‘Gets you like a punch to the throat, and doesn’t let up.

Terse,
tough, character-driven—a gripping yarn. The most Aussie novel
you’ll read this year.’ – BENJAMIN HOBSON, author of Snake
Island

‘Chalmers is a strong new voice in Australian bush noir. Conviction

is everything you thought about Queensland in the 1970s,
corrupt, harsh and desperate . . . a skilfully drawn study of deso-
lation and vice. Fast-paced and brilliantly executed.’ – MICHAEL
BRISSENDEN, author of Dead Letters

‘In Conviction, Chalmers has distilled rural noir down to its

hard, bitter essence. Stylishly written with poise and savage
insight, Conviction’s fierce vision will stay with the reader long
after the final page has been turned. A brilliant debut.’ – DAVID
­WHISH-WILSON, Ned Kelly-shortlisted author of True West

‘Conviction is where Wake in Fright meets The Moonlight State.

With his gritty, authentic, taut and elegant prose, Frank Chalmers
draws a terrifyingly evocative Royalton—a very Australian place
where racism and violent misogyny are as pervasive as the guns
and the crooked cops  . . . and all of those broken hearts behind
closed doors.’ – PAUL DALEY, best-selling author and Guardian
writer

‘Gritty, hardboiled and immediately compelling; Conviction  is a

crime thriller drenched in atmosphere. Its sense of character and
place are so vivid you’ll swear you can taste the outback dust.
A brutally confident debut that will seize your attention from the
first page and dare you to look away. Don›t miss it.’ – GABRIEL
BERGMOSER, best-selling author of The Hunted

‘An atmospheric outback thriller which winds up from the mistaken

official premise that exile was the way to deal with both the police
too corrupt to keep around the capital and the police who wouldn’t
look the other way.’ – PHIL DICKIE, Gold Walkley Award-winning
journalist

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 FRANK CHALMERS is a graduate of the Australian Film,
Television and Radio School. His academic background is in
philosophy and he has taught at high school and university.
He began his writing career on scripts for linear and interac-
tive drama, documentary and educational media, and moved
to conceptual/­interaction design for websites and games. He
merged all of these skills to work for museums and interpre-
tive centres. He now writes novels.

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 FRANK
CHALMERS

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 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First published in 2022

Copyright © Frank Chalmers 2022

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968
(the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever
is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational
purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has
given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin

83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com

A catalogue record for this

book is available from the
National Library of Australia

ISBN 978 1 76106 532 3

Set in 12/17.5 pt Sabon LT STD by Midland Typesetters, Australia

Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press, part of Ovato

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

The paper in this book is FSC® certified.

FSC® promotes environmentally responsible,
socially beneficial and economically viable
C009448
management of the world’s forests.

Conviction_TXT.indd 4 11/4/22 4:18 pm

 1

Ray jerks awake, sucking air as if he’s burst from a bottom-

less, dark-­­green pool, fingernails gouging his palms. He gapes
at the compartment’s two long, leather benches, his facing
the future, the other the past. Empty. Also empty, the corridor
outside, running the length of the carriage.
His blood pulses with the clatter of the train. What woke
him? He stares out at eroded gullies, escarpments, stunted
trees on red-­brown plains rocking by. The first Monday of the
new year, 1976. Heading west into desert, Brisbane must be
two hundred and fifty miles behind already. Noon heat gone,
shadows returning.
The percussion of the train soothes him until all in a rush
the world comes back. Transferred. No, exiled, self-­inflicted.
He presses his forehead against the vibrating window and
resists the urge to press hard, to push, shatter it. Imagines
slivers of glass flying, cutting. He sits back.
That morning, waiting to board, no one to see him off, all
he owned at his feet: a suitcase and small canvas knapsack, the
sum of himself. People were quiet with the pale vulnerability
of early-­start travellers. He watched a woman about his age,

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 FRANK CHALMERS

maybe thirty, lick her fingers and use the spit to glue a defiant
curl onto a little boy’s forehead, the boy’s head rocking under
the pressure. The boy stared at Ray, enduring it, as kids do.
The train arrived in a wall of clamour and power. The
woman took hold of the boy’s upper arm, steering him into
their wooden carriage. Ray stared at her tight grip, jolted by
an image of his own mother pointing at him and laughing. It
was doubly rare: her laughter and Ray thinking of her at all.
It stopped him, causing ripples of discord among the throng
of passengers pushing to board.
Ray stares out at the parched world filling his carriage
window. She came from out here, although he has no idea
exactly where. Expelled under circumstances, she would
bitterly describe, that prevented her bringing photos, clothes,
mementoes, anything of her family. She was killed when he
was twelve in what cops called an ‘unnecessary’ car accident.
His mother’s eyes had Medusa’s intensity, her weapon.
She knew all about exile, her truest home. He shakes himself,
realising that her roots, which never mattered to him before,
apparently now do. His transfer to this piece of country has
needled him, as if the anonymous clerk who picked it knew, was
twisting some spiteful knife. He puts his forehead back against
the rattling glass, enjoys the buzz spreading through his head.
The landscape jumps like a badly loaded old movie. Fifty
miles more without a bend. The train is a mail run, stops
everywhere, stays nowhere, takes forever.
He snaps alert at the muffled sound of someone lurching
into a wall. Muscles flex in his neck and arms, which is how
it starts, the build of dark, violent energy that has pushed him
through the ropes into the ring so many times. He hears a
gravelly curse. Out of sight in the external corridor, something

