1

 

You have to understand it from my point of view. Before you judge.

 

I was 16 and an only child. My mother was chief of police in Cairns where we lived. Where I’d always lived. She was in charge of about 100 cops and was the first woman to hold that position. She was busy and sometimes stressed and I didn’t see her that much. She’d often get called out at weekends or she’d work a 16-hour day or something. You’d think Cairns is pretty sleepy when it comes to crime but you’d be surprised.

 

I tried not to resent Mum for not being around much. I mean, being a cop was a massive deal for her. She really felt she was doing good in the community. I remember when I was quite young, and she was only deputy chief, she sat me down and we had one of our Little Chats.

 

‘Camilla, I know it’s hard that Mummy’s away all the time but you’ve got to understand that I’m keeping the town safe.’

 

‘But can’t someone else do it?’

 

She leaned in close. ‘I’m going to tell you something that you can’t tell anyone else, okay?’

I nodded solemnly.

 

‘None of your friends or teachers or anyone. Maybe Dad. That’s it.’

 

More nods.

 

She swallowed then said. ‘Most cops are dumb, right? They’re either dumb or they’re ambitious and selfish. And even if they’re none of these things they’re usually blokes. And the less blokes in the responsible positions, the better, right?’

 

‘Fewer blokes.’

​

She laughed. ‘Yes, sorry. But you get what I’m saying?’

 

‘Sort of.’

 

‘You’ll understand one day. But trust me for now. If I’m in charge, more crimes will get solved and people will be safer. It’s a matter of life or death.’

 

It’s a matter of life or death. It was a phrase she’d wheel out whenever I’d start to get antsy about how she was never around.

 

I don’t want to whinge too much. It’s not like I’m alone in this. A lot of parents work long hours.

 

And anyway, I had Dad, and Stooge my blue heeler.

 

Dad was alright. Still is. If anything, he was around too much. He was a bit of a stoner, something that drove Mum nuts, as you can imagine. He would argue that he smoked hash only occasionally, when things were getting him down and obviously Mum would say, or scream: ‘I’m the chief of fucking police. How would it look if anyone found out you were a druggie?’

 

And Dad would sit with his bloodshot eyes, discreetly nudging his bong behind the armchair and explain he wasn’t comfortable with the word ‘druggie’ because it had negative connotations. And on it would go.

 

Dad worked part-time at the local nursery. I think he was a bit jealous of Mum’s career success. He was a trained horticulturalist and good at it, but he was also the kind of bloke who didn’t like to work too hard. He was good with his hands though and spent a lot of time fixing up the house. He took me fishing, taught me how to surf as well as some basic survival skills. He’d been in the Army for five years. He also taught me how to shoot, which probably doesn’t sound like great parenting but it definitely turned out to be. We had an old 303 rifle in the house as well as a 9mm pistol. They were hidden in the attic. Keeping guns like that is illegal so it was our little secret from Mum.

​

My best friend was Stooge. Mum got him for me when I was eight. Soon after the first Little Chat. I hadn’t really been into dogs then. In fact I cried when I got him because I couldn’t handle the idea of looking after him all the time. But then as you’d expect, I fell in love with him and he was by my side all the time.

 

I had human friends of course. Mostly beach bums like me who were into surfing, and one girl from school – Megs – who I hung out with down the creek. You couldn’t really swim in it because of the crocs so we’d sit in the branches of a dragon tree, chatting about boys and life after school. Megs wanted to move to Brisbane for the arts scene (she was into sculpture in a big way). I didn’t know what I wanted to do, except to stay in Far North Queensland for a while, or maybe join the police or army. Megs thought that was the dumbest thing ever.

 

‘Why risk your life like that?’ she’d say, legs dangling off the branch, almost daring a saltie to leap from the murky water and yank her out of the tree.

 

‘That’s not how I see it,’ I’d say. But then I didn’t really know how I did see it.
 

And so that was my life until two things happened. The first was this: Stooge and I went for a bushwalk and he got bitten by a taipan. He died in my arms in three agony-filled minutes.

​

Then two weeks later Mum got shot.