‘Dad, there’s no reason why there can’t be victim’s rights and prisoner’s rights. They’re not mutually exclusive. Besides, I’m not a little girl anymore.’ I toss a bunch of cups into the garbage bag and get coffee dregs on my hands. ‘If you want me to stand for something, leave the world better or whatever, then at some point you have to accept that I’ll form my own opinions. And they might be different to yours.’
He presses his hands against the small of his lower back and arches, squinting into the sun.
‘You wouldn’t respect me if I was a lap dog, Dad.’
‘Sweetheart, I always dreamt we’d be a united front – make your mother proud.’ He picks up a trampled poster of Micah and the boys and examines it before crunching it up and tossing it into my outstretched garbage bag. ‘I didn’t sleep entirely well last night. Actually, I didn’t sleep at all. I … I don’t like fighting with you, Annabelle. You’re all I’ve got. And we might have some serious differences to reconcile, but I don’t want them to come between us.’ He hesitates a moment. ‘If you ever want to talk about it, about this boy or anything boy-related …’
I feel my cheeks burning and sincerely hope we’re not about to have ‘the talk’. Too little, too late.
‘Oh, Dad, stop. You’re terrible at this.’
As I bend down to pick up a stray paper bag, he catches my arm. Looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.
‘I know I am, Annabelle. I am terrible at this,’ he says. ‘I’m a terribly absent father, but it wasn’t meant to be this way. What do I know about teenage girls – how they think, what they feel? I couldn’t give you what she could, so I gave you the best of everything else. But I’d trade all of it to have your mother back.’ His voice grows soft. ‘You shouldn’t have been left with me.’
Oh no, I’ve sent him there again, to that place of pain.
‘Dad –’
‘You’re so different to your mum – fiercer than her, more stubborn, that’s for sure. But she would have been good at dealing with …’ he waves his hands like I’m some kind of potent liquid. ‘All this girl stuff. Teenage rebellion –’
‘It’s not rebellion.’
‘Look, what I’m saying, sweetheart, is that I’m trying. I haven’t done the best job of looking after you emotionally and all that. I mean, I haven’t done the best job of looking after me either. But I am trying, okay? And I want you to know I’m here for you. You don’t have to be so independent and secretive all the time. You’ve shouldered a lot over the years, I’ll own that, but you don’t have to pretend you’ve got it all together, because that’s bullshit. I haven’t got it all together after forty-six years, and I don’t know a damn soul who has.’
I laugh, but it’s a short, sad laugh. ‘Well, that’s encouraging.’
‘I’m being serious, Annabelle. It was never my intent to use you, if that’s what you think I’ve done in my political campaigns.’
It’s hard to absorb his admission after so many years. But it’s liberating too, having it acknowledged.
‘I know you didn’t mean to, but it was scary for me. I didn’t even understand what the protests were about half the time. All those microphones and angry crowds and police. I thought you’d get arrested, and then who would I have left?’
This is surreal – I’ve never told Dad my deepest fear as a kid.
‘You thought I’d go to prison?’
I nod.
‘We get lots of spare things. Spare leg, spare kidney, spare eye, spare parent. When you lose one of those, you have to guard the other one, but you were always putting yourself in the firing line. If you lose both eyes, you’re blind. Both legs, you can’t walk, both kidneys, you’re dead, both parents … you’re a ward of the state.’
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
‘Sweetheart, I was never going to get arrested. You thought you’d become an orphan?’
I look away because I can’t admit it to him. The pain runs too deep.
‘All I wanted was a parent,’ I say after a while. ‘And a normal home. But you were hell-bent on your causes. It’s okay, though. I managed.’
Dad says nothing for a while. Runs a hand slowly over his face.
‘Shit, Annabelle.’ He draws a ragged breath and I realise he’s crying. ‘I’ve stuffed up as a father,’ he whispers. ‘I’m so sorry.’
My heart twists.
‘Shh,’ I say, reaching out to touch his arm. ‘Please don’t cry, Dad. I might have stuffed up too, as a daughter. But I had to do this. I don’t give a shit about the politics of it all. I had to do this for Micah.’
Dad looks across at me, then gives a short laugh. ‘You’re more like me than I ever knew.’
‘What?’
He shakes his head. ‘Look, you’re obviously determined to stand your ground on this prisoner thing … I just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into. Capital punishment is a heated political debate with high stakes for everyone involved. Do you understand that? Do you know this could cut one of two ways for Micah?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Protests usually either fix a problem or inflame it. When one government starts exerting pressure on another to bend the rules for certain people … Well, if a government feels cornered politically, they can lash out. And sometimes the consequences can be deadly.’
‘This was a peaceful protest, Dad.’
