Anyway, you asked if I get bored here. Hell yeah. We spend most our time in the cell all stretched out on bits of mattress cloth. Then, first thing in the morning, we get put out to the yard. Every day. Pouring rain, sweaty hot sun, doesn’t matter. There’s these crows that come in looking for food. Poor buggers are all scraggly and busted up from fighting. The boys tell me to stay away from them, say they feed off dead things, like it’s some curse, hey. When no one’s watching, I put rice bits in my pocket and scatter them at the far end of the yard. The crows know I do it. They wait for me to come over, I swear. Don’t want to be caught doing it but. Could get locked in the hole, cause the screws say scavenger birds are scum like us.
Not everyone treats us like scum but. Once a month Father Ramone comes to visit. We go to chapel, tell him what’s eating us, and he reads us bits of the bible. He’s real old, Father Ramone, and last year he got sick. His leg blew up like a pumpkin so he couldn’t come see us for a while. The doctors said he gotta be laid up six months to save it. Ha, you reckon Father Ramone would do that? Not a chance. He told them to cut his leg right off. His boys needed him. So they did it.
You believe in god, Bel? Sometimes, when everyone’s asleep around me, I talk to him in my head. Haven’t heard nothing back, but Father Ramone says god forgets nobody, even the lowest of the low, and shit I believe Father Ramone more than I believed anybody else in my life.
You said you were seventeen. I’m nineteen, but sometimes I feel about a hundred, hey. Seventeen was a long time ago. Back then, I was living in a little town called Gulgara a few hours west of Sydney. Never thought I’d miss that dust bowl, but there’s lots of things I never thought would happen.
So where’re you from? You wrote to me from boarding school in Sydney, so my guess is bush. Out Gulgara way, all the rich kids went to boarding school.
Anyway, sorry if this letter doesn’t make sense. I’ve never done this before, writing to a girl. Good way to kill the time but.
Just one thing before I go. The guys that have people write to them? Sometimes, they get parcels. Toothbrushes, paste, food, soap. That kinda thing. Makes living a bit easier. Only if you can spare it but.
I hope you get this letter and that you write back.
Peace out,
Micah
It’s a full class and all the heads snap up as Tash and I rush in.
Mr Morris is slapping exam papers down one line of desks. ‘Great day to be late, ladies,’ he says without looking up. ‘It’s only the first assessment that counts towards your ATAR.’
Tash digs me hard in the ribs, and I can feel the scowl inside her. She’s never been late in her life.
‘Sorry, sir.’ My face burns.
‘You will be if you lose ten percent of your marks and end up sweeping streets for a living.’
I find a desk in the back row. Street sweeping is hardly likely in this class. I catch Eloise Sokolowski’s eye from the back row. Her mother is the only female partner at Mallecourt’s Lawyers. Then there’s Fleur Ly, whose father owns the Sahara fashion label.
Airlie Smith gives me an evil grin as I pass her. She’s hated me since her father got assigned Shadow Minister for Justice. Her father and mine spend every week slinging it off in Federal Parliament. I couldn’t care less, but I think it fuelled her to go for school captain. Her dad couldn’t beat mine in the election, but she could at least beat me at school. Doesn’t matter that I didn’t run for captain.
She won it. And she can have it.
I sweep my hair off my face while I search my mind for the quotes I’d memorised before reading Micah’s letter.
‘Five minute reading time starts now.’
My heart flutters as I flip over the exam paper.
Inhale, exhale. Focus, Bel.
The question is: Othello’s voice changes throughout this Shakespearean tragedy. What does this teach us about his demise?
Othello’s voice? His demise? I sift my brain for answers, but it’s a jumbled mess. His voice has been drowned out by another – the one echoing off the prison-grade paper.
‘I stuffed it,’ I say, slamming my locker door shut.
‘Oh, come on.’ Tash leans against the locker stand. ‘That voice stuff is right up your tree.’ But then she studies my face. ‘You really messed it up?’
