by Clare Atkins
‘But … we brought a few things. For the person we’re going to visit,’ I say.
‘Only food allowed.’
‘What about these?’ I hold out a pair of shoelaces covered in rows of koalas. I found them in the two-dollar shop in Nightcliff and thought they’d make Ana smile. But the guard holds them up and shakes his head. ‘Sorry, mate. People have hung themselves with less than this.’ My eyes widen in horror. The guard laughs. ‘Sorry, sorry. Bad joke. You can give them to your friend, you just can’t take them in. I’ll sign them into property and they can pick them up later.’
I sign the form and push the laces across the desk. I wonder if she’ll really get them, or if this is another bad joke.
Aunty Minh holds up a plastic container of sliced watermelon, picked fresh from our garden at home. ‘What about this? This good?’
The guard seems to waver. ‘You’re only really supposed to take in packaged food. But I guess it’s alright.’
Aunty Minh places it on the conveyor belt. It goes through a machine like the ones that scan bags at the airport. We walk through the human-sized version, and grab the watermelon on the other side.
The guard unlocks the door, pushes it open and points. ‘See that little place there? That’s the visitors’ building. Just follow the path.’
ANA
I walk the fence,
like hundreds of feet before me.
And probably after too.
There is a thin track worn into the red-brown dirt.
I carry Setareh in my arms,
Praying that her little footprints never join mine in here.
The big clock on the wall outside the Mess says
ten past three.
I stop mid-lap, by the officer at the gate.
‘Excuse me. I have visit request …
But my Maman is sick.
Can I go without her?’
He examines the slip,
then asks, ‘Is KIN015 an adult?’
‘No. Is my little brother.’
‘You need at least one adult.’
I think of Meena and ask, ‘Can it be someone else?’
His tone is final. ‘Sorry, sweetheart.
Just whoever’s listed on there.’
JONO
There is metal all around us now. Fences everywhere I look. Blocking off buildings. Cross-hatching the hills. Scarring the sky.
My mind is a mess of questions. Is this really where Ana’s been living all this time? Why didn’t she tell me how horrible it is? Or is it possible that I didn’t listen when she tried?
We enter the visitors’ room. It is small and clean but impersonal, with a row of plastic tables and chairs. There’s a sink and bar fridge at the far end, and in front of us is a low black vinyl couch occupied by a family with a baby and a little girl. They’re being visited by a woman who has the glow of the church about her. A guard watches from a high, narrow desk nearby.
Beyond them, out the back doorway, I see another fence, then a small hill of red earth and gum trees, just out of reach.
Aunty Minh takes a seat at one of the tables. I sit in a chair beside her; the plastic legs bend and bow under my weight.
‘You tell her, right? You say we are coming?’ asks Aunty Minh.
I nod.
‘Sometime they don’t get message. My friends tell me,’ she says.
‘I told her on Facebook.’
‘Ah. Good.’
I don’t tell her that Ana didn’t reply. She hasn’t answered anything I’ve sent, hasn’t even been online, or at least not that I’ve seen. And I’ve checked a lot.
Nerves gnaw at my insides.
Aunty Minh settles back in her chair, more confident than I feel. ‘We wait. She come.’
ANA
Urgent steps
back to our room.
Door squeaks open.
Arash looks up from the TV.
Maman’s eyes are open, but she hasn’t moved.
I touch her shoulder, light as the gentle breeze outside.
‘Maman?’
She blinks, but doesn’t reply.
JONO
I fidget on the chair, scratching at the mosquito bites already swelling red against my skin. No wonder Ana is always covered in them. I remember joining the ones on her arm in pen one lunchtime, in a funny kind of dot to dot. Her laughter was sudden and beautiful, like a wet season downpour of rain.
The red hand of the clock on the wall inches around to 3.25pm.
‘Maybe we should go,’ I say.
Aunty Minh walks up to the guard at the high desk. ‘You know if they coming?’
He shrugs, slow and laconic. ‘Dunno. They’ve been told. But sometimes they just don’t show up.’ As an afterthought, he adds, ‘Sorry.’
Aunty Minh turns back to me. ‘Maybe we try again another day.’
I stand, picking up the plastic container of watermelon, and turn towards the door … and there she is. A tiny baby in her arms.
An old woman by her side. A little boy clinging to her leg.
It throws me, this strange new family context. But it’s her. It’s definitely her.
I say, ‘Ana’, and take a step forwards. I want to hold her, kiss her, make sure she’s alright.
But as if she reads my mind, she whispers in English: ‘No … cuddle.’ I wonder if she looked that word up in the dictionary just before she came. ‘We are not allowed. Only one short … cuddle … at start and end. But please don’t. Maman would not understand.’
I look around for her mother, then realise she must be talking about the old lady. I nod towards her. ‘That’s your mum?’
‘Yes,’ Ana says.
I introduce Aunty Minh, who coos, ‘How old the baby?’
I’ve never heard her voice so gooey and soft.
In contrast, Ana seems as if every word pains her. ‘Almost three month.’
‘Wah … so small. I hold her?’