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 CONVICTION

heavy crunches into a wall again. Another curse. Hairs on his

neck move. His body knows.
A large man weaves into view, his round, sweaty face tight
with frustration, arms out against the sway of the train. He
slams back the sliding door of Ray’s compartment, twists big
shoulders through the doorway and half falls onto the oppo-
site bench, buffeting Ray with grog fumes. The man winks and
raises his eyebrows. Ray lifts his eyebrows in tepid response
as the man heaves himself along the bench to the window
until he is opposite Ray, shading bleary eyes from the fierce
sunlight. He stretches his legs, hits Ray’s, grunts, and jams his
boots under his own bench. Ray gazes out his window.
The man is drunk but big enough to do harm. In his late
twenties, face shining and greasy, crew-­cut hair, wary brown
eyes. Stained jeans, ex-­army shirt, battered boots. He looks
Ray over, burps. His top lip and one cheek are red and raw
as from a blow, skin freshly broken. He produces a bottle of
rum. Ray shakes his head. The man shrugs in disgust, joking
maybe, lifts it in salute.
In a high-­pitched voice, as if his words are starved of air
and only escaping by stealth, he says, ‘Gives you breath like a
brewery horse’s fart.’ Leans in towards Ray, blowing hot air.
‘My old man used to say that. Your old man say that?’
Ray shrugs, turns back to the window.
The man shakes his head, drains the bottle, pulls a face. He
lifts the window off its hook, drops it with a crash and hurls
the bottle out. Burps again and holds out a giant hand, too
close to Ray’s face, maybe from the roll of the train.
‘Name’s Burt. Not Burp. Burt.’ Snorts at his wit, his lip
bleeding a little.
Ray shakes the sweaty paw. ‘Ray.’

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 FRANK CHALMERS

‘Ray? Ray what? Ray of sunshine, eh?’ Stares too long.

‘Where you headed?’
‘End of the line. Royalton.’
Burt lets out a squeaky giggle, odd from such a big man.
‘Arsehole of the west. Royalton, not you.’
Out the window is a tall green crop, row after row after
row to the horizon. After all the ruthless red-­brown, it looks
hand-­painted.
There’s a bellow in the corridor. ‘Burt! You ugly bastard,
where are you?’ Clear as a starting bell. Ray keeps his arms
limp as a second man eases into the compartment. More
grace than Burt, and more venom. Burt delivers the punches
but this is the prick who sends him to do it.
‘Whyn’t you answer me, cunt?’ He flops onto the far end
of Ray’s bench. Looking at Burt but snapping his head at Ray.
‘Who’s your poofter mate?’
Ray waits. Bastard’s already earned the hurt that’s coming.
Same age, same clothes as Burt, but underfed. Thin, wiry arms
knotty from the grind of manual work. A lean face, skin tight
over cheekbones, beady eyes of uncertain colour. The corner
of his mouth curls.
‘Ray of sunshine, my mate Jimmy. Jimmy, this’s Ray.’
Jimmy turns to Ray, makes his judgement, and lifts his
boots onto Burt’s bench. Exit blocked. Burt tries to grin but it
hurts his lip. Ray stares out the window but watches Jimmy
from the corner of his eye, ready if he moves.
Jimmy takes his time, sliding his legs along the bench till he
leans in close to Ray. Brewery horse’s fart alright. Ray holds
up a hand and Jimmy jerks back, vibrant with mock outrage.
‘Fuck! You going to hit me, you bastard? Yeah?’ He flicks
a teasing open hand at Ray’s head.

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 CONVICTION

Ray leans out of range.

