Is this a possibility for Micah? If it is, then Thailand might be one of the best countries in the world to get the death penalty. If you’re really lucky you can even get a royal pardon from the King. But then I read on – about the conditions inside Bang Kwang and my head is filled with awful images.
Harsh … overcrowded … beaten by cellmates … rife with disease … infection.
Breakfast only happens if you can buy it. The only food is watery soup that will make you sick.
I suddenly understand why all those guys on the Foreign Prisoner website were asking for money. They weren’t looking for a handout, they were looking to survive. I cringe as I remember my first letter to Micah. Did I really compare St Margaret’s to Bang Kwang? Micah tolerated my comparison so graciously. It’s not boarding school was all he said.
I’m still sitting against my bedhead with my computer flipped open on my lap when Tash bustles through the door of our dorm, hair and body wrapped in towels, steaming from the shower.
The sight of her, all fresh and shiny, brings me back to my world and I decide I should tell her. She’ll find out anyway.
‘So, I got a letter,’ I say, holding it up. ‘Complete with photo.’
‘No way.’ She pulls the towel off her head and plonks down on the bed beside me. The smell of her organic apple conditioner is sickly. ‘Let me see.’
I angle the photo towards her, and she snatches it, holding it closer as she scrutinises the faces. ‘Which one is he?’
‘The one on the left.’
She moves the photo closer. ‘Hmm … not bad. But if I had to go for one …’ she studies all the faces intently, something I haven’t done. ‘I’d go for this guy, right here.’ She points at the boy with the pretty, thin face and blue eyes.
‘That’s Dutchy,’ I say.
‘We know all their names now?’
‘He wrote about them.’ I snatch the photo back. Study Micah again. I wish I could reach through the photo and touch him.
‘He did, huh? Has he told you what he did yet?’
I suddenly feel protective.
‘Oh, come on, surely you’re not going to keep that from me?’
‘He started to tell me,’ I say slowly, ‘then crossed it out.’
‘Show me,’ she says, slipping the folded letter out of my hand. It feels like she’s reading my diary, and my stomach tightens against the invasion of privacy. But then I realise it’s Micah’s privacy I’m feeling protective about. Which is weird because this is all just an assignment. Regardless, I snap my laptop shut so she can’t see what I’ve been looking up, and slide it onto my desk.
After a while, Tash looks up at me. ‘Probably drugs, right? Isn’t that what most of them get death for?’
‘You don’t know that,’ I say, snappier than I mean to be.
‘True. But there are worse things he could have done. Way worse. You don’t expect him to be a boy scout?’
‘Course I don’t,’ I scoff, but I’m clutching onto the hope that it’s not what Tash thinks. Not drugs.
‘As long as it wasn’t murder. Or rape,’ she says. ‘You better find out, Bel. Before you get attached to this guy.’
‘Tash, I’ve got this,’ I say. ‘Micah seems like a good guy.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ she says. ‘Either way, your dad will not be cool with the idea. Guaranteed.’
‘My dad’s not a member of Control Freaks Anonymous. Therefore, he shall never find out.’
She nods. ‘So what are the others like? That Dutchy guy?’
I shove her shoulder with mine. ‘Well, he’s gorgeous, obviously. And smiley. Shy from the sounds of it. And Dutch.’
‘What makes you think he’s Dutch?’
We both crack up laughing.
‘Hey,’ Tash says, catching her breath. ‘Maybe I need to find me a prisoner.’
Something inside me twangs. I adore Tash, but I’m not sure I want her breaking into my new world.
‘Actually, I’ll wait till you find out what they’ve done first. Mum still hasn’t recovered from the stray kittens. She’d have a stroke if I wrote to a boy on Death Row.’
Tash gives me Micah’s letter. I feel instantly relieved when it’s back in my hands and I steal another glance at the photo. They look like a footy team in front of the wrong backdrop.
While Tash gets ready for bed, I sit at my desk and rummage through my drawer for a picture of me. Marcella gave me some photos last term break. She prints out copies for me because she knows Dad doesn’t take many. Marcella is Dad’s housekeeper, but she’s much more than that to me.
