I stare him straight in the eye, fury leaching from my pores. ‘My point exactly.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘He has a name, by the way. His name’s Micah.’
‘I don’t care about his goddamn name,’ Dad hisses. ‘My daughter has fallen for the oldest trick in the book – good girl thinks she can turn the bad boy around. Let me tell you, sweetheart, bad boys don’t turn around. They just break the good girls at every corner.’
I roll my eyes.
He shakes his head. ‘This drug mule, what does he know about you? Does he know who I am?’
‘What’s this got to do with you?’ I snap.
Dad laughs condescendingly, and I hate him for it. ‘Tell me I’ve done a better job of raising you than this. Does he know our address, Annabelle?’
My face flushes and I set my jaw. ‘He doesn’t know who you are.’
It’s an outright lie. But Dad would freak if he knew how much I’ve told Micah. He doesn’t understand.
‘Have you given him our address?’
I hesitate a moment too long.
‘Annabelle, you need to tell me. You have no idea what these men are capable of. They have connections outside those walls, all of them. Just because someone’s incarcerated doesn’t mean they’re not a threat. Tell me he doesn’t know where we live.’
My skin prickles. Dad thinks Micah is a monster.
‘He doesn’t know,’ I lie again, looking away from him. ‘I wish everyone would chill the hell out about him. He’s not like that.’
‘You’d know, of course, because he’s told you. It’s bullshit, Annabelle. I know what you think and it’s bullshit –’
‘What are you, the thought police?’ My voice wobbles. ‘You can’t control me, Dad. I’ll never think like you. Never. You’re going to have to get over that.’
He pushes back against the table, leaning as far away from me as he can, as though I repulse him.
I notice a couple eyeing us.
‘Newsflash, Annabelle, idealism is for kids. You know what happens to idealists out there in the real world?’ He extends an arm towards the window. It’s dark outside now, and teeming with rain. ‘Idealists get crushed like ants under the boots of realists. And that drug mule – whatever fantasy you’ve played out in your mind, I’m telling you, you’re wrong. He might have a sob story, but crime is intergenerational.’
Micah’s father leaps into my mind. But I push the thought away. Micah’s nothing like his father. They’re completely different.
‘I bet he didn’t tell you about his priors.’
I narrow my eyes at Dad. ‘I know he’s not perfect.’ But there’s a sharp pain in my stomach. He has priors?
‘He didn’t, did he? Funny that. Theft at thirteen, caught stealing from his school. Assault at fifteen. He went at his father with a hammer. That one landed him six months in juvie.’
‘His father was abusive,’ I say. ‘It would have been self-defence.’
Dad laughs. ‘Or a case of the apple not falling far from the tree. You’re aware that his father was a drug addict? And what did your boy get done for?’
I answer with silence.
‘If the chain of crime was so easy to break, sweetheart,’ he says, ‘don’t you think we’d have broken it by now?’
I glare at him. ‘I don’t know. But I know Micah, and I want to help him. That’s all. Is it such a bad thing?’ My voice cracks, betraying me, and my eyes grow hot. ‘I want to fucking help someone, Dad, so get off my case.’
‘Watch your language,’ he says sharply. ‘Now, listen to me. The media are going to be outside your school first thing in the morning to catch a glimpse of the girl who pasted her compassion for a drug mule right across the globe. Why do you think they care so much, huh?’
‘Because it’s gone viral.’
‘Yeah, and half the reason it’s gone viral is because you’re my daughter. The media are having a field day because you’ve set yourself up in opposition to me at the most crucial time in the election campaign. Did you even for a second, think about the consequences before posting that clip?’
‘The consequences for who? Me or you?’
Dad sips from his wine, shakes his head and looks away from me. ‘Annabelle, oh, sweetheart. This is about so much more than just you and me. You’re playing with fire, and you don’t even know it.’
The waitress delivers Dad his food, looks set to ask me again if I want something, but she must see my face because she turns abruptly on her heel. I scan the restaurant briefly and realise that we’ve become the most interesting item on the menu.
