by Clare Atkins
I shrug. ‘Small’s okay – better for doing jumps.’
Aunty Minh grins at me from behind her table of newly plastic-bagged vegetables from our garden. ‘Jonathan. You come. Good. Good.’ She calls to a woman at a neighbouring stall in Vietnamese.
The woman smiles and says something back. Then, seeing my blank look, she teases: ‘You no speak Vietnamese?’ She says something to Dad in a playful, chiding tone. It seems almost as if she’s flirting. I try to see Dad with new eyes. He’s in his element here today; laughing and joking in Vietnamese. He reaches a hand up and rests it on my back, near the nape of my neck. He’s short compared to me, but I guess by Vietnamese standards he’s average. His face is handsome and smooth, his hair shiny, black and thick; a lot of other dads I know – like Will’s and Mel’s – are already balding.
He beams at the woman, switching to English: ‘Jonathan’s very smart. I always tell him – he can do anything he likes – as long as he studies and stays away from trouble.’ He gives me a significant look.
The woman smiles. ‘Maybe doctor.’
To my surprise, Dad shakes his head. ‘No need to be a doctor. We already have one. Remember I told you? His big sister is studying Medicine this year. And Jonathan – he likes music and words. He’s very talented that way.’
I’m stunned. I’ve never heard him say anything like that before. I feel a strange burst of pride.
Dad hands Aunty Minh his bumbag containing change for the stall, and turns back to me. ‘Let’s go for a walk. I’ll buy you breakfast. Whatever you want. What do you like? You still like sticky rice? Something sweet?’
He guides me down the crowded walkway, his hand still on my back, like he wants to show me off.
He says, ‘You know, if you need money, you can always ask me, right? You might not be able to buy everything you want, and I might not have the money straight away, but if it’s important I’ll find it for you, okay? There’s no need to … you know … do anything crazy …’
I have no idea what he’s talking about. ‘Sure.’
I could swear I smell cigarette smoke on his breath and his clothes, but that’s impossible; as far as I know, Dad’s never smoked in his life. I steal a glance back at the woman with the teasing eyes. ‘Who was that?’
‘Phoung. You know, your aunty’s friend.’
‘I think she likes you,’ I say.
Dad laughs, but seems quietly pleased. ‘No, no, no … just friends.’
ANA
Jono is standing in the foyer of the cinema holding a bucket of popcorn in one hand, and a heavy-looking plastic bag over his other arm. He is wearing a faded black T-shirt with white writing scribbled on it that says Nirvana, and ripped black shorts, with a belt for once. It is the first time I’ve seen him out of school uniform, apart from in photos on Facebook. His clothes are shabby. Doesn’t he have any pride?
But the thought exits my mind as he looks up and our eyes meet.
His gaze is hopeful and ridiculously sweet.
I smooth down my clothes, wishing they were more me, or at least the right size. I’ve put in a request with the guards for some bigger clothes, but they haven’t arrived. My yellow T-shirt is so tight it shows the outline of my fraying bra and the hint of scars on my welt-covered back. Luckily, Jono doesn’t seem to notice. He grins at me from across the room.
I give him a self-conscious smile as I follow the officers in. They walk straight past Jono. To them, he is just another movie-goer. He shuffles in behind us, showing his ticket to the usher. I sneak a glance back, and he nods towards the officers, widening his eyes, as if to ask: what now?
I don’t know what to tell him. I imagined the officers sitting up the back, letting us watch in peace. But they stay right beside us, flanking us in.
I try to hang back, but Milly directs Zahra and me into the row of seats with the others, then sits down beside me.
My heart is thumping so loudly the whole cinema must be able to hear.
From the corner of my eye, I see him hesitantly slide into a seat two rows behind.
I could swear I can hear the crunch of his popcorn in my ears.
JONO
She looks really hot. She’s wearing a tight yellow T-shirt that shows off all her curves. It is agony. If I climbed over two rows of seats I’d be right beside her. And in a security guard’s lap.
