Between Us

by Clare Atkins

  Minh answers her mobile on the second ring. ‘You interrupt my game. I’m playing Candy Crush. Jono show me.’ She sounds bizarrely proud.

  I tell her the centre is in lockdown. I don’t know if the staff will be allowed out by 6.00am.

  ‘I’m still hoping we are,’ I say. ‘But if I’m not home in time, can you please take Jonathan to school?’

  JONO

  I hear Aunty Minh talking to Dad in low, worried tones on her phone. She speaks in Vietnamese, so I can’t understand, but her forehead is pinched with concern, and her words sound strained.

  She hangs up and says, ‘Your dad stuck at work.’

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘I can’t say.’

  I grab my laptop from my room.

  It takes me two seconds to google: Wickham Point today.

  An NT News article comes straight up. A picture of a high electric fence, with the headline: Riot erupts at Wickham Point detention centre protesting moving family and pregnant woman to Nauru.

  I think of Ana. She wasn’t at school today.

  I quickly scan the piece. Aunty Minh comes to read over my shoulder.

  … at least 20 detainees …

  … self-harming …

  … attempted suicide …

  … further abuse …

  My heart thuds loud with fear.

  ‘Can we call Dad back and ask about my … friend?’

  Aunty Minh shakes her head.

  ‘Or call the detention centre?’

  ‘No way they tell you anything.’

  I know she’s right.

  I send Ana a message, but am sickeningly sure she won’t reply.

  KENNY

  I drive home exhausted. Eyelids heavy. A loud honk blasts me back to attention, as a bus of Inpex workers thunders past me in the opposite direction. I shake my head and take a large gulp of air. We’re never allowed to sleep on night shift, but this was something else. Incidents kept flaring up, like spot fires that had to be put out. I was on my feet all night, running from one nightmare to the next. The only good thing about it was there wasn’t too much time to think about the girl, or what I did, or what might happen if management finds out.

  As I near home, I feel a growing sense of dread. I don’t want to face Jonathan. But I’ve barely stopped the engine and opened the car door, when he appears.

  ‘Dad. Is Ana alright? Is she still there? Did they deport her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are they going to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I’m too tired to ask how Jonathan knows what happened. I feel as if I’m returning from a war zone. I stagger towards the house. All I want is a shower. Clean clothes. My own bed.

  But Jonathan won’t let up. He buzzes around me like a persistent fly.

  ‘Will she be at school today?’

  ‘There’s no way the bus will run.’

  ‘I want to go and see her.’

  ‘The place is in semi-lockdown. No visitors allowed.’

  ‘Well, when they’re allowed again –’

  ‘You’re grounded, remember?’

  ‘I don’t care. Take me or I’ll find a way to go alone.’

  ‘You can’t. You need an adult.’ I pray that’s a knockout blow.

  I can still see the fear in the girl’s eyes. Hear the terrified pitch of her screams.

  I start to drag my tired body down the hall, then stop when I hear Minh say, ‘I take you.’

  ‘What?’ I wheel around. ‘You can’t do that! I won’t let you! You’re supposed to be on my side!’

  Minh stands her ground, hands on hips. ‘There are no sides, Dzoung. That place is warping your brain.’

  Jonathan scrambles to get his laptop from the kitchen bench. He clicks at the mousepad and a Word document fills the screen. A visit-request form.

  ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘I called up ages ago. But I need her boat number. Do you know it?’

  I think about saying no, but even pleading ignorance will only buy me so much time. Jonathan will find out from the girl or someone else. It hits me like a tidal wave: Jonathan will find out what I’ve done. Sooner or later, he’ll know. And, when he does, he’s going to hate me even more than he already does.

  It all seems inevitable.

  I surrender. Feel my body go limp.

  ‘It’s KIN016,’ I say. ‘But you’ll need the numbers for her mum and siblings too. Here, give me the laptop.’

  Jonathan watches as I type the numbers into the form.

  KIN016

  KIN015

  KIN014

  KIN014.1

  ANA

  We can’t find out what’s happening.