Jimmy’s lips set in an irritated line as he swings a backhand
at Ray’s face. Ray sees it, savours it, slips his own right under
the loose arm to chop Jimmy’s throat. Effortless, cruel. Jimmy
spasms, eyes bulging, he leans forwards choking. Ray cracks
a vertical right arm hard on the side of Jimmy’s face, shoving
him away, waits for the recoil, then slaps him backwards with
the back of his right hand.
Over in a flash, stinging, insulting. Jimmy’s eyes fill with
tears and he coughs, unable to speak.
Burt growls, drags himself up and at Ray, arms wide in the
narrow space, coming to crush. Ray stays seated, contemp-
tuous, and lazily shapes up. He enjoys the satisfaction in
Burt’s eyes, before going southpaw, to tease. Hits a vicious jab
to a bulging gut. Burt makes an explosive sucking sound, a
boot coming out of deep mud, and sags, shocked face leading
the way down. Ray hits him with a thudding right on his sore
cheek, then takes his time for a snapping left to the other
cheek. Burt groans, driven back, tears showering. He covers
his face, doubles over onto his bench on top of Jimmy’s boots,
pinning them.
Ray stands, sways away from Jimmy’s wild, seated swing,
comes over the top and crunches his right elbow onto Jimmy’s
nose. Jimmy groans. His blood spurts across the floor. Ray
lifts his boot to smash Jimmy’s knee, make a cripple for life,
but stops. Shakes all over like an animal then kicks the thigh
instead, hard and painful enough to jolt Jimmy’s legs free and
off the bench, dropping him face first onto the bloody, grimy
floor, where he whimpers, huddled.
Ray stands there, wanting more, fists and boots ready. Got
to be more. The urge to hurt surges through him. But these

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 FRANK CHALMERS

two are done. He gives a low, rasping moan, clenches and

unclenches his fists. Cheated, and hates it.
Faces crowd at the windows to the corridor. As usual, what
seemed silent was a racket of pain and anger. Hoarsely pulling
in air, he makes himself sit. As ever, shame comes creeping in.
The shocked faces retreat. He closes bulging eyes, balances
his breathing, applying years of post-­fight practice after the
rush of the ring.
Ray’s eyes open to a beer-­gutted, middle-­aged man in dark-­
blue uniform and round peaked cap in the doorway. His cap’s
metal badge gleams CONDUCTOR.
‘What the hell’s going on here, son?’ Jerking his chin at
Ray as he takes in the bloke on the floor. ‘Shit, Jimmy?’ He
recognises Burt too, which gives him pause.
Back to Ray. ‘You alright, mate?’
From the man’s sweaty uniform, Ray smells the dense odour
of fear, sees his mother ironing his serge school shorts, same
pair, night after night. Brown paper sprinkled with water for the
creases, the iron hissing. Same wet smell. Her unnecessary road
accident came almost a year to the day after his father died in
an accident too, just as unnecessary but more freakish. Tripped
over the fucking dog, then crashed down stairs, breaking his
neck and skull. Tripping on a dog then falling to his death—a
joke to tell at the pub, while toasting the dog.
Ray recalled shivering with rage beyond words at his dad for
letting it happen, and even more so at his mum for provoking
it, a rage that sank deep, and stayed, lying in wait, ready, useful
or not; a feeling like drowning, thrashing in the dark, kicking
the wall beside his bed. Trembling fury at the bad luck of it all,
if that’s what it was and not stupidity or gutlessness.
To stop the anger from eating him, to try to make it work

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 CONVICTION

for him, he took on all comers, first behind the school dunny,
then, after leaving school, behind the pub, fighting everyone’s
battles till a local copper shrewdly pointed him to boxing.
Gave his dumb brawling a shape, and legal cover. Brought
some relief, not enough.
The conductor asks again, ‘Mate? You with us?’
Ray nods, mute so an unsteady voice won’t betray him.
The conductor teeters in his highly polished boots and
peeks at Jimmy and Burt for signs of life, then relaxes.
‘What’d they try on?’ He tilts his head like a bird, as if
sharing a gleeful secret, and slyly holds up a fat, soft fist.
‘Should’ve invited me. Give me enough curry over the years.’
He chuckles, a conniving sound. ‘You want to go official?’
Ray produces his police ID, intent on hiding any tremor in
his hand. ‘I’m a cop.’
The conductor, wide-­ eyed, nods feverishly. ‘Ah, good-­ o,
they’re off next stop anyway. If they can get up!’ Rubs his
hands together, can’t get away fast enough. In the corridor,
ordering people back. ‘Nothing to see here. Bush justice, all
over. Seats please.’
Ray shuts his eyes, breathes very deliberately. The two on
the floor wheeze, grunt—maybe there’s even a sob. No effort
to rise.
Time passes in that coming-­down, post-­adrenaline way,
the train clicking and clacking.
Jimmy elbows Burt, spits blood. Burt burps, then rises,
gripping his stomach, eyes on sticks. His boots lumber all
over Jimmy, who yelps, contorts, can’t get out of the way.
Burt reels out of sight. Ray listens to the rolling roar as Burt
vomits out a corridor window amid indignant yells. Burt yells
something unintelligible, voice fading as he heads away.