I pinch my eyes between my thumb and forefinger, lean back against the buckled aluminium door. ‘It’s the first one that counts and I screwed it up. I couldn’t get the quotes right. I’d get halfway through a line and everything jumbled.’
Airlie approaches, tailed by Jacinta.
‘Great,’ I mutter. My locker is sandwiched between theirs. I straighten my shoulders, and step back from the locker stand as they converge.
‘So, Bel, how’d you find it?’ Airlie asks lightly. Fishing, like she always does, to figure out if she’s beaten me.
‘Fine.’ I glance at Tash, who studies a scuff on her shoe with interest.
‘I thought it was tough,’ Airlie says. ‘Did you say how Othello’s deterioration in eloquence is symbolic of him losing the plot?’
‘Mmm hmm.’ I fiddle with the zip on my bag, and Tash clears her throat.
‘Hello, starving here,’ she says. ‘Hungry enough to eat an echidna. Spines and all.’
I grin at her, grateful for the save.
We leave Airlie and Jacinta at their lockers, and Tash links her arm in mine as we head for the cafeteria.
Tash has a knack for shifting my mood, but even echidna spines can’t distract me today.
‘Well, I’m hungry enough to eat a frilled-neck lizard. Frill and all,’ I say.
Tash laughs. ‘I still win.’ It’s a game we’ve played since we met in Grade Five.
I glance over my shoulder, just once, and Airlie quickly looks away when our eyes meet.
‘What’s she trying to prove?’ I say.
‘That she’s better.’ Tash lowers her voice. ‘Can you imagine if she’d missed out on school captain? I wasn’t half as devastated as Mum when I got vice. Airlie would never have recovered.’
‘The girl has issues.’
Tash shrugs. ‘She’s insecure. Jealous, maybe.’
I laugh. ‘Oh beware my Lord, of jealousy, it is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on.’
‘See?’ Tash rolls her eyes. ‘You did remember a quote.’
I sigh. ‘Yeah. Just not when it mattered.’
After recess, I head to our dorm for my free period.
I shoulder the door open, dump my bag and flop down on my bed. I need a few minutes with my thoughts. To kick myself for messing up the first exam that counts towards my future.
A future doing what? I know what Dad thinks my future holds. Sydney University. Family tradition. Law, like him. A solid degree with solid opportunities.
That’s what Watchkins expects me to do, I’m certain. Lately, she’s been talking a lot about our options ‘in the next era’. Like this is the Dark Ages and what comes next will be something akin to the Age of Enlightenment. She rattles off the prestigious universities we’re meant to aspire to, and whenever the word Sydney University crosses her lips she looks squarely at me. It’s no secret Dad is an ambassador. A shining star they use in their ads to lure in the hopefuls.
But when I think of what I want to do, I’m filled with blank panic. I can’t see myself as the partner of some law firm, working in a high-rise coffin in the sky like Eloise’s mother. I have no idea about fashion, so forget heading a label like Fleur’s dad.
Tash’s father is an investment banker. I don’t want to get a job making the rich richer. Though Mr Shehadie is very generous. All of Tash’s family are. Her mum is generous in her mothering, whenever I visit. That’s her job – mothering. It’s something Tash will know how to do and I won’t.
All I know is politics. And how not to do it.
Oh, and I know how to flunk important exams.
I reach for the three flimsy pieces of paper that cost me that exa
m. I reread Micah’s words, from a place where marks and university placements don’t even rate a mention. Is one exam really a big deal compared to facing the death penalty?
The door bursts open, and with it comes a swirl of fresh, perfumed air.
‘Tash.’
I toss the letter face down on my desk and sit up.
‘So …’ from behind her back, she produces a bag of Allen’s snakes. ‘I thought I’d find you up here.’
I smile. Allen’s snakes have been our lolly of choice since we were ten.
‘Two’s the limit. Sugar overload, and you’ll crash,’ she says.