I don’t want to get her into any kind of trouble, so I hang back. I’m too distracted to watch the trailers. We swap smiles and glances across the space between us. Is this what the whole date is going to be like? I’d imagined us kissing in the dark. Hands wandering. Fumbling. Or, at the bare minimum, I thought we’d be sitting together. I’ve brought a whole bagful of market food, and a seriously overpriced bucket of popcorn from the candy bar out the front. Is she even going to be able to eat it?
I shoot her another look. What’s going on?
She shrugs, apologetic, but doesn’t move.
I chuck another piece of popcorn in my mouth and wait. And wait. And hope.
ANA
I glance back at Jono for what seems like the hundredth time, but is probably only the fifth.
Milly catches me looking, and asks, ‘You know him?’
Zahra jumps in to help. ‘He is at our school.’
‘Friend of yours?’
My heart leaps into my mouth. But I don’t want Zahra to be told off, so I say, ‘He is my friend.’ Milly raises an eyebrow, as I hurry on: ‘We’re in Science together at school.’ I try to calm my nerves. Milly has no way of knowing that this was planned. And as long as she thinks Jono just happens to be here, we can’t get in trouble … right?
Milly asks, ‘Does he want to sit closer?’
I stare, as she moves one seat over and waves Jono forwards.
He looks behind him, checking she isn’t waving to someone else. There is no-one else. The cinema is practically empty.
My nerves are on fire, as he walks gingerly around the end of the row and down the aisle.
And then he’s next to me, offering his popcorn to Milly with a sheepish smile, then passing it along to me and Zahra and the other detainees. My stomach flip-flops, like the popcorn is bursting inside my belly.
Zahra leans forwards. ‘What’s in that bag?’
Jono grins. ‘A three-course meal. Popcorn is the starter. For mains there’s roti and curry from the markets. My aunty has a stall there, remember?’
I nod. ‘She sells vegetables.’
‘Yeah. I stopped there this morning and got this. It’s probably not as good as your mum’s cooking, but it should taste alright.’
I can feel Zahra staring at the familiarity of our exchange, the way words flow between us like water.
Jono carefully extracts a tall stripy cardboard cup with a plastic lid from the bag. ‘And this is dessert. Mango and lime. I didn’t know which juice to get. There’s so many options. I’ll take you there one day so you can choose for yourself.’
My breath catches in my throat. One day … please let there be a ‘one day’, God … please. But I know God is unlikely to make any more deals with me. And there’s a good chance the only one day I’ll get is here and now.
I try to soak it all in. The silky blackness of the enormous screen. The velvet armchairs beneath my thighs. The smell of curry wafting in the air.
I can almost make-believe I’m at the cinema in Iran.
I can almost make-believe I’m free.
Jono thrusts the cup into my hands.
Beside me, Milly shakes her head, but doesn’t intervene.
I take a sip of juice. A cold, sugary tang runs down my throat, through my chest, into my belly.
An icy sweetness.
JONO
The trailers finally end, and the cinema darkens as the movie starts. I quickly pack the food away for later. The plastic bag rustles loudly, and the guard shoots me a warning look.
I sit back in my seat, and turn my attention to the screen. I can feel the warmth of Ana’s presence
radiating from beside me in the semi-dark. I wonder if it might be okay, if she would mind, if anyone else would see, if I reached out and held her hand.
The thought strikes me as kind of ridiculous; I’ve done so much more with other girls.
But Ana isn’t other girls. With her, even the small things feel huge.
I inch my hand towards the armrest.
ANA
His curled fist is resting on the cushioned arm between us, like a cautious brown mouse. Then it suddenly drops onto my knee. I startle but quickly try to regain my composure, checking that Milly and Zahra haven’t seen. But we’re well into the movie now, and everyone’s gaze is glued to the screen.
I feel Jono nudge my arm, his brown puppy-dog eyes seeking out mine in the gloom: Okay?
I nod. Okay.
I feel his fingers weave into mine and forget everything else other than that his hand is warm, so warm.