Dad clears his throat, lowers his voice so that it’s barely above a whisper. ‘This could haunt you, Annabelle. Through university and beyond.’
‘And it’s going to hurt you, right? The Minister for Justice trying to get his bill through the upper house. Come on, Dad.’
‘My biggest problem isn’t how it hurts the bill,’ he says, speaking ultra-slowly. ‘It’s how it hurts me. You are spitting on the grave of your mother. You befriended a man complicit in the suffering and deaths of thousands of people. Now you play down his crime like it was an accidental slip. Thailand punishes these men for a reason, Annabelle.’ He clasps his hands together on the table. ‘Narcotics fuel a black market worth billions of dollars, made from the misery and addiction of the vulnerable. All done to sate the appetites of the powerful and greedy. Isn’t that evil?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Do you know how many lives are lost to drugs every year? Do you?’
I don’t, but I shrug, feeling miserable. Micah is a victim of drugs. He lost his father to drugs. He’s only in Bang Kwang because of his father’s drug debt. Micah doesn’t deserve to die for being a victim.
‘I’ll tell you how many die. One thousand, three hundred and eighty-eight, in Australia alone. Look it up. That doesn’t even touch on the victims of violent assault, theft and armed robbery. Annabelle, you have been a victim of drug crime. And anyone who seeks to profit from drugs is no better than the bastard who robbed you of your mother.’ His voice crumbles for a second, but he inhales deeply and continues. ‘When you befriended this criminal, you offended not only every principle I stand for, but her memory too. Sometimes, I wonder if you have a heart at all.’ Dad looks out the window and a thin tear slips down his cheek.
His words hurt. Maybe I don’t have a heart. If I had a memory, just one lonely little memory of my mother, maybe it would be enough to make me feel something for her. But I have nothing. Where there should be a mother, there’s just a void.
How can I force myself to feel the right things for the woman who birthed me and disappeared? I don’t remember a scent or touch or smile, not a single thing we ever did together. All I have are a few photos disconnected in time and space.
‘I never knew her like you did,’ I say quietly. ‘But you expect me to grieve like you. Every anniversary we stand around that headstone with our flowers, and it’s bloody depressing. I can’t feel what you feel, Dad. I’m never going to. I’m sure Mum was a beautiful lady, and I wish things were different. You think I don’t wish I had a mother? Here’s a fun fact for you. When I got my first period, I had to run to Miss Watkins because the blood had drenched right through my uniform. Nobody told me that could happen. You don’t think I wanted to cry then?’ I harden my jaw. ‘Well, I didn’t. So maybe you need to tell me how I’m meant to feel, because I don’t fucking know!’
I’m holding back tears now, but I won’t cry. I won’t. ‘Can you take me home now?’ I say.
‘Don’t you mean school?’
‘Yes.’
Dad pushes his unfinished food aside, his breathing ragged.
‘I’m sorry that happened to you, sweetheart, I am. But if I have to tell you what to feel about the woman who carried you in her womb for nine months, before enduring thirty hours of agony to give you life …’ His voice is cold. ‘Forget it. Do whatever the hell you want. Go “home” as
you call it. And I bloody well hope your protest turns out okay.’
We stare at each other as I push back my chair. Then I turn away from him and walk into the rain, to face the long, wet walk back to school.
I’ve spent the last couple of hours sitting on my bed in my pyjamas staring at myself in my mirror. Is there something wrong with me, deep inside? I search my eyes for answers. Her eyes.
The door to our dorm opens. Tash is home well before curfew. I stash the mirror under my pillow.
‘Oh my God, how was your dad?’ she asks, wide-eyed.
‘Awful,’ I say flatly. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it. Tell me about Eli instead. Your … date.’
There, I said it.
Tash pulls off her dress and changes into a nightie. Sighs. ‘It’s off. All over.’
‘What?’ I can’t deny the relief that breaks through my heart.
