Inside the Tiger

by Hayley Lawrence

  ‘You’re not helping.’ I bite my nail till I hear a satisfying crack.

  ‘Way I see it, you have two options. One, you hide. Two, you ride the shit out of this wave.’

  ‘Um, is that meant to make me feel better?’

  I face the window. All I can see is my reflection through the lamplight bouncing off the glass. I’m ‘The Scream’ version of my mother’s portrait.

  ‘This is me, Eli. I’m the daughter of the hardest-line pollie out there. He’s going to see the clip.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock. When you’ve had over a hundred thousand hits, chances are your old man’s going to notice. But I warned you that could happen. And so what? You haven’t committed a crime.’

  ‘No, but Micah has. Like, a fucking major crime. This could seriously hinder Dad’s campaign. His personal profile could take a hit too. He’s using the Balducci case to haul in tough new sentences, and here I am telling everyone to go soft on drug traffickers. His own daughter! Drugs killed my mother.’

  ‘That psycho killed your mother,’ he says.

  ‘Because he was high. And how does an addict get high? By buying drugs. How does he buy drugs? Shit.’ I lean hard against my desk. ‘Eli, people are writing things about me. This one girl, I have no idea who she is, but she called me a naïve princess who doesn’t have a clue. And she’s right. Who the hell am I to organise a protest? I mean, really. I’m a private school snob with a rich father.’

  ‘Shh. It’ll be okay.’ Tash is alongside me now, a hand on my shoulder.

  But nothing can calm me down.

  ‘Hang on,’ Eli says. ‘I’ve just pulled the stats. Three percent negative feedback. Ha, you’re laughing.’

  ‘I’m not laughing.’

  ‘Well, you should be. You’re on fire, Bel. You’re gonna ace this assignment.’

  But acing the assignment is the furthest thing from my mind because at some point it crossed into my life. My real life. With real fucking consequences. It’s all one giant, writhing bundle.

  ‘But you’re not even gonna thank me, right?’ he says.

  ‘Sorry. I do appreciate it – your help. I just … I never expected it to get this big.’

  That’s when reliable Eli takes over. God I love him for it, because I need a serious life raft. ‘Listen, you tapped into a group that wants justice. That’s all it is, Bel. You’re the one that got them riled, now you’ve just got to harness that and gallop.’

  Tash’s alarm blares as the dull morning light crawls across the sky. I didn’t set my alarm. My phone kept me awake all night with alerts until I turned it off. I groan, roll over in bed and bury my head beneath my pillow.

  There’s a prod in my side. ‘Wakey wakey, honey. No being late on my watch.’

  I sit bolt upright. ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘Eight o’clock.’

  ‘Shit.’

  I scramble out of bed, glance at my dishevelled self before the mirror. Hair a tangled mess, eyes bloodshot. I look like I’ve pulled a decade of all-nighters.

  ‘Listen,’ Tash says, sweeping her curls to one side and pinning them down. ‘Let’s just get through today, okay? Pull on your happy mask and walk with your chin up. We’ve got this.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say weakly. ‘But somehow I have to decide how to stage a protest that lives up to the hype.’

  There’s a gong over the loudspeakers in the corridor.

  Tash groans. ‘Damn, fire drill. Of all days.’

  She opens the door and pokes her head out into the corridor to listen. I pull on my skirt and collared shirt just as the announcement begins.

  It’s not a fire drill.

  ‘Annabelle Anderson.’ A female voice crackles over the PA system. ‘Please report to Miss Watkins’s office immediately. Annabelle Anderson.’

  Tash closes the door gently behind her as a lump of concrete sinks in my stomach. Forget staging a protest. First I have to deal with Watchkins.

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Tash says, grabbing her hairbrush from our dresser. ‘Quick.’ She runs it briskly through my hair, looks at the result critically. ‘That will have to do,’ she breathes. Then she spins me around, and does up my buttons. ‘Where’s your tie?’

  I scan the room, but can’t find it.

  ‘Here, have mine.’ She loosens her tie and loops it over her head. Tightens it around my neck, then picks up my folder and backpack. ‘Let’s go.’