Ana nods, and Aunty Minh takes the baby gently, so gently, into her arms. She nods to Ana’s mother. ‘We sit outside?’
They move to the door. There are metal tables out there, with chairs bolted to the ground. The two women take a seat. Aunty Minh presses her nose to the baby’s head and inhales deeply, like it is the best perfume in the world.
I look around for the little brother, but he’s run off to play with the little girl from the family on the couch.
Ana and I are suddenly alone.
I sit clumsily back down on the plastic chair. Ana sits on Aunty Minh’s.
She looks worriedly out at her mother. ‘Her English not so good.’
‘My aunty’s isn’t either – and she’s been here forever.’
We share a small smile.
I notice there’s a graze on her lips, her chin. ‘What happened?’ I ask.
She frowns, touching her lips. ‘Oh. I hurt …’
I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t say any more. I wonder if it is from the riot. Was she involved?
I take a piece of watermelon, and hold the container out towards her, but she declines. Her movements are stiff and strange.
‘I hope you don’t mind me coming,’ I say. ‘I know you said not to … but with the riot … and you not at school … I was worried. I sent you messages.’
‘I did not have time for computer.’
‘Right.’
I study her, trying to figure out what’s changed. She’s not in school uniform, of course. And she’s wearing a headscarf that I’ve never seen. It’s tied differently too.
I realise I can’t see the usual arc of brown hair near her forehead. ‘Your scarf … did you cut your hair?’
‘Yes. It was … hot.’ She seems uneasy.
I try to pretend we’re in the hallway at school, rather than a fenced and guarded room. I say, ‘But it’s going to cool down soon, remember? Dry season’s almost here. Did you notice the dragonflies? That’s always a sure sign the weather’s starting to change.’
I tak
e in the drawn look of her cheeks, the rigid set of her shoulders, the thinness of her arms.
My gaze stops at her wrist. ‘Where’s the watch?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The watch I gave you.’
Her body seems to contract, and she won’t meet my eyes. I think of what Dad said about the black market.
‘Did you sell it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s okay if you did.’
She pulls back, almost haughty, like I’ve insulted her. ‘I did not.’
There’s another awkward silence. Ana looks conflicted, almost tortured. I’m confused. I look outside again. Aunty Minh is sitting there with Ana’s mother, side by side. They’re not talking, but Ana’s mum’s posture tells me she finds my aunty’s presence soothing. There’s something unspoken and beautiful about it, and I feel a burst of pride.
I turn back to Ana and the words start to pour out of me. ‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Jono … I need help.’
Everything around us fades. I feel like vomiting.
She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘I am scared … scared they send us back to Nauru … there is … black mark on my file … the cinema … your dad … riot …’
Her grasp of English seems to be disintegrating with every word. I barely know her, this stumbling, desperate version of Ana.
She pulls something from her pocket, and holds it in her fingers, just below the table. ‘I don’t want ask … but if you can take this … it is photos … babies, children … if you can give to news …’ She breaks off. Her watery eyes plead for understanding. ‘I do not like ask. I would not ask. But I am … at zero …’
I can barely hear her above the roar of Dad’s warnings in my head.
… she will ask for help …
… they do and say whatever they need to in order to be allowed to stay …
My eyes fall on her wrist again. ‘Tell me the truth about the watch. Did you sell it?’
Her hands hover above her lap, then fall onto her knees. She still won’t meet my eyes. ‘No. In riot … your dad … pull hair … break watch … hurt me …’
I look at the graze on her lips.
I think of all the times Dad’s yelled at me. All the times fury’s burnt in his eyes.
But he’s never touched me.
Never hit me.
Not once.
I feel his hand clapped proudly on my back. See the smile in his eyes.
… everything I do, I do because I care …
I push my chair back. The plastic legs scrape loudly on the floor.
‘No. He wouldn’t,’ I say.
She frowns, as if she’s trying to make sense of my words.
I repeat myself, louder this time. And surer. ‘He wouldn’t do that.’
She stares at me, disbelieving. I stare straight back.
The space between us feels huge and gaping.
I think of her mum and her brother and the baby. She’s never talked much about them, or what it’s like in here. I think of her newly cut hair, and the SIM card in her palm. The allegation of the smashed watch and Dad’s abuse.
There is so much she hasn’t told me. So much that I don’t know.
… many of them aren’t even real refugees …
I hear my voice, echoey and harsh. ‘Why did you leave Iran?’
Every fibre of her body seems to freeze. ‘What?’
‘You never told me. Why did you leave?’
I see her eyes close down. Give up. Shut me out.
She stands abruptly, voice cracking as she says, ‘Go. Please. Do not come again.’
Then she’s moving towards the back door, saying something to her mother in Farsi, and prising the baby from my aunty’s arms.
Aunty Minh looks stunned. Her grip is tight, like she doesn’t want to let it go. I realise her face is covered in tears.
Ana calls to her little brother and starts towards the exit, the baby in one arm, and her mother supported with the other.
‘Ana …’ I call.
The guard moves out from behind his desk, like he’s worried he might have to intervene.
