by Clare Atkins
Maman divides the remaining piece of bread in two, and hands the bigger piece to Arash.
I tug it gently out of his grasp. ‘Arash, give that back to Maman. Please. I’ll take you to the Mess. You can have ice-cream.’
‘Yes! Ice-cream!’ Arash scrambles up. I hurry to follow.
As we reach the door, I hear Maman’s voice. ‘Anahita …’ I turn, on edge, ready to be interrogated about where the food came from, or how I have a new watch. But instead she just nods. ‘Thank you, azizam.’
She just takes another bite and chews slowly, closing her eyes.
My heart sings. ‘Keep eating, Maman. We’ll be back soon.’
KENNY
I see her outside the Mess with her little brother, trying to stop him running up and down the line.
She calls, ‘Arash! Officer! Officer!’ He sprints to her side and peers anxiously around.
I try to reassure myself: no-one knows that the boy who met her at the cinema was your son. It’s nothing to do with you. Just act normal. Breathe.
The girl slings a protective arm diagonally across her brother’s thin chest.
I stop dead. There’s something on her wrist. The watch I saw in Jonathan’s drawer. The watch he probably stole. Did she ask him for it? Or bribe him? Or tell him to steal it?
I should’ve asked him about it straight away, as soon as I found it. I shouldn’t have let it slip, won over by his rare friendly smiles. But it’s too late now. He got the watch from God knows where, and now he’s given it to this girl.
They’ll manipulate you … manipulate him …
A protective fire ignites in my belly as I imagine her using his weakness for her gain.
The dragon rears up.
I take a step, then startle as Scott’s voice rings out behind me. ‘Kenny, I thought I asked you to do the room checks with Rick.’
My exhalation is hot and ragged. ‘Just heading there now.’
I force myself to walk away.
Rick is waiting just outside the first room on today’s list. He insists on doing the video recording; I’m lumped with the search yet again. I’m usually meticulous, but today I just do a general sweep. The room is all clear, but as we’re leaving Rick points to a twenty-cent piece on the floor by the bed.
I pick it up and glare at him. ‘Thanks, Rick.’
We complete the rest of the room searches, then I spend half an hour typing up a report for the twenty-cent piece.
I don’t see the girl again.
As I sit, killing time on the computers at work that night, I feel wired and wild and wide-eyed.
JONO
My eyes snap open. Dad’s face is right above mine. His hand is shaking my shoulder, and there’s a barrage of words in my ear. I shrink back into the bed. ‘Dad. Stop yelling.’
‘Get up!’ He moves a few inches back.
‘What time is it?’ I scramble to sit up.
He ignores my question, eyes blazing. ‘You went to the movies with that girl. And you gave her a watch. I told you to stay away from her.’
I start to shake my head, but anger spews out of him like fire.
‘Don’t lie to me, Jonathan. I know you did it. Was it her idea for you to go to the movies?’
‘What? Have you been spying on me?’
‘Where did you get the money?’
My mind struggles to keep up with the barrage of questions.
‘Did you steal it?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘Did she ask you for the watch?’
‘No, I –’
‘Or other expensive gifts? They sell them on the black market, you know. They’re not sentimental about stuff like that. Personal belongings get traded all the time.’
I can’t help myself. I say, ‘She wouldn’t do that. It was a present for her birthday.’
‘Ha! I bet she made you think she actually cared. That’s how these people operate. She’ll use you and throw you away.’
I feel a lurch of doubt, then tell myself that Dad is crazy and none of this is true.
He continues. ‘And you’ll be left and … you’ll feel …’
‘What? Pathetic? Weak?’
I see a flash of guilt, then he turns and looks around my room. ‘What else are you hiding? What else have you stolen? I saw the hard drive –’
‘I saved up.’
But he doesn’t even hear my lie. He’s opened the cupboard and is pulling out my clothes, throwing them on the floor.
I beg him to stop. ‘Dad, please. What are you doing? There’s nothing here.’
‘Where did you really get those shoes from?’
‘I told you – the op-shop.’
He pulls the drawers out of my desk, and empties them, one by one, onto me, onto my bed, onto the floor. My stuff is everywhere.
‘Dad! Stop! I haven’t stolen anything!’
But there’s a look of vindication in his eyes. I realise he’s seen the smartphone charging on the floor. He picks it up and shakes it angrily in the air. ‘Where did this come from then? Huh? Huh?’
‘It’s from Will, remember? He loaned it to me before –’
He lets out an angry primal kind of roar. His free hand swipes at the shelf above my desk. My row of dusty soccer trophies flies into the air, along with the carved wooden box from Mum.
I hold my breath, as the trophies clatter onto the floor.
The lid of the box snaps open as it lands. Its contents scatter across the light grey tiles: faded red Chinese New Year envelopes, cigarette papers, a lighter, a half-smoked joint and fat heads of pot.
I’m screwed.
KENNY
I pick up the marijuana and various bits and pieces, and put it all into a green plastic Woolworths bag.
This is even worse than I thought. He’s out of control. I have completely lost control.
‘You said you wouldn’t smoke anymore.’ It sounds lame, even to me.