I grab a hunk of blue-tack and stick Micah’s photo over my desk. There’s nothing else on the wall. Most girls put up selfies like Airlie does, or clichéd my-life-is-so-perfect happy snaps from vacations – complete with mums, dads and siblings. Not me.
Tash, pulling back her bed sheets, stops short. ‘Well, that’s subtle.’ She stares at the lone image floating on a sea of beige wall.
‘What?’
‘You’ve never pinned a single picture to the wall. Not even of us. Now you’re putting up a bunch of guys on Death Row? They’re not models, honey.’
‘I know what they are,’ I snap.
That’s when I realise Tash’s warning has come too late. This is letter number three. And I already know the things I want to tell Micah next. The things I hope he’ll tell me.
I pull a blank sheet of paper from the printer. Inhale as I write his name. My palms are sweaty with the knowledge of where this letter will lead me. But it’s Micah’s scrawled out words that are taking me there.
21st November
Dear Micah,
I won’t lie, the shackles were a shock. Do they hurt? I bet they’re hard to sleep in.
I haven’t been able to stop looking at your picture. Putting your face to the letters is a game changer, so I’m doing the same. Here’s my photo.
I’m on the right. Tash is on the left. This is Turrimetta Beach, a little piece of coast tucked between Narrabeen and Mona Vale, in Sydney. It was a good guess, but I’m not from the bush. My dad’s house is set back a bit from the beach, but it’s close enough to walk barefoot down the long, steep staircase that leads to the sand. When Tash comes to stay with me in the holidays, we always go for a walk at sunrise. That’s why the sky’s all deep pink behind us.
Thanks for telling me about your crew. I’m glad you’ve got mates in there. It must make everything more bearable.
You asked about my mum so I’m going to tell you three things I wish you didn’t have to know. Then in your next letter, you can tell me three things. It’s a game called Three Ugly Truths. It’s the world’s worst ice-breaker, but here goes.
Ugly Truth #1. I can’t tell you much about my mum because she’s dead.
Ugly Truth #2. My mum’s dead because she was shot by a guy high on crack when I was a baby. I was on the floor of the bank in a capsule when it happened. I was sucking on my fist with no idea my mother was bleeding out beside me. The guy who did it walked from prison after three years because of something called diminished responsibility. Which basically means because he was high, he didn’t know what he was doing.
Ugly Truth #3. My father is a politician – Minister for Justice – and his idea of an idyllic childhood was dragging me along to picket lines, rallies and victims’ rights campaigns.
Fun game, huh?
This is NOT the kind of stuff I talk about with anyone. If you asked Tash, she’d tell you I barely even talk to her about it. But I’m telling you because I’m guessing that whatever got you to Death Row must have been pretty ugly. And if you ever want to tell me, I can handle it. If you don’t, I’ll respect that too. But I do hope one day you might trust me enough to tell me your story.
One last thing. You might think this is weird, but be careful when you open the new sheets. Wrapped in the middle of them is a little statue of Saint Jude I was given as a baby. At my mother’s funeral actually, which I don’t remember. Sai
nt Jude is the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes. Not that I’m saying your cause is hopeless, but I figure you could use a miracle a little more than me. He couldn’t bring my mother back, but I’d say the odds of him sparing your life are a little higher. I really hope they are, anyway.
And just so you know, I love reading every word you write.
Night,
Bel x
Whoops. I bite my lip as I look at that tiny little x. A small letter with a big meaning. My pen hovers over it for a second.
‘Tash,’ I whisper urgently.
Her side of the dorm is in darkness. She’s already strapped beneath her sheets. ‘Mmm?’
‘I just finished my letter to Micah, but I accidentally put a kiss at the end of it. Should I cross it off?’
‘What?’ She struggles to prop herself up on her elbows.
‘Look.’ I bring the letter over to her, turn on her bedside light and she squints.
‘I just did it. Accidentally. But now if I cross it out, is that going to look weirder than if I leave it there?’
‘Yes, Bel,’ she says, sounding tired. ‘A kiss crossed off is weird. Rewrite the last page. This is an assignment. No kiss required.’