  We leave the sanctuary of our dorm and I tuck my shirt into my skirt, smoothing it down. But as we approach the cafeteria, I catch sight of Airlie who looks at me and whispers something to Francine, one of her disciples. No prizes for guessing what the hot topic of the morning is.

  My heart thuds madly in my chest as we near Watchkin’s office. If the pounding gets any harder, I’ll explode. In fact, a heart attack would be a welcome diversion. Watchkins might even overlook my YouTube sensation. But my stupid heart keeps on smashing itself against my chest.

  I raise my fist to knock at the door. Glance at Tash.

  ‘A timid knock always receives a confident answer,’ she whispers, squeezing my hand. ‘Good luck.’

  Her shoes creak along the floorboards as she retreats.

  I knock three times, loudly. I’ve been to Bang Kwang Prison. This is only Watchkin’s office.

  ‘Come in.’

  Those two words dispel my bravado. I push the door open and lean halfway through, hoping it’s a mistake. That my father forgot to sign a permission note for an excursion.

  ‘You wanted to see me, Miss?’ My tongue is that dry, it sticks to the roof of my mouth.

  ‘Bel, yes, take a seat.’

  I edge into the chair before her mahogany desk. It overlooks the quadrangle on one side and the hockey field on the other. It’s like the watch tower at Bang Kwang – she can see everything.

  ‘It’s been brought to my attention by Airlie Smith,’ she says, ‘that there’s a clip of you on YouTube.’ She looks down her nose at me over her glasses and smiles. She has me cornered and she knows it. ‘It seems to be doing quite well. Getting a lot of hits. I’d like you to explain what this is about.’

  She spins her laptop around to face me, and hits play.

  ‘While I sleep in my soft bed at night …’

  My face is large on her screen and I sound awful.

  ‘… a friend of mine sleeps on a thin mattress–’

  She hits pause.

  I clear my throat. ‘It’s uh, for my Legal Studies major assignment. Have you spoken to Mr Robb?’

  ‘Not yet. I wanted to hear from you before taking the matter further.’

  ‘Right. Okay.’ I swallow hard, looking at the grimace on my face where she’s paused me. ‘Well, we had to choose a cause, and I –’

  ‘You call a Death Row prisoner a cause, Bel?’

  ‘Well, he’s not … you’re right. He’s a person. Just, like, uh … the thousands of other people rotting away in foreign prisons awaiting execution. Most of them don’t even get legal help. At least our government does that much.’

  She stares at me and my argument shrivels inside my head.

  ‘So I’m, uh, I’m trying to raise awareness about the death penalty and Australians on Death Row.’

  ‘By staging a protest. I see.’ She eyes me over the top of her glasses.

  ‘Well, yeah. But it’ll be a peaceful one. A sit-in,’ I decide suddenly. ‘A sit-in at Hyde Park.’

  ‘Right. And I assume that you’re expecting a rather large turn out? Since this clip is generating so much, ah … attention.’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly how many people are going to come.’

  In fact, I haven’t got a damn clue.

  Because I haven’t actually organised anything yet.

  Or told anyone about it.

  ‘Well, you’ll notify the local council and arrange a police presence, I presume.’

  ‘Uh …’

  ‘And you’ll contact the media to get the maximum level of exposure for your cause. Yo
u’ll need our permission to do that.’

  ‘I haven’t. I mean, not exact–’

  ‘Of course, St Margaret’s will support you in your campaign. We’ll organise representatives from the school to be in attendance, including the school captain, Mr Robb and myself. So we need details as soon as possible.’

  ‘You need …?’

  I gulp back my words. Is this another one of those dreams that will disappear when I wake up? Or am I really not going to be expelled?

  ‘Yes, details.’

  My brain is tripping over itself trying to catch up to what she’s saying. Watchkins is beaming at me with something that looks almost like pride. I’m not actually in trouble here. The world has flipped on its head.

  Wait a second.

  ‘Did you say school captain? Airlie’s coming?’

