The Nightside of the Country

by Meaghan Delahunt

  My teeth, my hair, my bones. That time bears down, leaves its trace, no doubt about it. I’ve aged badly, ye could say. Aged a decade by the time I got free. At night, in bed, my jaw hurts, my ears flush with sounds not heard in the world outside. If I live to be an old woman, my bones will be brittle.

  I knock on wood three times as I say this: If I live to be an old woman.

  ✳

  18

  The night is closing in and B still hasn’t returned. You’ve sat there, reading her pages while she was off for a walk. You start to feel a little anxious. Some of B’s anxieties are rubbing off on you. Where has she gone? When will she be back? Will she live to be an old woman?

  Eventually you hear the bell at the front door. You hear murmurs and pleasantries exchanged with the nun on reception. B comes in, her cheeks red from the wind and the cold.

  This weather, she says. This place. You know ye’re alive, out in that! She points outside and the rain starts to hammer the windows and the wind is up.

  You decide to ask her point-blank. So, you worry about staying alive?

  Don’t we all? She shoots back. It’s the fuckin human condition.

  But in your particular case?

  I keep tellin ye.

  You know what she’s referring to. Sometimes, I wish we could just forget about it, you say.

  I can’t forget, she says. I don’t have that luxury. A man may come here. Who knows what will happen? And it’s not that I’m worried exactly. It’s the not-knowing. And I’ll miss this – here she gestures around the room, out the window, encompassing everything. The world. All of it. All of us. The ups-and-downs. The turn-abouts. Despite myself, despite the Tao, I’m deeply attached. I can’t help myself. I’m attached to this life and to the whole damn thing. But, I can promise ye this: when it comes, I’ll not go down without a fight.

  ✳

  19

  A woman puts her arm around me, gathers me up, and together with her husband on the other side, the couple lead me into their house. A short while later, the police arrive – a man and a woman. Their voices are low and their manner is unexpectedly kind. I sit in the kitchen of this couple, a few hundred metres from my own house. My lower lip is bleeding and swollen. I have cuts and grazes on my collarbone, on the back of my head and neck and shoulders. The kitchen light hurts my eyes.

  The first question the police ask: Was he black or white?

  White, I say. Blond hair. He looked like a student.

  After all the admonitions from men in cars, it did not come as a surprise that the attacker was white. It turned out that my assailant was the most dangerous of all animals – the angry white man.

  My rescuers phone my boyfriend, who lives nearby. He comes and takes me to the all-night medical clinic, though I don’t remember how we got there.

  This clinic is run by the flamboyant, later known as the flamboyantly criminal, Dr Geoffrey Edelstein. Pioneer of boutique 24-hour medical clinics in Sydney. There is a white baby grand piano in one corner and chandeliers over the reception desk. It has a bordello feel, something familiar from American movies and music videos: like a pimp’s view of heaven at 3 am. I’m the only patient at that hour on this first day of the New Year. It does not feel like a doctor’s surgery. The pink carpet and the chandeliers oppress me. Everything hurts. A female doctor arrives to examine me. She is older than me, but still young. Unlike the police and the couple who saved me, she is not kind. I’m shocked by this. She chastises me for being out on the street at night – for putting myself in harm’s way. Asking for trouble she says, and then stops herself. She brusquely tends my cut lip. Checks my back and head and neck. She is perfunctory and completely unsympathetic. She informs me, without looking at me directly, with her back turned, that I’ll have bruises by morning.

  Then, as if it has suddenly just occurred to her. She says, No rape? Still with her back to me.

  No.

  No robbery?

  No.

  You were lucky, she says tersely, still in the tone which makes me feel it is all my fault. Very lucky.

  I nod. I don’t feel lucky. But I’m alive and know I should feel lucky. I wasn’t raped and I wasn’t robbed. I was only beaten unconscious by a man unknown to me. How lucky can you get?

  The doctor gives me tranquilisers. Enough for ten days. She tells me that I’ll be needing them and to come back if I need more. Of course, she says, frowning as she hands me the prescription, You’ll be needing more.

  I don’t sleep well that night or for many years after, and the tranquilisers don’t help. I’m freezing, although the air is warm. I feel cold for months after. It’s still dark, but dawn is not far off.

  After ten days, I do not go back to get another prescription. I can’t face the doctor again.

  Over the next ten days I stay inside. I’m sore and bruised and confused. I take the tranquilisers as instructed. I still can’t quite believe what has happened: a man has almost beaten me to death; a man left me unconscious and bruised on the pavement. There is a ripple of shock through the Party Youth Organisation but the Party Executive remain silent. They do not send wishes for a speedy recovery. Not one of them comes to visit. My boyfriend goes out on the streets near the house that evening, along with a group of male friends. It is the first night of the New Year, which had seemed so full of promise and now seems very different. They go out scouring the streets of Redfern for a young blond man who looks like a student and his accomplice, the driver. It is a wonderful gesture, if hopeless. I appreciate the effort.

  Neither the driver or the accomplice are ever found.