She flicks off her light and rolls back over, so I head for my desk and write the last page again.
This time, I don’t take a photo before I fold the letter into an envelope.
When I finally crawl into bed, I force my eyes shut, hoping my body will get the hint, but sleep doesn’t come. Was that kiss really just a slip of the pen? But I know the answer already. It’s there when I look Micah in the eye. Which is what I’ve been doing most of the afternoon. It’s because of his smile. And it’s not a bad feeling, actually it’s the opposite. Too much the opposite.
My mind is whirling, it refuses to slow. His face is in every corner of the darkness.
Micah’s not just an assignment anymore.
The taxi rolls up the long drive, and I wind down my window, inhaling the salty air. Sunlight bounces off the windows of Dad’s double-storey house and makes the cobblestones shine.
The driver stops and helps me with my bag. I take a deep breath before heading for the front door.
As I reach for the brass bell, I catch my reflection in the door glass and pull away. The girl looks back at me, honey hair swept around a narrow face.
It’s my mother.
But it’s me.
A blur enlarges behind the dappled glass and the door is pulled back.
‘Bel, my darling,’ Marcella ushers me in. ‘I hear the taxi, just now.’ She takes my bag and wraps me in her round embrace. I squeeze her back. Marcella is the best thing about Dad’s place.
‘You are bigger, yes? And this hair …’ she lifts it off my shoulders. ‘So long! How is school? Tell me everything!’
She heads up the curved wooden staircase, and I follow closely behind, gripping the buffed handrail. I used to slide down it, back in the days before boarding school, when Marcella would tell me to jump aboard her broomstick and we’d pretend she was a witch instead of a housekeeper. Marcella’s hair was black then, not streaked with silver like it is now. She made a good witch, except she could never pull off the wicked part.
‘School’s good,’ I say, eyeing Mum’s portrait. She smiles down at me from the top of the stairs. I can’t help touching my hair. Was my mother really as serene as her portrait? If she was, then I inherited the wrong personality. Or maybe that small smile on her lips meant, ‘I’m outta here, guys. Hang in there – it’s going to be tough.’
‘Your father,’ Marcella says, beckoning me to my room. ‘He says to change your pictures. Always change, change, change.’
I pause in the doorway. My bed is still perpendicular to the window. The picture of Mum cradling me in her hospital gown is where I left it on my desk. And on my wall is the same image of my mother on a push bike in Centennial Park, long brown summer legs, laughing at the camera.
I love the fact that they’re still here.
‘But this time I think, do I change her room or keep it the same?’ Marcella says. ‘And I think this time, I keep it. Some things are nice the same, yes?’
I smile. Marcella has this uncanny knack of reading my mind. ‘Thanks, Marcella.’ I drop my bag and sink down on my bed.
‘Your father, he tells me you study hard,’ Marcella leans against my desk and beams.
‘I do my best,’ I mumble. ‘When I’m not mucking up Shakespeare.’
‘Ah, but you look tired. You are sick to your bones of the study.’ She sits down next to me, clasps her hands in her lap. ‘But you must tell me this, you have a boyfriend, yes?’
I laugh. ‘Marcella …’
‘I was young once.’ She smiles mischievously. ‘Young, and beautiful.’ She flicks her hair back over one shoulder. ‘And all the boys, they want to kiss me.’
‘Enough!’ I shake my head and laugh. ‘I’m getting visuals.’
I think she knows I don’t mind talking to her about it. Maybe she even feels the same way I do. Comforted by the knowledge that for the next few weeks there’ll be another person in the house. Another voice to fill the rooms that echo when Dad’s in Canberra or locked in his study.
‘You know …’ Marcella leans closer and lowers her voice, ‘Young Elijah next door has been home for a week –’
‘He has?’
‘Yes, yes. And when I am taking out the trash, I see him. And he asks me, “Bel is coming home next week?” And I say, “Yes, yes, she is.” He is oh so tall and handsome now.’ She crinkles her nose in delight.
‘Handsome? Eli?’ I frown.