She tears open the bag. Two green snakes for me. One yellow, one red for her, because she’s colourful like that.
I’m not sure if it’s the sugar hit or having my best friend sitting alongside me munching, but I start to feel better.
That is, until she eyes me with those big brown eyes of hers long enough for me to say, ‘What?’
‘You should google him.’ She’s pointing at the letter I tossed onto my desk. ‘If you’re going to write back, I mean. Are you?’
I hesitate. The truth is, the whole time we were racing to our English exam, I was formulating a response to the letter in my mind. He asked for toothpaste. Said he hopes I write back.
‘Probably.’ I keep it casual.
I don’t want to get tangled in his life. This is just about helping someone out for an assignment. How many letters and how much help ticks that box? Besides if I don’t send him a tube of toothpaste, what does that make me?
‘Then let’s get googling.’
The thought of looking him up hadn’t even crossed my mind, but Tash has already dragged her laptop over.
‘What’s his last name?’ she says.
Trawling the internet for dirt on him. It feels wrong.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Don’t.’
She looks at me like I’m crazy.
‘Bel, he could be seriously dangerous. You should know what he did to get death.’
‘If he wants to tell me, he will,’ I say resolutely. ‘I’m the last person that’s going to hunt for news that splashes someone’s pain across the globe.’
‘Honey, this is different.’ Her voice is soft.
‘We don’t know that. We don’t even know if he’s guilty,’ I say.
‘Bel –’
‘There’s no rush. Whatever he did will be on there if I want to find it. But I’d rather hear it from him. Not from a bunch of journos trying to sell stories.’
Tash holds her hands up defensively. ‘Okay, okay. Can we look up his hometown at least? Where did he say he was from?’
‘Gulgara.’
Tash googles the town. ‘Population two and a half thousand. Wowsers,’ she says. ‘It’s deadsville.’
I scowl.
‘Sorry, but that’s almost the population of our school.’
She streetviews the town and we look at the Victorian-era shop fronts along the main street, timber wraparound verandahs and brick pubs, tarred roads stamped with dusty tyre tracks and edged with wheat grass. The streets are empty, shop signs pocked with rust.
‘Wait, let’s try his school. Do you know which school he went to?’
‘The local high school, I guess. There’s probably only one.’
She types in Gulgara High School. ‘Bingo.’
She streetviews it, but we can’t see anything beyond a small weatherboard office admin building, so she clicks on images instead. We flick through a couple. A lanky boy holding a certificate with pride, alongside an older man; a girl squinting in the sun as she struggles to keep hold of a sheep; a group of kids, laughing under the shade of a tree.
‘It looks very … country,’ Tash says. ‘And a bit run down.’
‘What’s wrong with country?’ I say. ‘At least they don’t have to wear straw hats. And stuffy blazers and pleated skirts and ties …’
‘No need to get defensive,’ Tash says. ‘All I’m saying is kids there probably don’t have as many opportunities as us. Statistically speaking.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You mean they’re poor.’
‘Some of them would be. Micah might be from a poor family. That’s not his fault.’
‘You’re saying he landed on Death Row because he’s poor?’
Tash shrugs. ‘I don’t know. You sure you don’t want to google –’
I flip her laptop shut.
The guy needs toothpaste for God’s sake. I’d be the poor human being if I didn’t send it to him.
22nd October
Dear Micah,
It’s hard to believe the letter I wrote in my boring old dorm made it to Thailand, through the prison gates and into your hands. That’s the coolest thing that’s happened all year.
So I lost you a game of Poker. Sorry about that. But I’m calling us even because you lost me marks in an exam. I should have nailed it, except it was the morning your letter arrived. And that sent me into a spin, so there.
I’ve read your letter a few times – actually Tash is leaning over my shoulder and she’s laughing because I’ve really read it a dozen times. May as well be honest, right?