  No one knows.

  Jamileh and Shadi and the baby are still here in Surf.

  Zahra and I go to see her, but she doesn’t say much.

  They’re under high watch; an officer stands listening to our Farsi with suspicious eyes.

  The pregnant mother who threatened to jump is being monitored too.

  She stands, holding her belly, staring vacantly into the courtyard.

  Maman barely moves from her mattress on the floor.

  I take Arash and Setareh to the playground, and the common room, and the Mess.

  Wherever we go, the air is thick with terrified speculation about who will be sent to Nauru, and how and when they’ll go.

  Days blur into nights and lighten into day again.

  One morning, one of the Mohammeds wanders past me in school uniform.

  I realise he is going to catch the bus.

  School seems like a distant dream.

  Jono does too.

  Every day I fill out request forms to see Eliza.

  I write long heartfelt pleas in carefully printed English, using words from the dictionary like ‘survive’ and ‘cruel’.

  But the days pass, and Eliza doesn’t come.

  Where is she? I wonder. What is she doing when she’s not here?

  Meena tries to reassure Maman, saying Eliza probably has a family to look after.

  But I know that, in Australia, Eliza is young.

  I imagine her out doing the things Jono has described.

  Like eating thin pancakes with liquid chocolate and strawberries at the markets.

  Or dancing at an outdoor concert, drinking beer.

  I try putting pictures in the requests and complaints box, along with the usual form.

  They are drawings by Arash.

  Stick figures behind thick black bars.

  One of them shows a scribble of a child standing next to a green-crayon coffin.

  I use simple words on the form now, remembering her tears and hoping they can save us.

  I write: Eliza. Please come. Please help.

  JONO

  School starts again, but lunchtimes are empty without Ana. I return to the outer. Mel gives me a punch on the arm and jokes, ‘Our prodigal friend.’ Mac and Ibrahim welcome me back into the Candy Crush fold with open arms. Will is happy, but senses my return is reluctant, and potentially short-lived.

  My first request to see Ana is declined: visits take a few days to start again after the riot. They knock back my second request too: the day we chose is already full. I change the date and submit the form again.

  I wait for the detention centre bus in the mornings. Kids start to trickle back, but neither Zahra nor Ana reappears.

  I send more messages via Facebook, but Ana doesn’t reply.

  Dad is back on day shifts. He still has my borrowed phone, but at least he hasn’t returned it or talked to Will’s mum about the pot. He’s determined to limit our contact though, and keeps me under surveillance. Won’t even let me skate to school. So Aunty Minh comes in the mornings, and dinks me there on her motorbike. In the afternoons, she picks me up and stays at our house till Dad returns. Or, some days, we go to her tiny flat instead.

  I pretend to do homework on her old desktop computer as I watch her potter around. She seems to magical
ly know where everything is, despite the leaning towers of junk. I could swear everything she owns is piled up on the floor. She doesn’t have much furniture; it must be the one thing she doesn’t hoard. The walls are empty, except for a framed copy of her citizenship certificate, proudly displayed behind the TV.

  Today, she burrows in a corner, shoving heavy stacks of old mail and a toaster to one side. She emerges with a victorious grin and a tarnished metal spoon. ‘This! This is what I want to show you, Jonathan.’

  I don’t hate my name quite as much the way she pronounces it. Jon-o-tun.

  She says, ‘This is the spoon they give me when I first arrive. You remember I tell you? About the boat? This spoon is from St Vincent de Paul. Very nice people. Make me feel very welcome. Very happy and warm.’ She places it on the desk, next to the monitor. ‘You. You have it now.’

  I laugh. ‘Thanks. Just what I always wanted, Cô Minh.’

  She grins back at me, with yellowing teeth. ‘You always cheeky. Cheeky boy.’

  I turn back to the computer and check my inbox. There’s a new email from Raj, the guy who organises the visits at Wickham Point. I’ve emailed so many times now that I know him by name.