‘Yes, very handsome, that boy.’ She winks at me. ‘And you, my darling, will be seeing a lot of him this summer.’
My faces burns. It’s not like that with Eli. When his parents bought next door, we were both nine. And the only time curiosity got the better of us was when we were fourteen and wanted some kissing practise. It was weird, touching tongues. Or maybe it was weird because it was with him. Regardless, it’s not an activity I need to repeat with Eli. Or discuss ever again.
‘Well, I let you unpack. Come down when you finish and have a nice cup of coffee – some Arabica from Peru.’
‘Now you’re talking.’ I can blame Marcella for my hard-core espresso habit.
When her footsteps retreat down the stairs, I peer out my bedroom window, the one that faces Eli’s room. Last July, Dad was pissed about the second storey they built on next door. ‘Can’t they get that boy some goddamn blinds after all the money they spent renovating?’ But ‘that boy’ hasn’t been home for the holidays this year, so Dad’s calmed down.
There’s no movement inside Eli’s room now. Which is odd because self-imprisonment is usually part of his holiday regime when he’s home.
I flop back on my bed. It’s softer than the one at boarding school. It’s quieter here, too. The window is open, curtains billowing gently against the windowsill. Fresh roses spill from a vase on my bedside drawers, courtesy of Marcella. I should like flowers, everyone else seems to, but I hate the way they wilt. In a week, they’ll be nothing more than skeletons on stalks.
I close my eyes, and Micah’s face is there. I wish that for just one day, I could zap him here. Away from the squalor of his existence. I’d take him down to the beach. Watch his face as the sun set over the horizon of the Pacific. Sand would squeak beneath our feet, and we’d splash through the breakers. I’d share the beauty of my world with him. And he’d heal the loneliness that plagues mine. The emptiness of this house …
I open my eyes and shoot upright. I’ve been asleep. The afternoon sun pours through my curtains and casts lacy patterns across the floorboards. I look at the clock on the wall. How long was I out? It’s been less than an hour.
Digging through my bag for Micah’s photo, I find it safe inside my Othello notes. There’s no way I’m game enough to put him on the wall here. I pop him into the top drawer of my desk instead.
I change into my canary yellow b
ikini, slip a dress over the top and head downstairs to the kitchen where Marcella is singing in Spanish. A plate of cheese and crackers is waiting on the marble bench, with a lukewarm double espresso. She’s got ten minutes before she signs off for the day, so I pull up a barstool.
Marcella takes a photo from her wallet. It’s her first grandchild, born a couple of months back. His face is framed in dark curls and a gummy smile shows off the dimples in his cheeks. His eyes gleam like he’s proud to be nestled in his mother’s arms.
Marcella tells me he’s the cleverest, most beautiful baby to have graced this earth. Her maternal pride gnaws a hole in my stomach. How can he be so clever when he’s two months old? I tell myself to stop being so mean. I can’t remember seeing Marcella this happy.
She says she’s staying with her daughter in Campbelltown over the weekend, and they’ll take her grandson shopping at Macarthur Square. I’ve never been to Macarthur Square, or on a shopping date. It hurts in a way it shouldn’t. Feels like a betrayal. Marcella with another family. Her real family, not the one that pays her to be here.
The minute she leaves, I take the house keys, grab a towel off the clothesline and head out the back door to burn off my mood. The sun is warm against my back as I cross the quiet road that divides the houses from the headland. I reach the top of the steep wooden staircase and hover a moment. Inhale a lungful of salty air.
Jogging down the steps, my feet sink into the powdery sand that edges this small bite of coast. Someone’s powering across the water, all freestyle arms, lapping the headlands that enclose Turrimetta beach.
I make for the far end of the sand, out of reach of the shadows from the cliffs. I run parallel to the swimmer. What I really want to do is write Micah another letter, but the ink’s barely dry on my last one.
Patience, girl.
I throw my towel in the last splash of sunshine on the sand, strip off my dress and wade into the smash of whitewash. Not far enough to bump shoulders with the other person, but far enough to dive beneath the waves and feel the tingling shock of icy water against my scalp. I love the ocean’s silence.
Inside the Tiger Page 4