I can feel his heartbeat in my palm.
JONO
She doesn’t let go until the credits are rolling. She has been holding my hand so tight that when she finally eases away I can still feel the imprint of her grip on my fingers.
Our eyes meet in the flickering light.
I wonder what would happen if I leant forwards and kissed her. I ache for it. Well, that and more.
I inch forwards in my seat … and feel her warm breath on my cheeks, my lips …
Zahra’s face appears from behind Ana’s back.
I quickly sit back in my chair, glad she can’t see me blushing in the gloom.
Zahra nods towards the plastic bag of food on the ground. She puts one finger to her lips and motions for me to slide it towards her. I nudge it over with one foot and watch, bemused, as she stealthily plucks a few things out and shoves them into her bag. Ana looks as though she’s cringing, and for a moment I wonder if she knows I wanted to kiss her and is repulsed by that thought.
But then she snaps at Zahra in Farsi, and I realise she’s embarrassed about the food. I feel stupidly relieved. I want to tell her it’s okay, people take food all the time; my grandmother, Mum’s mum, stuffs food in her handbag every time she’s at a buffet. But before I can say anything, the female security guard stands up. ‘Alright, folks, show’s over. Let’s go.’
I had forgotten she was there.
As we file out of the cinema, I remember the watch.
I dig the small, white jewellery box out of my bag and press it into Ana’s hand. ‘I almost forgot. Your present. The one I bought ages ago.’
Panic enters her eyes; she stands there holding it like it’s a bomb.
Zahra sees and snatches it off her, shoving it into her bag the same way she did with the food.
‘We are not allowed.’ Ana nods towards the guard.
I understand and don’t, at the same time.
In the foyer, I say, ‘Hey, we should get a selfie. To remember today.’ I move in close next to Ana, waving for Zahra to get in too. I pull out my new phone, the one I got from Will, and hold it up. The screen is huge, compared to my old phone, and so clear. I flip the camera to face us, but Ana isn’t smiling. In fact, she looks terrified.
‘No photos allowed.’ The guard’s voice is right beside me. I startle in fright, dropping the phone.
I hold my hands up, as if surrendering. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know …’ I indicate the phone. ‘Can I pick it up?’
The guard nods. ‘But no photos, okay?’
‘Okay. Sorry. I just thought … to remember Ana’s birthday … it might be nice.’
The guard’s eyes seem to harden as we say goodbye.
ANA
Milly waits until we’re loaded back onto the bus before coming to talk to me and Zahra. She rests one knee on the seat in front of us, and fixes me with an accusing gaze. ‘You made me think it was a coincidence that boy was there.’
‘It was,’ I say.
She shakes her head in disappointment. ‘He said it was an outing for your birthday.’
‘I only tell him now. Today. I tell him today it is my birthday.’
But she clearly doesn’t believe me. ‘I’m going to have to write an incident report about this.’
I feel like I’m about to vomit but force myself to say, ‘Please. Only for me. He is my friend, not the friend of Zahra.’
Milly’s voice is quiet and resigned. ‘Okay.’ She moves back up the front of the bus and takes a seat.
The other detainees are watching us, wondering what the hell is going on. I smear my tears away with blurry fingers, trembling as I remember …
… the Nauruan immigration officials asking us question after question.
It goes for hours, until we’re so tired that we can barely see.
Maman tells them we’ve already been through this twice on Christmas Island, but they insist on hearing everything again. She tells them about the whipping, and they request to see my back. I lift my T-shirt to show them the scars.
The Farsi interpreter seems to struggle to translate, as Maman explains about the morality police and the government and our constant fear ever since Baba was killed and left by the side of the road.
They ask how long Maman has been with Abdul.
Abdul says, ‘Many years. Our son is already three.’
But the officials aren’t convinced. Maman and Abdul aren’t married, and Arash’s birth certificate was thrown overboard on the way here. They tell us ‘some people’ pretend to be together because they think it will help them get a visa.