Tell me more about life in prison. Can you listen to music? At school we’re only allowed music in the quadrangle or on the hockey field. So the hockey field is my favourite spot for lunch. Sometimes, Tash and I share an ear plug each, put on some Danni French and lay back on the soft grass, watching the clouds.
Funny you mention the crows, because we get them too. They must be the universal scavenger bird. From now on, I’m going to scatter my lunch scraps for them like you do. That is the sweetest.
I’ll tell you what else is sweet – Father Ramone. He sounds like a total angel! We have a chaplain at school too, I just don’t see her severing a leg to attend to our souls. Yep, Tash seconds that. No one is severing a leg to hang out with us young ladies.
So, Tash and I googled Gulgara. We googled your school too. It’s a nice-looking place. So much open space! I can see why you miss it. I bet you miss your family too. You didn’t mention them, but I saw in your ad that you’ve never had a visitor. That’s sad. Why hasn’t your mum come to see you? Isn’t that what they do? Tash’s mum would be bashing down the embassy door with a sledge hammer if you were her kid.
Anyway, I’d love to send things to make your life a little easier. On the website, it says to include a list of what I send so you can check it off, so I have. But it makes me wonder, is there lots of stuff that never gets through?
I hope you like the soap, toothbrush, towel and shampoo. I bought the ones my dad likes. Sorry if it’s not your style. I thought the jar of vegemite would be a nice reminder of home too, since you’re missing it.
Well, it’s late, and I have some serious study to do to make up for that essay I flunked.
Night,
Bel
I take a photo of my letter on my phone, and chew the end of my pen. Exactly how honest should I be? Everything so far has been the truth. Which is why I have to add one last thing.
P.S. In case you’re wondering, I didn’t google your name. But whatever you did to end up in prison, I’d never judge you for it. And you don’t have to tell me either.
‘Oh, honey, you were so cute.’ Tash brushes her hair in front of our dresser, and the dark curls spring back into place with each stroke.
She reaches for the remote and turns the volume up on our TV.
On the screen, a younger version of me marches down George Street in the heart of the city. There were tons of rallies, but I remember this one. The way my arms ached beneath the weight of Dad’s banner. How he wanted me to keep holding it. Both of us holding it for my mother. Everyone was so tall and marching at such a speed, I almost had to run to keep up. I remember wondering what would happen if I lost my footing. Would I be trampled by the crowd of chanting people behind us? I looked up at Dad, searching for reassurance, but his mouth was set in a grim line.
Even the horses’ legs were taller than
me, where mounted police flanked the crowd. I remember horse manes flicking this way and that. One of them got antsy, starting pawing the ground. He didn’t like the energy any more than I did, and I thought if I was only taller, I would throw myself over his saddle, grab his reins and bolt away.
But I did my duty. Smiled for the photos people took as we passed. Dad told me later that I shouldn’t have smiled, of course.
Watching that girl on the screen now, she looks brave. You can’t see the trembling knees, the aching arms, the fear. I was sure the march would land Dad in prison and I’d be sent to an orphanage like Anne of Green Gables with only the window panes for friends. The camera flashes were blinding and ladies with heavy eye makeup kept shoving microphones under our chins.
Dad stops marching to talk to the cameras, wrapping an arm round my small shoulder as a reporter’s voice cuts in over the old footage.
‘Mr Anderson has a long history of rallying for victims of crime. But whether the Minister for Justice can garner enough support for his latest proposal remains to be seen. The tough new legislation would set a precedent –’
‘Turn it off,’ I say, tying the end of my braid as a second piece of footage is dredged from my past.
‘Naw, but look at you picket-lining in those pig tails. No wonder that photographer’s going berserk. What are you, like five there?’
‘Tash, I’m serious.’ I wrestle the remote from her and kill the footage. ‘I’m sick of watching it.’
With the election looming, Dad’s air time has been unfortunately regular. Which means so has mine. The worst clips are like this one, little me flashed across the screen in a collage of poses. Different rallies, same theme.
Inside the Tiger Page 2