‘Bel, he told me what happened in Thailand.’
I close my eyes. Breathe deeply.
‘I’m not angry about it. I just want to know why you didn’t tell me,’ she says. ‘Why you let me go on a date with him. He spent the whole night talking about you.’
I look at her now.
‘Tash I’m so sorry. I should have told you. I did start to, but then you said you’d asked him out and I didn’t want to be the reason you cancelled. I thought maybe you two could work.’
Tash slowly wipes her makeup off before the mirror. Then she pulls back the covers and flops onto her bed.
‘It’s you, Bel,’ she sighs. ‘It’s you he wants.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s not. Not after what I did to him in Thailand.’
‘Yeah, that was lame. He told me about that too. But he’s still in love with you.’
My heart trips. ‘He said that?’
‘No, but it’s written all over him. You should be with him, Bel. What you have with Micah isn’t real. It never can be. Eli is gorgeous and sweet and funny … and just the right kind of twisted.’ She smiles wistfully. ‘You guys are perfect for each other.’
‘Twisted and perfect, huh?’ I grin.
And the thought that Eli still loves me is enough to make me think maybe there’s not something so wrong with me after all.
Monday morning comes, and with it, a letter.
24/02
Hey Bel,
Had to write to you as soon as I could. Remember I told you how crowded it’s getting in here?
Well they took Leo. Yesterday afternoon. Didn’t even call his name, just handed him a piece of paper and took him.
My heart is hammering as I read on. I’ve heard nothing about another execution in the news.
The piece of paper said his sentence has been commuted and he’s gotta move to building three. They’re the Lifers in building three, and once your sentence gets changed to Life, all sorts of options open for you. Like transferring back to your home prison, so you can see your family. And I know Leo hasn’t seen his kids in fifteen years and they’re all grown now, but maybe they’ll want to see him again when he gets home. If he stays on good behaviour a couple of years, he’ll get the transfer.
We’re all buzzing now, everyone saying if he got his sentence commuted, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us. Something I never let myself believe before.
I drop the letter. My chest feels all fluttery with possibilities. Maybe this is what my dream meant. That Micah will get out of Bang Kwang. That I really will be able to touch him one day, hold his hand, kiss him.
The guys reckon it’s because of how crowded it’s getting in building five, and it makes sense. There’s new guys coming every week, some for murder but most for drugs. It doesn’t stop, does it? Even with the death sentence, the drugs just keep coming. But these life sentences, they cost the King a bunch. They’d kick our arses back to our own prisons, but they want to make examples of us. I got no letter yet – and I’m not counting on getting one – but seeing what happened to Leo, it gives us boys hope, you know? Makes me think all the prayers I been saying to Saint Jude haven’t been for nothing.
It’s lonely without Leo but. Dutchy’s gone real quiet, not done much but sit round, not even eating.
Anyway, when your letter came today, it helped. And that package you sent for my birthday, I opened it early. Soon as I did, a big smile spread right across my face. My old poker cards were getting real ratty, hey. So, thanks.
Also the new shirts you sent, I hope you don’t mind, but I gave one to Dutchy to cheer him up.
That is some freaky shit, our dreams, hey. If only it could happen that way. I’d give anything. And if I do get out one day, that’s what we’ll do, okay? We’ll go to your beach together, just you and me.
Shit, I wish things could be different, Bel.
You asked if I think dreams can tell the future? I’m not sure. I’ll make you a promise but. I’ll pray like crazy to get outta here, and if it happens, I’ve got Saint Jude to thank for it. That’s the day I’ll believe in miracles.
Peace out,
Micah x
My protest is in five days. Dad might not believe in what I’m doing, but I no longer care.
The time to act is now.
Hyde Park is almost empty. A homeless man is curled up on a bench as we set up. He ignores us. Eli creaks open the back of the hire van and slides a slab of timber in my direction.
‘Got it?’ he says.