  For months and years after the assault, the force of it would return, most often in dreams. But now, in this Time of the Felled Men, it fragments and shatters in my line of view and at the edges of my vision, at all hours of the day and night. The force of this return overwhelms me. Is this the return of the repressed, as Freud would have it? I never had any counselling after the assault. I buried it and kept going. For years, I had survivor’s guilt. Every time I read of a rape or a murder or an assault, I’d get that feeling. It could’ve been worse, I kept saying to myself. Now, once again, it’s an effort not to go down the route of how much worse: if the couple up the road hadn’t heard me scream; if the driver of the car had returned while I was unconscious; if the attacker had just kept going, unchecked. I know I should feel better for this great good fortune of survival. But I feel vulnerable and uncertain. I do not feel lucky. In fact, I feel very unlucky. And, three decades on, this feeling dogs me. Decades on, that feeling returns, still cursed. That perhaps I brought it on myself, all along, as the female doctor said. Perhaps it was all my fault. And in this Time of the Felled Men, I worry that it might happen again. I brace myself. I am on high alert.

  It occurs to me, after the assault, that I was attacked outside a safe house, part of the Neighbourhood Watch scheme. I remember the sticker on the front window. I learned later, from the couple who saved me, that the people with the Neighbourhood Watch sign had heard the whole thing, they’d been inside at the time, awake, and had not come to my aid. The couple who saved me were stunned by the indiffer-ence of these people, who didn’t even call the police. They didn’t come to the window. They didn’t come to the door. They did not come to help me. They pretended that nothing was happening outside their front steps. If only I’d been an inanimate object: a gate or a post-box. If only the man had attacked their property, I think. If only their wrought-iron fence had been damaged, then they surely would’ve opened the door. From that time on, a chill courses through me whenever I see a sign for Neighbourhood Watch. I fight the desire to deface such a sign, to grafitti the window or door and to challenge those inside. Property or People? Quite simply, after what happened, I no longer trust that such a sign on such a house denotes safety.

  I no longer trust that such a sign keeps any woman, in any neighbourhood, safe.

  ✳

  III

  Grooming #101

  He targets
you. You are generally younger than him.

  He gives you attention and flattery.

  He gives you gifts.

  He gets to know family, your friends.

  He offers to use his position in some way to help you.

  He offers you a trip, a holiday, a job.

  He—

  THE ENFORCER

  The first time we meet is at a fundraiser, organised by the youth wing of the Movement. I see him come into the room and immediately know who he is. He’s a short fella with a barrel chest and thin legs. Dark hair and a moustache. He has the rolling gait of a hard man. He’s head of Secu-rity – the hardest there is. His job is to seek out touts and deal out punishment. Everyone knows him and what he’s for. There’s a ripple around the room; the atmosphere goes tight. A slight tremor of – what – exactly? Like standing too close to the edge of something or puttin your hand too near to a flame. He has a reputation. He’s known as The Enforcer.

  I look over and see that yer man, The Enforcer, is staring direct at me. He speaks with another man and all the while lookin over. He smiles. Small teeth beneath the moustache. I smile back, just to be polite, like. A reflex action; a thing that girls and women do. I think he’s just an old fella, smilin at me. I don’t find him good lookin, not in the least. The next thing, when I turn around, he’s at my elbow, askin if I’d like a drink. He’s friendly. He tells me that he’s heard good things about me, about my work for the Movement, and if he can help in any way, he’d be happy…that we have people in common, in fact, he tells me that he’s good friends with my uncle. My Least Favourite Uncle. I file this information away. This does not endear him to me. It certainly does not impress.

  He asks what I’m studying and when I tell him he says that it’s a subject he’s interested in. A subject close to his heart. Literature and Language he repeats, approvingly. A smart girl. He tells me I have pretty eyes. Then he moves away.

  The next time I see him, he is actually with Least Favourite Uncle, at the Cathedral after Mass. I tolerate this Uncle, as we all do in the family. He’s a Holy Roller with seven children and he always arrives on our doorstep at mealtimes with his silent wife and kids in tow. His daughters grudge through our door with huge crucifixes at their necks. My ma always sighs and shrugs and raises her eyes to heaven when she sees them. There was the time when I was fifteen, at a family baptism, and the Uncle comes up, kisses me on the lips, holdin me too tight around the waist and he gives me a squeeze; his hand wanderin along my bra strap, and he starts to whisper, Who’s the sexy girl now? From that moment on, I give him short shrift. And it seems the Enforcer is tight with this Uncle? God help us, I think to myself. The Enforcer comes up after Mass and says he’s heard talk, through my Uncle, that I’m lookin for work. It’s my second year of study and it’s true enough, I need a new part-time job. He has four children himself and one on the way, he says. Perhaps I’d do some baby sittin for him and his wife when the new wean arrives?

  Perhaps I say, looking down at my feet. I have zero interest in babysitting, but I keep that to myself. So I say to him: Thanks all the same, but it’s other work I’m after…

  Keep it in mind, he says, a little curt, not at all pleased by my answer. We’re lookin out for ye.

  Thank you, I say, again. Feeling guilty and a little confused by his tone.

  He scuffs the ground with his boot, but doesn’t move away.

  And how’s the study, he asks, switching tack, and his voice softens a little. What’re ye readin now?

