Bruce Pascoe, ‘Bay at the races under a bridge of lies’

He was only swearing with the words the white feller taught him. ‘We don't have those words in our language’, Eric remarks. We're standing at the old police station. Eric points to the trees where Aboriginal people were chained up for weeks on end. ‘What was their crime?’ I ask. Eric shrugs. ‘Swearing?’ I suggest, and for the first time he laughs, grimly. He tells me another story about how a myall bloke, wild-feller Aborigine, started shooting policemen and their cars. He caused quite a bit of trouble until they caught up with him. ‘Why did he start shooting the police?’ I ask Eric. Yeah, you're right, it wasn't such a bright question. Eric gives me the longest, steadiest look he's given me all day. Fair enough, Eric: Who needs a reason in a country with this history?