  ‘She doesn’t know yet, of course, that she’s going to support your initiative, but she is. I don’t care whose father is shadow minister and whose father is the actual minister. This is a school affair, and the entire school will back you because it’s what we do at St Margaret’s. It never hurts the school’s reputation to be seen leading a humanitarian cause. Broadening and contributing.’ She sighs and removes her glasses. ‘I’m extending the help of the school. And my help in particular. I think you’d be wise to utilise it. Bel, darling, this is a big deal for you.’ Her voice goes soft, making me shift in my seat. ‘I know you’ve shied away from the public eye for some years now. That’s only natural.’

  I study my hands, clasped so tightly, my knuckles are white against my skin.

  ‘And nobody blames you for wanting to distance yourself from the attention your father’s job brings. But I probably don’t need to tell you that if you’re planning to hold a protest, it’s going to generate coverage. You’re not just an anonymous young girl with an opinion.’ Her forehead crinkles with concern. ‘What with your mother … Look, I’ve already been contacted by various media outlets requesting interviews.’

  Heat creeps up my neck as I unclasp my sweaty hands and wipe them on the knees of my skirt.

  ‘I declined, of course.’ She clears her throat. ‘For now. No media outlets are weaselling their way into this school. There will be a place for that sort of thing at the protest.’

  She pauses. ‘What you might not realise is that your father’s position will make this situation more … interesting, shall we say? Is he likely to be involved in your protest?’

  ‘Uh, no. No,’ I say, a little too fast.

  ‘I thought not, given the potential policy implications and his very public stance on tough punishments for drug traffickers. Seems you have quite the gift for reaching people, Bel. The way you spoke on that video – so persuasively – it’s the stuff leaders are made of. You’re very like your father. You have an ability to influence, to bring about change. You’re a lot like him that way.’

  I almost laugh. She couldn’t be more wrong.

  ‘So, what do you say?’ she says. ‘About my offer of assistance?’

  I say nothing. Just sit there with my mouth hanging open. Finally, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

  ‘I could hug you right now, Miss Watkins. I won’t, but I could.’

  ‘Well, I may be old, but I believe I’m not beyond hugging.’ She smiles wryly and pushes back her chair.

  Then for the first time since I started at St Margaret’s, Watchkins embraces me in her soft arms. ‘It’ll be all right, Bel,’ she says, holding me tight. ‘It’ll all work out.’ Only she says it like she’s talking about more than just the protest. And the strangest thing happens in response to her touch. Something primal stirs deep in my gut. Something that almost makes my throat close over.

  I don’t feel my feet moving beneath me as I leave Watchkin’s office. I’m propelled down the corridor by another force. Watchkins has my back. And she’s going to help my protest become a reality.

  Micah is about to make the primetime news. Again.

  Tash sprays her curls before the wardrobe mirror. She’s dressed for her date, wearing a pair of stilettos that match her silver, off-the-shoulder dress. Her makeup is subtle, but with her golden skin, she doesn’t need much. She spins around to face me.

  ‘Now, honest truth. Is the hair okay?’

  I give her a deadpan stare.

  ‘What?’ she says, spraying it again for good measure.

  ‘The hair’s always okay.’

  She inhales, turns back to the mirror, applying lip gloss carefully. Smacking her lips. ‘That’s it then. Now I just have to sit here and endure the bloody wait till he comes.’

  I laugh. ‘Tash, relax. Eli’s about as chilled as a starfish. You’ll have a great night.’ But the thought of them together makes me sick. I keep thinking of our last night in Chiang Rai.

  There’s a knock at the door. Tash freezes.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I say, jumping up from my bed.

  I pull the door open.

  It’s not Eli. It’s my father. No phone call, no warning. Just rocks up at my door on a Saturday night.

  ‘Dad?’

  He’s seen the clip. I can see it in the fury of his eyes.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he says, voice gruff. ‘Grab your bag.’

  He turns his back to me. Evidently, this is not optional. I make an about-turn.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Tash whispers.

  ‘It’s Dad,’ I mouth.

  She grimaces.

  Bile rises in my throat as I grab my handbag. Take a deep breath and march out the door. Straight past him.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he calls after me.

  ‘To the carpark. We’re not doing this here.’