Abdul argues and justifies and rants, until he loses his temper and slams his fist into the wall. The impact of it is so strong that it leaves a hole in the plaster. Abdul backs away, saying, ‘Sorry … sorry …’ But it’s as if no-one hears.
Security rushes to restrain him, as Maman screams in protest …
In the bus Zahra puts an arm around my shoulder, but there’s nothing she can say. We both know the terrible repercussions a record of bad behaviour on your file can have.
As we get closer to Wickham Point, she remembers the gift from Jono in her bag. She pulls out the little white box and flips open the lid. Despite the thrumming in my temples, I catch my breath. It’s a beautiful silver watch with tiny diamond stars marking the spots where the hours would be. But I can’t take it now. ‘Throw it out the window.’
‘Don’t be stupid. Just put it on.’
‘I can’t. The metal detectors.’
‘So what? I wear a watch. They’ll never know you normally don’t.’
My heart drums out a warning, but I let her strap it to my wrist. It feels like it’s burning into my skin.
As the bus turns into the detention centre driveway, I wonder why I’m doing this, taking another stupid risk.
But I’m too numb to fight it now and, anyway, it’s too late. We show our IDs as we file off the bus. And, to my searing relief, Zahra’s right: the metal detector doesn’t sound and no-one notices the watch is new.
Back in Surf compound, Zahra leads me to her room and tells me to wash my face before going back to mine. I follow her instructions as she says, ‘Don’t tell your mum about this, okay? She’ll only worry and, you never know, Milly might not even record it. She’s always been one of the nice ones.’
I nod, but we both know that even the nice ones have to follow procedure.
My mind frets. ‘What if Maman finds out from someone else? Eliza? Or someone who was on the bus?’
‘I suppose your case manager’s a risk. But apart from her, your mum barely talks to anyone else except my mum.’
She pulls the plastic bag of food from her bag. I stare as the remnants of our feast reappear: two low plastic containers quarter-filled with curry and a paper bag containing the torn remains of flat bread.
‘Here,’ she says. ‘Take it for your mum. But wait till my mum goes.’
I want to take it, but I’m worried. ‘Maman will want to know where the food is from. And what if she notices the watch?’
As usual, Zahra is one step ahead. Her
eyes flare with calm defiance. ‘Blame me if you want. Tell her I got it all for you on the black market for your birthday.’
KENNY
I have a quick smoke in the staff car park before my shift. I buy my own cigarettes now. They’re expensive, but I don’t want to become known as a ‘seagull’ – someone who’s always taking handouts.
I file into work and sign on with a sigh. Get my things: keys, ID, radio phone.
I fidget through the team meeting, then enter Surf just as the sun is starting to go down. I stop in at the staff computer room, and have a quick look at the girl and her mother’s files. It’s become almost a compulsion. I check at the beginning and end of every shift, hoping that one day I’ll see a note. Something that says they’re being moved away from Wickham Point. Away from my son.
I look up KIN014 first. There’s nothing new. So I check KIN016. There’s an incident report logged by Milly, which is strange. Someone like Rick submits reports complaining about detainee behaviour every other day, but Milly hardly ever does. I click to open it up, then read.
My breath quickens.
It’s a report about an arranged meeting during the cinema excursion with a non-detainee boy.
I don’t need to ask who that is.
ANA
I take the flat bread out of the white, greasy bag and hold it out towards Maman. ‘Please eat. It’s like naan, like we used to get at home.’
A glimmer of recognition flickers across Maman’s face.
I put a piece of bread in her hand and say, ‘There’s curry too.’ I spread the meal out before her. She stares at it like it’s something from another world, then slowly raises the piece of bread to her lips and takes a bite. Her eyes fill with tears as she chews. She scoops some curry onto the bread, then takes a second bite, and a third.
Arash jumps impatiently up and down on the mattress beside us. ‘I want some! I want some!’
I wrestle him into a hug. ‘Arash, just wait. It’s important that Maman eats.’