  I open it up. And, finally, there it is.

  I tell Aunty Minh: ‘They say we can visit on Friday. That’s still okay for you, right?’

  She nods. ‘Yes. Friday we will go.’

  ANA

  My reflection swims in the steel mirror.

  More patches of blood,

  and missing clumps of hair.

  I tell Zahra I want to shave it off.

  Worry creases her brow. ‘Are you sure?’

  I say, ‘Yes.’

  ‘The officer who cuts hair is really bad.’

  ‘You do it then.’

  She reluctantly agrees.

  Neither of us mentions Jono,

  or school.

  Arash watches silently from the corner.

  The officer-who-cuts-hair folds her arms and frowns.

  The razor buzzes against my skull

  In careful, deliberate lines.

  Long locks of brown

  hit the floor.

  KENNY

  I argue with Minh over dinner, speaking in Vietnamese so Jonathan can’t understand.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ I ask. ‘Why are you taking him in there?’

  Minh stares straight back at me. ‘Why don’t you want him to go? Because he might see the hotel? Because maybe you feel ashamed of where you work?’

  ‘I’m not ashamed of my job. I need to earn money. It pays.’

  ‘Then let Jonathan see his girlfriend.’

  ‘He shouldn’t even have a girlfriend. He’s too young. You know how emotional he gets.’

  ‘He’s not the only one.’

  My breathing is laboured. There’s a pain in my chest.

  ‘Are you working on Friday?’ asks Minh.

  I tell her I have the day off.

  ‘We’ll need to borrow your car. My motorbike might not make it all the way out there.’ I hesitate, wondering if I can put an end to the idea of them visiting by refusing the use of my car. But then she adds, ‘Or, if you won’t lend it to us, I can always ask Phoung. Of course, I’d have to tell her you were too stingy to let us take yours.’

  I glare at her. ‘Fine. Take the car.’

  ANA

  Zahra hands me

  a rectangle strip of white paper

  she snuck out from the Mess.

  It’s a visit-request slip

  for me, Maman, Arash and Setareh.

  From Minh and Jonathan Do.

  For 3.15pm tomorrow afternoon.

  I say, ‘I can’t.’

  I can still feel the imprint

  of Kenny’s hands on my neck.

  There’s pity in Zahra’s eyes.

  ‘I understand why this is hard.

  But I need you to go. I need your help.’

  She holds out a tiny SIM card in her palm.

  ‘Please, Ana. I have fifty photos on here.

  If he can just give it to the newspaper.’

  I look from Setareh spluttering in my arms,

  to Arash watching cartoons,

  and Maman sleeping on the floor.

  ‘Even if I went … how would I explain it to Maman?’

  ‘Just say … he’s a tutor. From the school.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t ask him.

  Not after what his dad did.’

  ‘Are you kidding?

  Especially after what his dad did.

  He’ll probably beg you to let him help

  to make it up to you.’

  I hesitate. ‘I thought you said he was a Soc

  and he’d never understand.’

  She holds the SIM card out again.

  ‘Socs don’t bring food to movies in plastic bags.’

  KENNY

  I wait for the familiar ‘Yeah?’ then enter Jonathan’s room. I brace myself for attitude, but there is no slouch or snarl. I place the iPhone he borrowed from Will on the side of his desk, hoping he understands that returning it is my way of raising a white flag. He nods acknowledgement, as I sit hesitantly on the end of his single bed. The faded Star Wars doona reminds me of Roxanne; the thought of her is a punch in the guts.

  ‘I should buy you a new doona cover,’ I say. ‘Maybe for Christmas.’

  ‘Sure. That’d be good.’

  The space between us feels cavernous. I need to reach him. Protect him. Protect myself. I can’t let him get any more entangled in this than he already is.

  ‘Jono …’ The shortened name feels strange on my lips. ‘I know you’re going to visit that girl tomorrow and –’

  ‘Her name’s Anahita.’

