Free Bali 9: The Untold Story by Madonna King, Cindy Wockner Page B

to drag on for years and years, and he had no reason to suspect the call would be for any other reason. Certainly, in his wildest dreams, he would not have thought that the call would tell him that his son had been arrested in Bali with eight other young Australians, three of them his co-workers. None of that made sense. He knew Matthew better than that. He also knew one of his co-accused, the young woman by the name of Renae Lawrence. She had even been to his house once.
    It was on a Sunday, around Christmas time, and Michael and his daughters were heading out for theday. They’d packed the car and were ready to take off when Renae fronted. She had come around to look for a bag that belonged to her; she thought it might be in Matthew’s room. Michael Norman walked her up the stairs to check whether any bag had been left there. He remembers how boyish she looked, and how he really had thought, at first, that she was a man.
    At the top of the stairs, Renae looked around but couldn’t find the bag, then left. And Michael Norman didn’t see Renae Lawrence again until her face filled the same television news bulletin as his son’s. Both of them, along with a handful of others, had been arrested in Bali on serious drug charges. Michael had also heard of one of the other young lads, but that was all. Even though Matthew worked with three of them, most of their names did not ring a bell. Certainly, with the exception of Renae, they’d never been to his house. Something just didn’t add up.

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The Brisbane Connection
    W hen the 10.46 p.m. train from Graceville slides into Chelmer station on time, the young bloke hanging onto the back is met with the drunken applause of his mates drinking nearby. Others are focused on the middle of the train as a lad appears from nowhere, deftly using his spray can to sign his moniker on one of the carriages, before the train chugs off towards Indooroopilly and beyond. Others are too lazy for the short journey to the platform, knowing that, if they want, their turn will come later. A train runs between the two Brisbane suburbs pretty much every thirty minutes until 1.16 a.m. on this night, and there’s plenty of time to go for a B-ride—back-ride—or use the spray cans hidden nearby to put their tag on a train.
    It’s Friday night and Scott Rush, Michael Czugaj and a gang of other youths are drinking and smoking in a little park snuggled in under the Walter Taylor Bridge in Indooroopilly, in Brisbane’s west. Not everyone in the group of twenty or so knows each other, but that doesn’t matter. Not everyone is drinking, either, but certainly most are. Nor is everyone smoking, but groups of them are passing around a joint. Everyone knows someone in this big, broad group of teenagers, almost all boys, from some of Brisbane’s best schools. There’s a couple from Marist Brothers Ashgrove and Marist Brothers Rosalie. St Lawrence’s is in there too, and Kenmore State High School, Corinda State High School. And other schools, either based in the local area or a quick train ride away. But, without uniforms, there’s not much to identify what school most of the young lads attend during the week. That’s not important here, anyway, where school books are forgotten and people’s school identities along with them.
    The ages of the boys sitting around run from fourteen or so to seventeen, although you can’t rule out someone a bit younger or older sneaking in. No one stands out on these nights and everyone is dressed in similar gear. Tracksuit pants, polo shirts, runners and the odd hat are the uniform of choice. But the few girls who dot the circle of teenagers certainly stand out. Tonight there’s only a couple of them, and they are wearing short skirts and body-hugging tops. They seem to want the attention the boys don’t. But the boys aren’t entirely aimless—the school week ended sixhours ago, and most of them planned to drink until they were drunk and school was a hazy memory. They