‘I don’t. Much. I’m … minding it for a friend.’
Of course, I know he’s lying. I confiscate the shoes and the hard drive and the phone. My mind races: is this how he got the money?
‘Have you been selling this marijuana?’
‘No … Dad, no … ’course not.’
But his expression is as guilty as hell.
I want to shake some sense into him. Or beat him with a chopstick until he understands how serious this is; how it could destroy his future. I’m sure Will is involved, but there’s no point talking to his mum. I think about calling Roxanne, then imagine her patronising tone as she explains what to do next.
I decide to call Minh, and ask her to come and stay with Jonathan tonight, while I’m at work. ‘Can you come over by five? That’s when I have to leave.’
She starts asking questions, of course. ‘What has Jonathan done now? Is he crying again? Girlfriend break up with him?’
‘No.’ I try to keep the snap out of my voice; there’s no-one else I can ask to help. I used to feel like I had friends here, but they’ve gradually faded away since Roxanne left. I guess they were her friends, really, not mine.
‘I’ll explain later, okay? Just come here at five, and make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. You can sleep in Lara’s old room. Can you do that?’
Minh agrees, and I hang up. I can sense Jonathan’s presence, as he listens sullenly from his room.
I yell down the hallway. ‘Did you hear that? From now on, no going out. If it’s a school day, I’ll drop you there and pick you up. And if I can’t be here I’ll ask Minh to babysit.’
‘I’m not a baby.’ His voice is small.
I holler back at him, fury infusing my words: ‘You act like a baby, you get treated like one.’
ANA
Maman sits in the shade of the walkway, cradling Setareh in her arms. It is the first time I’ve seen her hold her in weeks. Meena’s sick today, so I stayed home from school to help. As much as I wanted to see Jono, it’s almost a relief. My whole body tenses every time I think of the bl
ack mark on my file.
Through the fence in front of us, we can see a group of men playing soccer on the sports field. Arash has his own ball and kicks it against the fence, imitating the main game and whooping gleefully whenever he scores a pretend goal.
I sit next to Maman, taking it all in. The bright clear sky. The wet green grass. Dragonflies hovering everywhere I look. The air is less sticky today, and I wonder if the cool change Jono keeps promising is finally on its way.
For a long time, we sit in silence.
Then, to my surprise, Maman speaks. ‘Your dad was a good soccer player. Do you remember? I used to take you down to watch.’ Her voice is dry and scratchy from lack of use. ‘I still think about him every day, you know.’
‘I do too.’
‘Sometimes you seem angry, like you think I met Abdul and erased your dad from my heart.’
‘I don’t think that,’ I say.
But she doesn’t seem to hear me. ‘Maybe you’ll understand when you’re older. Maybe you won’t. Love can arrive unexpectedly. You don’t get a say in when or what or who. All you can do is grab it when it appears. And you do have to grab it. There’s so much darkness in the world …’ Her voice trembles, and she breaks off.
I think about telling her about Jono and listening to music and going to the movies and holding hands.
But the news of the incident report would crush any shred of hope she might still have.
So I just sit beside her, watching Arash kick his ball against the fence.
A dragonfly settles on my arm.
KENNY
I drive to work with my shoulders as tense as steel. I break my own rule and light a cigarette in the car, inhaling angrily before hurling the smouldering butt out of the window, onto the gravel on the side of the road.
I blame the girl, of course. I blame her for all of it: Jonathan lying, sneaking around, selling marijuana, buying her gifts.
And beneath that, I blame myself. Why did I ever tell her his name? Why was I so stupid as to get Jonathan involved in a mess like this? Particularly after last year – when he was so vulnerable. Weak. I know he hated me saying that, but it’s true: when I hurt I harden, but he collapses into mush. The girl must’ve taken advantage of that. My son, the easy target.
In the team meeting, I barely hear the briefing, only tuning in at the word ‘Iranian’.
Three families need to be moved from Surf to Sun compound in preparation for being transferred out early tomorrow morning.
Hope surges in my chest. But when the boat numbers are read out there are none that I recognise, and when I stop by the computer room to do my regular check there’s nothing new on the girl and her mother’s file. Damn.
I step out into the compound, feeling as though I’m moving in fast-motion, or have downed too many Vietnamese coffees. I scan the area, feeling paranoid, as I walk.
The atmosphere seems fraught, electric, on edge. But maybe that’s just me.
And yet … I could swear people are whispering.
Conspiring.
I see Milly escorting two women and a baby down the walkway.
The air rumbles with discontent.
ANA
As we walk back to the rooms, I hear a shout, then a panicked cry. I can’t make out the words.
Some men I saw on the soccer field sprint towards the compound gate, where people are gathering. There are two women in the centre of it. Jamileh and Shadi, who is holding her baby boy.
Milly and another officer seem to be herding them towards the gate to Sand.
Jamileh pleads and begs. ‘Please! No! Don’t send us back! Please not Nauru!’
Shadi holds the baby tight. Refuses to keep walking.
Jamileh falls to the ground, clutching Milly’s leg.
The crowd swells around them, pulsing with anger. Fear. Dismay.