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 FRANK CHALMERS

Jimmy pulls himself up onto the far end of the opposite

bench, hunched, shivering. He tentatively wriggles his nose,
flexes his leg, close to tears of ferocious frustration.
‘Fucking copper piece of shit.’
Ray watches, expressionless. Ready.
‘Going to fucking book me?’
‘For what?’
Jimmy absorbs this, then says, ‘Usual shit. Assaulting a
copper. Drunk in a public place. Public fucking nuisance.
Obscene fucking language.’
Ray offers a wry grin. ‘Nope.’ Anger subsiding, a sandy cliff
collapsing into the sea. He looks out the window at desert
country. It’s as if his earlier rage belonged to someone else.
Jimmy swigs whisky, snorts blood. Silence grows, deadens
the space. The train rattles on, talking to itself. As a kid, Ray
hunted for words to fit the pattern of train sounds. Going-­
away, going-­away, going-­away, daddy-­game, daddy-­game.
One time, he was maybe five, with his mother on a train,
she said they were playing a game, away from daddy, making
daddy find them. Daddy needs a lesson. How to behave, treat
mummy. Not to worry, not to worry. Squeezing his hand, her
eyes scary. How far did they get that time? At a station down
the line his father was there puffing like he’d run the whole
way. Ray rushed to him, happy to end the game, his mother
following slowly. Then in the car going home, his mother stiff,
hard. His dad giving her quick looks, Ray in the back seat
humming, not understanding. No talking. Windows down,
air whooshing in. Home for supper.
After his dad’s death, Ray learned how to cook. His mum
swung between attacking his late father for endless failures
and lamenting his absence, then cursing him for both. And

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 CONVICTION

always drinking. Life never returned to any equilibrium, then

his mum’s death ended their old life altogether.
Neither his mum’s family nor his dad’s came to either
funeral. Ray once asked his dad why he had no grand­parents
like other kids and his dad said it was revenge for his own
and his mother’s loud, bold resolve to dump their pasts and
start entirely new lives. Owe nothing, no baggage, clean and
free, was the idea. Not the hollow grind it became. Ray under-
stood none of that, then.
The morning after his mum died, the local cop, shuffling
his boots, came to the empty house and told Ray no family
member was stepping up to take on a wordless twelve-­
year-­old. So, Ray had to come down the station soon as, and
get onto getting adopted. Instead, Ray rode his bike five miles
out of town to his schoolmate Mark’s, where Bill and Virginia
McDonald, stolid canefarmers, let him stay. And that was
that. Maybe Virginia signed something, he never knew.
Jimmy looks at what’s left of his Scotch and holds it out.
They slide along their benches for the handover. Ray has a
swig, pulls a face, hands it back.
Jimmy swigs more, nurses the bottle against his thigh. ‘You
one of Kennedy’s new dickheads?’
‘Who’s Kennedy?’
Jimmy considers him. ‘Chief dickhead detective. Been at
the Royalton copshop for fucking years. Fucking owns it.
How come you don’t know him?’
‘I haven’t been there yet.’
‘New boy? Poor bastard.’
‘Why’s he a dickhead?’
Jimmy fidgets but it hurts. ‘Chucks us in the clink, fines us.
Locks us up for shit he does himself. Fucking cops, eh, all do
what you like. Who’d you fuck over to get sent out here?’

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 FRANK CHALMERS

Ray returns to the landscape. ‘The wrong people.’ Feels

his mouth twist. A corrupt cop, even out here? So much for
a fresh start.
Burt reappears, seriously pale. Jimmy offers the bottle
but Burt shakes his head, and hangs onto the doorway, head
down. Ray inwardly shakes his head at them. Aggressive as
they are, they always end up whipped. Flogged by life. Jimmy
is maybe smart enough to read the signs but likely it’ll only
make him more bitter.
Ray indicates Jimmy’s bottle. ‘You celebrating?’ Goading
and knows it.
Jimmy stares at him too long. Ray wonders if the glint in
his hooded eyes is tears. ‘Fuck you, cunt.’
Burt says, ‘Bank’s taking his place tomorrow. Thirty thou-
sand acres some ten mile south of here.’
Jimmy aims angry eyes at Burt, who clamps his mouth
shut. Points at Ray. ‘You coppers come and help, eh? What
you fuckers do best. Back the bank.’
The rattling changes as the train slows, jerks and jolts. Burt
holds on and Jimmy gets up, swaying.
‘See you later,’ Ray says.
‘Not if I fucking see you first.’ He elbows Burt aside and
vanishes.
Burt gives a cheery wink and follows.
As the train grinds away from the bare concrete slab that
passes for a station, Ray sees them at a battered red ute, heavy
with bull-­bars, bristling with aerials, tossing bags into its back.
The remains of a large cow or bull are on a rise near the
tracks, desiccated, torn hide trailing loose from its jutting
skeleton. Too dry even for crows. An endless dried-­up land.
Checks his knuckles. No skin broken.

10

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