The brother scampers to Ana’s side. Her headscarf loosens, and I think I see a gleam of bare shaved scalp.
Then she’s out the door.
And I just stand there.
ANA
I walk to the gate,
carrying
my heart
in my hands.
Can’t anyone see it,
haemorrhaging
in my palms?
Can’t they see
the blood
trailing me
on the ground?
JONO
I feel a tap on my shoulder.
‘Hey … everything alright?’ It’s the guy from behind the desk. His eyes are kind. ‘By the way, you’re supposed to be wearing closed shoes,’ he says. ‘I didn’t want to tell you until the end of your visit ’cause then I couldn’t let you stay. But, just so you know, for next time.’
I manage to nod.
I hear Aunty Minh say, ‘Thank you.’
We walk out of the visitors’ room, back to the demountable, and wait to be buzzed out.
The door clicks locked behind us as we leave.
ANA
At the third gate,
Maman mumbles,
‘Who was that Chinese lady?
And the boy?’
Her eyes are glassy.
I am alone.
I don’t even bother
making an excuse.
I say, ‘No-one, Maman.’
She doesn’t ask again.
JONO
Aunty Minh waits until she’s settled into the driver’s seat, before she asks, ‘What happen?’
I can’t bring myself to reply. If I do, I might start crying, and she’ll tell Dad, and he’ll take it as further confirmation that I’m weak. A small flare of anger ignites in my chest. What does Dad really know about me, anyway? What does Dad know about anything?
He was right about Ana asking me for help, but … But what?
My mind sifts back through time, making an inventory of things that don’t add up.
The way Dad could barely meet my gaze last night.
The fact he called me Jono.
The smell of smoke on his breath.
The glimpse of Ana’s shaved scalp.
The pain in her eyes when I asked why she left Iran.
‘You want to talk about it?’ asks Aunty Minh.
‘Do you?’ I turn the question back on her. ‘Why were you crying?’
She shakes her head.
We drive in silence the whole way home.
ANA
Zahra is waiting
outside our room.
She sees my face,
and doesn’t ask.
Her eyes are teary,
as I put the SIM card
back into her hand.
KENNY
I know something is wrong as soon as they arrive home. I hang back to talk to Minh, as Jonathan storms past me into the house.
‘What happened?’ Dread floods my body, as I imagine the worst. She told him I abused her. I pretty much did. He’ll never talk to me again. And I deserve it.
‘I think she break up with him,’ says Minh.
‘What?’ I stare at her.
‘I think …’ Minh clenches her fists in front of her and rotates them, as if snapping something invisible in her hands.
Jonathan bursts back out of his room. He walks right up to me, so close that I could swear I smell watermelon on his breath.
‘You hit her.’ There’s conviction in his voice.
I meet his hard gaze straight on, and know there’s no point denying it. ‘I was just … doing my job …’
He explodes. ‘How can you even work out there? It’s a fucking jail! A jail for people who’ve done nothing wrong except come here by boat. It’s not even fucking illegal – did you know that? Aunty Minh told me.�
�
I flash a look at Minh, but she just shrugs. ‘It not secret, Dzoung. It the law.’
Jonathan is crying now. He glowers at me, but doesn’t falter or wipe the tears away.
Instead, he says, ‘You think I’m pathetic and weak, but you know what? At least I’m not a fucking unemotional robot like you. You have no heart. No wonder Mum left you.’
His words hit me like physical blows. I feel myself gasping for air.
JONO
And then I’m running. I don’t know where or why or how. All I know is I can’t stay there at home with him. My muscles kick automatically into gear. Houses blur into streets into shops into trees into parks.
I double over and dry-retch.
A girl with pigtails watches from a nearby playground. Her mother shepherds her away.
I slump, my chest heaving in and out with every breath. I’m still angry at Dad, but I’m more angry at myself. It wasn’t his fault. It was mine.
I didn’t trust Ana.
I let her down.
I hear her voice. Do not come again.
Shadows stretch across grass onto bitumen road.
I pull my dumbphone out of my pocket and call Will. ‘Let’s get smashed.’
We go back to the Ludshed. It’s been weeks since I was last there. I shove the door open to see that the inside has been totally trashed. There’s graffiti everywhere: tags, mostly. Blackened walls, like they’ve lit fires. One corner is burnt out and littered with smashed bottles.
‘Recycling,’ a random Year 11 tells me, laughing.
In another corner someone’s dragged in a threadbare armchair. It’s covered in slashes of red spray paint. Someone is playing heavy metal from a portable speaker. The sound is crap, bouncing back at us from the corrugated iron walls.
I don’t recognise anyone from last time, but I don’t care.
Will lights up and starts to pass doobies around. I help him start a mini-production line. One of my hands is permanently rolling, the other smoking or drinking or swallowing whatever is put in it.
The older guys treat us like celebrities. I don’t kid myself; I know it’s because of the pot, which Will is handing out with abandon, often forgetting to take money in return. He seems almost manic, laughing and grinning in my face, like he thinks fun and nonstop action will keep my tears at bay. I understand that he’s scared of me sinking again.