  ‘Yes.’ I try again. ‘I know you’re going to visit her – Anahita – and I just wanted to say … Please, be careful.’

  ‘Dad –’

  ‘If she asks you for anything else – or for help – just say no.’

  I’m careful not to bring up the drug dealing or him being grounded. I can’t afford any bad will between us. Especially now, after what I’ve done.

  ‘She’s never asked me for anything,’ he says. ‘The movies and the watch were my idea. And she didn’t know anything about the pot or anything else.’

  I take this in. ‘Okay, but if she asks you –’

  ‘She won’t –’

  ‘Please. Just listen. The detainees … they’re desperate at the moment. People are being moved. And there’s nothing you or I can do about that. It’s just how the system works.’

  ‘Are they going to move her?’

  ‘I have no idea. All I know is people who come here like that – by boat – they come praying for a better life. And I understand that. I really do. I had to wait three years before my visa was approved. Three years of Minh trying to sponsor me and me chasing documents and waiting in Vietnam. My life could’ve been different if I’d been able to come when I was eighteen, not twenty-one. But I waited. And I got here legally. These people don’t do that. They don’t wait. They pay money and they come. Many of them aren’t even real refugees, but they do and say whatever they need to in order to be allowed to stay.’

  ‘I know Ana. She’s not like that.’

  ‘Maybe not. But … whatever she tells you, take it with a grain of salt.’ I feel the tug of guilt, but kick it away. My relationship with Jonathan has to come first. The girl will be gone soon, but our bond is for life.

  Jonathan frowns, but says, ‘Alright.’

  Relief rushes through my body. I stand and impulsively ruffle his hair, like I used to when he was small.

  Emotion wells up inside me, as I say, ‘I know it might not always seem like it, but everything I do, I do because I care.’

  Jonathan looks up and meets my eye. ‘I do know that, Dad. I know.’

  JONO

  I stare out the passenger window as Aunty Minh drives out of the city. She insists on playing the Vietnames
e elevator music Dad keeps in the car. We head out past Palmerston, into the bush. It feels like it’s taking forever. The music doesn’t help. But when I check the clock it has only been half an hour.

  ‘How much further?’ I ask.

  ‘Ten minute.’

  ‘Why do they keep them so far away?’

  Aunty Minh shrugs. ‘It not even illegal, you know. Come by boat.’

  We fall quiet again. Eventually, I see a sign to Wickham Point on the side of the road.

  Aunty Minh turns left into a driveway curtained by manicured grass, planted trees and carefully positioned landscaping rocks. She pulls up at a boom gate. An Indian guard wearing a turban emerges from a small hut. I wonder if it is Raj.

  He approaches the driver’s side. Aunty Minh winds her window down. ‘Hello. We here for visit?’

  ‘Got your licence?’

  She hands it to him, and he takes it back to the hut. A few moments later he reappears and hands it back. ‘You know where to go?’

  ‘I know,’ says Aunty Minh.

  He steps aside, and the boom gate opens. We drive slowly forwards, then find a park and climb out.

  The full metal horror of the detention centre rears up in front of me. Fence after fence after fence. I recognise the outermost one from the photo in the NT News: it is topped with thin lines, rows of electric wires. There are security cameras too. And holding yards. And concrete. So much concrete. Everything reinforced, built to contain and confine.

  ‘Come on.’ Aunty Minh beckons me forwards.

  I follow her numbly down a path to a small demountable office. Mosquitoes whine around my ears; I slap them away.

  Inside, another guard asks for ID. Aunty Minh shows her licence again. I hand him my student card. He writes something in a logbook, then hands us dog tags to put around our necks.

  The front says VISITOR. I flip it over. On the back is a list entitled: Colour Emergency Response Codes. Red is fire. Orange is evacuation. Purple is bomb threat. Grey is major disturbance.

  I wonder if the riot was Grey.

  The guard hands Aunty Minh a key, and nods towards a bank of lockers behind us. ‘Just pop your stuff in there – all bags, phones, identification. You can’t take any of that stuff in.’