Two more officers appear with another family, another baby, to be sent away. The father starts banging his head against the brick wall until his forehead is a mess of bloody flesh.
A skull of exploded red.
A curve of grey-white bone.
There is wailing and screaming all around us, as loud as sirens. A pregnant mother appears on the third-floor balcony, threatening to jump if she has to go. I see an officer sprint towards the stairs.
… blood-curdling screams …
Nearby, two men climb onto the roof. Below, a furious mob faces off against the officers, throwing rubbish bins and yelling and smashing windows and shaking the fence and bashing on doors.
I search for Baba’s face in the crowd.
The world is tear-stained.
I don’t know what to do, where to run, what to think.
The air smells of sick and salt.
I can’t see Arash. I scream his name.
Maman grabs Setareh from her pram and limps, as fast as she can, towards the compound fence.
It is almost like freedom…
I yell, ‘Maman! Stop! Wait!’ But she’s already trying to climb, clawing at the wire with one desperate hand; the other clutching Setareh against her chest.
I run towards her, begging her to stop.
An officer appears in front of me and peels Maman from the fence. It is Blockhead. He shoves her heavily to the ground.
The policemen yell at us, ‘You sluts!’
Fear shrieks through every cell of my body as I keep running, desperate to help Maman, to hold Setareh.
A hand shoots out and grabs my hair.
My headscarf is ripped off and thrown to the ground.
… a fiery iron band …
I twist and scream, arms flailing.
Blockhead yells something, his booming voice deafening in my ears.
My fingernails drag across rough, prickly skin, then my body is released.
For a moment I am free.
Then two hands grab me from behind, twisting my arms behind my back, dipping my face roughly towards the ground.
Something pointed and metal presses into my back.
My lips and chin scrape raw.
I feel the whip cut into the flesh on my back, again and again and again and again.
I taste blood and I can hear myself screaming, ‘Maman! Maman!’
A man’s voice yells out.
I thrash wildly, frantically, madly.
Security rushes to restrain …
I see the guard holding me down.
It is Kenny.
My stomach lurches.
I rasp his name.
He takes hold of my wrist and pounds it into the concrete.
Crimson water gurgles as it swirls down the drain.
The crunch of breaking glass sounds like it’s inside my head.
KENNY
Anger and fear and desperation pump through my veins. I can feel the girl’s body shaking as I hold her down. My knee is in the small of her back, one hand on her wrist, the other hard on her bare neck. I wonder if I’m breaking some kind of Muslim law by touching her hair. I’m so close I can see bald patches and scabs amongst the waves of dark brown.
I look around and see her headscarf lying ripped nearby.
The concrete seems to glitter with minuscule shards of glass from the girl’s watch. The watch Jonathan gave her. The watch I just smashed.
The girl is weeping and distraught, as she sobs for her mother.
Suddenly I let her go and stand up, the adrenaline finally subsiding as I look around. No-one pays me any attention; the whole centre is a chaos of screams and wails. I’m relieved to see that the riot police have arrived; they separate groups and herd bystanders into their rooms.
The girl looks up at me with hunted eyes. A shudder runs right through the core of me. What have I done?
The shift leader appears beside me. ‘You alright?’
I nod but can’t bring myself to speak.
Later, when I’m writing up the report, I run the incident through my mind again and again. The mother scrambling frantically at the fence, her movements inef
fectual and lopsided. She couldn’t use the arm that was holding the baby. Did Rick really have to shove her to the ground? And when the girl charged towards Rick. Was she angry? Or confused? Or scared? I remember Rick yelling, ‘Grab her! Control and restraint!’
Is that what he did? Is that what I did? Controlled and restrained?
I can’t be sure. The events are now soaked in the red of my fury, along with a sinking sense of guilt.
Were my actions a lapse of judgement? An overreaction? A fit of rage?
I can’t think straight. The girl’s screams are still shrill in my ears. I recall seeing the watch on her wrist. An image of Jonathan weeping in bed flashing into my mind. The dragon up on its haunches, bellowing clouds of fire. The smack of flesh on concrete, and the crunch of glass.
I remember someone here telling me, ‘Whatever you do, don’t admit fault.’ I convince myself there’s no point coming clean. If the operations manager finds out I used force on a minor, there’ll be a formal investigation. They’ll find out about Jonathan and the watch and who knows what else. I could be fired. And I can’t afford to be out of work, especially now, with the news that Jonathan’s been selling drugs.
I type ‘control and restraint’ into my report about the mother, but omit any mention of the girl. If she makes a complaint, or it was captured on the CCTV, I’ll just say I forgot. It’s a believable excuse; so much of the riot is already a blur.
There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn in my chair and see Rick sitting at the computer behind me.
‘Did you hear me?’ he says.
‘Sorry. What?’
‘I was saying I should charge that little bitch. Fucking scratched me. Look.’
There is a thin scrape of red amongst the stubble on his chin.
I start to panic. ‘You can’t put that in your report. Don’t even mention her. She’s a minor, remember?’
‘Oh yeah. Fuck. Thanks.’ He turns back to writing his up.
I do the same. I haven’t even finished this report, and there are so many still to do. I realise I’d better call home.