Together, we carry piece after piece of wood to a level patch of grass, slotting them into a platform. While Eli gets to work on the lectern, I position our poster stands. I move life-size Micah to the left of the stage, his shackled elbow resting on Boxer’s shoulder. To the right is a frightening image. A blank, sea-green stretcher alone in a sterile room. The last room the prisoners ever see.
‘Hello, I said “coffee”,’ Eli waves his hand in front of my face. ‘You want one?’
‘Oh. Yeah, thanks.’
I offer him some money, but he shakes his head and he jumps from the platform.
‘Double espresso, right?’
I give him the thumbs up, and he jogs off.
Turning my back to the stretcher, I sit on the stage and draw my knees to my chin as the glorious pinks of dawn smudge across the sky.
Tash will be up by now, organising all the senior students into their bus lines for the sit-in. That’s four hundred girls from my school alone.
I study the poster of the boys. That’s who I’m doing this for.
‘Happy birthday, Micah,’ I whisper to the sky.
Will there be more birthdays after this one? He’s only had two decades on earth.
Eli returns with two cups and sits down next to me.
‘Can you believe this?’ I say, holding the steaming coffee in my hands. Nerves chase sickening circles inside my stomach.
‘Surreal, huh?’ he says.
We survey Hyde Park, our small stage nestled amongst the Moreton Bay figs, dappled in the first rays of a new dawn.
We exchange glances, and I smile shyly at him, shove him with my shoulder.
‘Sorry it didn’t work out with Tash,’ I say.
He shrugs. ‘We’re still friends. It’s all good.’
‘There’s no way I could have pulled this off without you, you know.’ I pause for a second. ‘You’re a good guy, Eli.’ I raise my cup to his. ‘Here’s to the beginning of a war. Our war.’
He laughs. ‘Hey, I thought we were all for ending the bloodshed.’
‘We are. This is the kind of war where nobody dies. No blood, I promise.’
‘Okay then. To war against the death sentence,’ he says, tapping his cup against mine. ‘To war against legal murder.’
Television network and cable news vans are already parked illegally across the footpath. The police have cordoned off one lane of traffic for pedestrian access, and they radio call each other intermittently. Camera crews fiddle with their gear and a mobile coffee cart sets up near our platform.
I scan the crowd. Lots of kids our age, some a
bit older. Amongst the people in casual clothes are a checked array of senior school uniforms and a sprinkling of university jerseys. But there are older people here too – little kids, families.
‘My guess is three thousand,’ Eli says.
I don’t want to know the numbers. My stomach is already cramping. I think I’m going to throw up. Three thousand people. I’ve never even spoken in front of the school assembly before. What does this crowd expect from me?
I stretch out my fingers and they tremble.
A woman in heavy eye makeup talks to a camera with ABC News 24 pasted across it. I can smell her perfume as she shoves the fuzzy microphone under Dad’s chin …
No.
I shake the memory away. It’s not the woman from the footage. It’s not Dad. He’s not even here.
The woman extends an arm to the crowd behind her, which swamps Hyde Park. My knees shake, refusing to extend me the courtesy of strength. My heart thuds so hard, I can barely swallow. In every direction, people clasp takeaway cups, huddled in groups. Others recline on the grass in patches of sunshine. Some brandish signs and posters. I notice little kids running around in t-shirts that match the adults they’re with, printed with the words Justice for Tye Roberts. I think about his cousin who posted a comment on my YouTube clip. Maybe this is her doing. Or maybe it’s his parents, but either way, I feel completely unqualified to meet them.
There are people who have suffered here. People who have lost their son, or their brother or their cousin. A small voice reminds me that I’ve lost my mother, but I push it away. It’s different when you didn’t know the person.
Everyone in this crowd is waiting for me to begin. I exhale slowly. If I fall, it’s going to be one very public, colossal crash.
In my braver moments, lying in bed in the dark, I’d hoped for a big crowd. But in the thick of the reality, all I want to do is run.
‘Got any tranquillisers?’ I mutter to Eli.
Inside the Tiger Page 20