  I wait at the passenger side of his sleek black BMW, as he catches up and the doors unclick, flashing an amber warning through the dark.

  Dad clenches his jaw as he drives, and I look out the window at the city lights whizzing by.

  After a couple of minutes, he pulls down a laneway and stops outside a redbrick building. Townhouses are crammed together, except for one place, which has an Italian flag jutting out from the front wall. Must be a restaurant. It’s very low key – just a few streets away from school, and even I didn’t know it existed.

  ‘Not Quay Lime?’ I say sarcastically, when he opens his door.

  ‘This is hardly a homecoming,’ he snaps.

  ‘And I’m hardly hungry.’

  We sit at a small table in the back corner. His jaw is still clenched, straining the muscles in his cheeks.

  ‘You really want to do this over dinner? In public?’

  I glance round at the few other patrons. They’re all young and chatting amicably. No idea of the hostility that just blew in the door with us. Dad usually delivers his disappointment by way of silence. He’s perfected it over the years. Silence, followed by a lecture infused with ‘wisdom’ that’s meant to bite.

  ‘You have a better suggestion than here?’ I ask.

  ‘We could go home,’ he says. Tonight, he looks beyond disappointment. Maybe beyond silence. I’ve never seen him like this, but it doesn’t make me scared. It makes me angry.

  ‘What does that even mean?’ I mutter.

  He grits his teeth. ‘Want to tell me what you think home means, Annabelle? Or family for that matter?’

  ‘Give me a break,’ I say icily. ‘Most “homes” don’t have housekeepers. Even if Marcella feels like family, she’s not. Most homes have mothers inside them, not photos. And fathers who don’t spend most of their time in a different state.’

  The waitress comes to take our order – a young, pretty blonde with bright-red lipstick. She smiles at us expectantly, and Dad orders something I don’t catch.

  ‘And you?’ She turns her long lashes on me.

  ‘I’m not eating,’ I say, my cold eyes boring into Dad’s. ‘I’ll just have water.’

  ‘You sure I can’t get you something? A garlic focaccia?’ she says uncertainly.

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’ I
don’t look at her.

  ‘Well, that was rude,’ Dad says, as she walks away.

  It was, but I don’t care right now. ‘You obviously have something to say, so you may as well say it.’

  Dad lowers his voice, leans across the table. ‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that after I funded your damn trip to Thailand. You lied to me, Annabelle, straight out lied.’

  I flinch, but I don’t think he notices. Technically it wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. How could I be honest with him? He’s so forceful with his views, there’s never been any room for me to be truthful about mine.

  ‘I never lied. I told you it was for my Legal Studies assignment.’

  At that moment, the waitress returns and pours Dad a glass of white wine. He gives her a flat-lipped smile, then turns his attention back to me the second she leaves.

  He clears his throat, folds his napkin meticulously. ‘Annabelle, tell me if I’m missing something here. Have I not given you a good life? Provided you with the best schooling? Attended to your every financial need? Tell me where I’ve I failed, because I’m at a loss.’

  ‘It’s not about that, Dad,’ I say slowly. ‘All I want to do is stand up and be counted. For something I believe in for once.’

  Dad scrunches his napkin into a ball and dumps it on the table. ‘Good for you, Annabelle. I want you to give a damn about something, to leave the world better than you found it. And there are millions of worthy causes out there – but this is not one of them. Little wonder you’re not interested in the Balducci trial. Not interested in what I’m trying to achieve. You’ve been getting yourself some firsthand experience with criminals.’ He sips aggressively from his wine glass. ‘You had every chance to tell me what you were up to, but you chose to deceive me instead. Abuse my trust.’

  ‘You’re right. I didn’t tell you. I tried in Thailand, and you didn’t listen. But I listened to you. You said to do something with my life and to make a difference. So here I am. Doing something. Caring about something. But, oh, it’s not the right something, is it? Because it’s not something you believe in. Tell me what you would have said if I’d told you the whole truth? Go to Thailand? Meet the boy?’

  ‘The boy, as you call him, is a trafficker for Christ’s sake. No, sweetheart, you can bet your backside I’d never have sent you to meet a drug mule.’