  My parents look on at this exchange, proud that I’m at the university, but also a little wary. I catch my ma’s eye. Don’t upset him, is what I read there. Humour him, there’s a good girl now.

  And so I tell him what I’m reading, just to keep it sweet. Just to keep him off my back.

  She’s a clever one, he says to my parents. All right then, he says, I’ll be off.

  The next day, in the post there’s an envelope addressed to myself. Inside is a book token and a note. For the smartest girl on the block, it reads. From Joe. There is an X after his name.

  At first I’m stumped. I have to think who this Joe fella actually is. Then it dawns on me, because everyone knows him as The Enforcer. I’m embarrassed that a grown man is sending me gifts. I’m not sure what to think and so I keep my thoughts to myself. Privately, from that moment on, I start to call him X. Ex. X like the letter of the alphabet, not a symbol for a kiss. My own private joke.

  What was that in the mail? My ma asks.

  Oh nothin, I say, offhand, not wanting to attract attention. Just a note from a friend.

  Two months later, X’s wife births the wean and Least Favourite Uncle rings to say that X and his wife could really do with some help. The job of babysitter is mine if I want.

  You should take it, says ma. My da is not so sure, but eventually he says. You need the money, ye should take it.

  For the first wee while it goes well. For the first few months. X makes a point of talking to me about ideas, and books, about politics, about the Movement. For a hard man he seems OK. He tells me how much he loves his children, makes a show of affection for his wife, rare in these parts.

  Around this time, police find the bodies of two touts in a burnt-out car near the border. Word is that X tracked the touts, led them there, then poured the petrol, lit the match.

  More than ever, you know you have to be careful with X.

  At Mass now on a Sunday, X always makes a point of coming over with the Uncle. My parents thank him and his wife for giving me work. One time, he’s behind me in the line for communion and I feel his breath on my neck and he feels too close and I half-turn and he steps back and grins at me and I smile weakly. What else can I do? Because, when you’re young, and old men take an interest in you – and when ye’re a young woman, even a man a few years older seems much older and anythin beyond that is beyond the pale and what ye don’t want to do is upset them or embarrass them in any way. You don’t want anyone to think ye’re up yourself because an old boy has taken a harmless fancy. Do ye now?

  So then it comes that after Mass, the Uncle takes to stopping by the house with X, to have a few drinks with my da and a natter about the football. He’s always polite, old-fashioned courteous, even. He always smiles and asks how I am. Sometimes he brings us flowers and winks at me as he hands them over, For the women of the house, he says. The family warm to him. My da says: For a hard nut, he’s a good man. And ma pronounces him a charmin fella, a true gent, despite what people say.

  One afternoon, his wife is out with the older children at the park, and I’m left with the two youngest and the wean. X is at a meeting. I hear the door go when X comes home. I’m at the kitchen table with my course work, stuck on an essay. The kids are in the lounge. I hear the door go and put my pen down and am just about to turn to say hello when he pushes hard at me from the back, puts his hands across my chest and starts to kiss me on the back of the neck. He has the smell of the drink about him. I’m caught off-balance, try to get up out the chair but he’s pushing me back down. He has one hand about my throat, tries to stick his tongue in my mouth. He calls me a clever little bitch and a cock tease and don’t you want it?

  I manage to push him off. Stand up, shaking and I gather my books, ready to go. And he stands swaying slightly in the doorway.

  Hey, darlin. Our little secret, eh? No harm done?

  I nod my head, in shock and mute agreement. No harm done and gather up my books and papers and push past him and out the door, out into the street. My heart beats fast all the way home and I keep lookin behind me. I half-walk, half-run all the way back and when I get home I’m all out of breath.

  My ma and da ask if I’m OK. And when I reassure them, tell them I’m coming down with something, they ask, as they always do, how was the wean, how was X and his wife and I say fine, all fine and go upstairs and have a bath and start cryin in the bath and let the warm water soothe me. I see a bruise starting to form on my neck.

  And then I do
indeed come down with something, all the next week, flu-like symptoms, and the next again Saturday I plead sick and don’t go to the babysitting. I want to avoid the house of The Enforcer. At Mass on Sunday, I see X and he comes up to the family, all smiles, as if nothing happened the week before and taps me on the arm and says how the weans are askin for me and that him and his wife hope I get better soon. My ma assures him I’ll be right as rain. He turns to me in front of everyone and says he’s heard about a scholarship to the States, somethin in the Arts and Humanities like, and that he could put in a good word. He has a friend on the Board. I’d be perfect for it, he says. A perfect candidate. My da thanks him for thinkin of me, and of the family. We all know times are hard. And then I wonder, I start to think maybe I’ve imagined somethin here. After all, here he is himself, yer man, standing right in front of me. A good family man, enquiring about my health, a man that’s gifted me a job, a man who offers me help with a scholarship. Maybe, all what happened, in his house, maybe it was just a one-off? Maybe it didn’t really happen like it did. Maybe I was overreacting, maybe it wasn’t that bad. I seriously start to doubt my own reactions. You need to toughen up, I tell myself. These things are what happens, sometimes, when a man takes a drink.