A grey-haired Aboriginal grandmother turned to one newly arrived constable at the airstrip and asked, “Why don’t you cunts fuck off?” A fever was rising. At night barrages of rocks hammered the roofs of the police station and barracks, and when the officers went out into the dark they couldn’t see the perpetrators. On the evening of Thursday, November 25, six days after the death, the island’s young doctor, Clinton Leahy, met with the Doomadgee family and Erykah Kyle to explain the findings of the first autopsy. That night was unnervingly quiet. It was pay week, although even in off-pay week there were always parties going on somewhere. Revellers blasted loud music, kids were out playing, people fought. Now the streets, lit by a full moon, were silent and deserted. Two constables were on patrol. Around eleven they parked their vehicle and sat on the veranda of an old man playing his piano accordion. People came out of their houses yelling, “Fuck off cunts! White shit! White trash!”
