David Bain on Stage

Telling the truth in Perth.

At the International Justice Conference in Perth, a symposium organised by Justice W.A., an Australian lawyer joked, "I've never been in the room with so many convicted killers." Exonorees Lindy Chamberlain-Creighton and Rubin "Hurricane" Carter mingled with Betty Anne Waters and legendary U.S. lawyer Barry Scheck. Outside there were palm trees, exotic birds. There were dolphins in the river, Aborigines living along the riverbank and a heat wave, 43 degrees. Inside, in the air-conditioned chill, I was talking to David Bain.

He was to be a keynote speaker. He was polite, well-spoken and intelligent. We shook hands; we talked about various things. Was he pleased with the recent interview he'd given to TV3? In some ways, he said, but there was the problem that it had attracted more attention. What he wanted was to be able to lead a normal life. He'd even thought of moving overseas. Would he be anxious, I asked him, before making his speech? He didn't think he'd be nervous, he said, because he'd done some work on the stage.

Across the room Bain's campaigner, Joe Karam, was all energy, with his roguish winks, his anecdotes. He told me that he'd like to write his memoirs, also that he'd thought of writing fiction. "I've gathered a lot of material over the years," he said, perhaps referring to the numerous characters he's encountered while taking on the justice system. He said he strongly believed David would get compensation, and strong belief is what he still radiates, tirelessly, so much so that you wonder what will happen to all that energy if Bain succeeds in his compensation claim, and there's no more campaigning to be done.

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Family Brand

At a book launch at New Zealand House in London, an official solemnly concluded his speech with a quote from "the great writer, el Doctorow". Next to me a British poet registered the mistake with a raised eyebrow. I thought of el diablo, el Dorado: the devil, the City of Gold. Beyond the windows the great city was sunk in a brown haze, lights blurred in the gloom, raindrops snaked down the windows. Inside it was hot and crowded and the light was harsh. I was in a mood to pay close attention: el diablo was in the detail, and the conversations all were gold. We were talking about family. A woman told me a story: when she was a student she stayed in a small town in Italy and fell in love with a young man. She grew close to his family, and thought seriously about staying. But her father, who had a mysterious job in the UK government, had the young man vetted, and discovered his family was the centre of a powerful mafia clan.

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On Michael Laws

Feral Territory

There was no sun, there was nothing new under the sun, but few sights are as unchangeably beautiful as the colours of Doubtless Bay: gradations of white, grey, blue, green as the sea shades into the Far North sky. Above the vast stretch of moving water the gannets scan the surface, plummeting with a white flare. At Whatuwhiwhi we were a party of seven: two adults, three children, son's girlfriend, daughter's boyfriend. Gales whipped the bay into a mess of foam and flying water, then the wind died and the sea turned calm under the low grey sky. My brother-in-law, Dave Grimshaw, the TV helicopter paramedic, now home here and working in Kaitaia, turned up one evening and described, with relish and in comic detail, the challenge of a Far North ambulance callout: locations remote and obscure, communications liable to fail. In the dark, in the middle of nowhere, armed with map and torch, Dave drives his ambulance into the unknown. 'The people are lovely,' he said, 'if you can find them. And if you show them you care.'

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On Christopher Hitchens

Facing the New Reality 

All over the Christian world they are praying for Christopher Hitchens. Reality has struck him, in the form of a diagnosis. He has cancer, the outlook is grim. He denies that God exists so they pray for his soul, on their knees, hands clasped. They hope for a conversion, the unctuous fantasists. It's so hard to see anything good in them.

He does not embrace Christianity. Nor does he lie around at home. He takes a private plane. They're on their knees and he's flying, crossing America on a tour, debating the existence of God. Hitchens in his plane, looking down on the earth, on plains and prairies and American towns. Recent footage shows him talking about his illness. In his eyes there is pain, humour, sadness and courage. He was wrong on Iraq. On God, he is nothing short of heroic.

Facing the age-old realities: death, birth. I read Smoking in Antarctica, Steve Braunias's new book of collected columns. He quotes a CK Stead poem on the birth of a child: 'I do not want myself back.' I am struck with a memory: Steve picking up his week old daughter Minka, holding her on his knee. A new father, confronting the new reality, embracing it. He was wry, amused, willing, a natural.

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Me and Boris Johnson

 

Memory and Desire and Mayors

In The Telegraph in September, London Mayor Boris Johnson revealed he'd attended the same school as Ed Miliband and his brother, David. Following this up, journalists discovered other ex-pupils of the same school: writer Zoe Heller, film director Sam Mendes. Nostalgic Johnson described a 'pre-paranoid' education: the freedom, the bikes, the tooth-rotting lollies, the way the school buildings were wedged so close together you could shinny up between them until you were twenty feet off the ground. He mentioned abominable food doled out by dinner ladies, playground fights, kids roaming free in an era when parents didn't think there was a 'paedophile behind every bush.'

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The Emperor Augustus

Ancient Morals and Superpower          
On the Palatine Hill in Rome the cypresses are dark slits in the blue sky and the dust rises from the paths and the stone walls radiate heat and the city of Rome is spread out below, from the Circus Maximus to the Vatican. The lines of history stretch far, far back and there's nothing new under the sun.
When Rome was the superpower that controlled the Western Mediterranean and the Middle East, when Julius Caesar was consolidating his dominance by challenging the Senate and the constitution, pushing through controversial legislation and defying the Senators, when Caesar installed Cleopatra on the Egyptian throne and began his great affair with her, there were still fifty years to go before the birth of Christ.

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God goes after Richard Dawkins

The Word Made Flesh

At the Writers and Readers week in Wellington there were two schools of thought on Richard Dawkins. My taxi driver said, 'I don't like him. The way he goes on. It's like he's founded a new religion.' I made non-committal noises. I was firmly in the other camp: the happy-clappy one. The one that raises its hands and says, 'Thank God for Richard Dawkins.'

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