He hesitates for a moment, then says, ‘Look, Annabelle, I just want you to know, whichever way the cards fall, I’m here for you, okay? And I love you.’
‘Thanks, I … um …’ I can’t actually remember the last time we used the four letter L word. ‘I love you too.’
He busies himself tying up the garbage bag, then fishes inside his pocket for the car keys.
‘What do you say you come home tonight, instead of back to school? It is a weekend …’
‘I have homework …’ His face falls ever so slightly so I change my mind. ‘Actually that sounds nice.’
‘Great. We could shoot some darts, order something for dinner?’
I grin. ‘How about Thai takeaway?’
He glances at me sideways. ‘Don’t push it.’
10/03
Dear Micah,
I can’t believe Leo got his sentence commuted! It means there’s hope for the rest of you. It means freedom could be one step closer. That is amazing news!
I have some pretty exciting news, too. Two days ago, I staged a protest for you in Hyde Park. It got kind of huge. Thousands of people turned out.
The execution of Tye Roberts is still really raw over here. People are angry about it, and when I showed them your face, they got angrier. I hope you don’t mind, but I shared bits of your story to help them understand.
And, Micah, I have bigger news.
I met your mum! She came to your protest. I met your brother Sam too. They wanted to be there for you. I think some of your teachers even turned up.
Micah, your mum is one of the strongest women I’ve ever met, but she’s bleeding for you. Not because of what you did, but because you’ve cut her off. She wanted me to tell you that you’ll always be her boy. I nearly cried when she said it.
I know you think you’re protecting her by not writing, but after seeing her, I can tell you, you’re not. Please think about writing to her, Micah. She’ll write back, I know it. I wish that my mum could.
After the protest, Eli started an online petition and we now have over 100,000 signatures demanding the government do more to protect Australians on Death Row. That’s 100,000 Australians supporting you!
It’s all over the news here as a hot topic for the upcoming election. Probably because of who my father is, and because he’s already made justice a top priority in his election campaign, but who cares why! Politicians are at their most active in the lead up to an election, so Jacqui Simmons, the Foreign Minister, is under a huge amount of pressure to pacify the public. The opposition have taken up our call for action, so J
acqui’s been in damage control, fronting the media, holding press conferences, talking to the Thai Ministry of Justice about prisoner-transfer treaties and clemency for Australians on Death Row. I feel certain something good will come of it.
Keep hoping for that miracle. It might just be closer than you think.
Love Bel xxx
I slip my letter into the post box in the admin office, then rush off to Friday assembly.
I near the throng of girls, enveloped in a swirl of chatter. It all feels frivolous to me now – boyfriends, haircuts, pedicures, exams, holidays. Teachers herd year groups through the timber archway into the hall with its stained-glass windows and velvet-curtained stage. Tash is already seated on the stage alongside Airlie and the prefects.
I follow a line of girls in and find a seat, but then Watchkins spots me. Parts the sea of girls as she walks towards me.
‘Bel,’ she calls, beckoning.
I slide out past a line of legs. ‘Yes, miss?’
She leads me up the side of the hall, to the foot of the stairs at the stage.
‘Wait here,’ she says.
I look at Tash. She gives me a small shrug.
Watchkins takes to the stage and the chatter of girls dissipates. She talks about the brilliant start we’ve made to the year and what a bright, promising group of senior students we have in our midst.
‘Now, it’s customary to present scholarships in Term Three,’ she says smugly, brandishing a rolled-up piece of paper in her hand, ‘but the University of Sydney has generously offered a preliminary scholarship to one of the students at this school on the basis of her exemplary actions.’
Sydney University. Those sandstone walls that housed Dad for five years of his law degree. The grassy quadrangle where my mother was sprawled, surrounded by art books, when she first caught his eye. It’s the only detail I have of how they met.
My heart picks up remembering that scholarship I applied for. At the time, I did it for Dad. It’s only now I realise that I want it.
‘At St Margaret’s, we pride ourselves on Broadening and Contributing. The student receiving this scholarship is a marvellous example of contribution.’
She looks across and gives me a smile.
‘Annabelle Anderson, please come up to accept this prestigious scholarship.’
I walk the stairs up to the stage.
‘For our younger girls who weren’t there, Annabelle single-handedly organised a demonstration in Hyde Park to generate awareness of human-rights violations in prisons overseas.
‘Her effort, along with the support she has garnered for Australians in foreign prisons, has prompted discussions of the value of punitive justice on both a national and international level. Because of the attention Annabelle has raised for Death Row prisoners, particularly two young Australian men in Thailand, senior members of our government are now actively campaigning to have citizens in prisons abroad transferred back to Australia to avoid further executions of Australians on foreign soil.
‘I ask every girl in this assembly to please stand and put your hands together for Annabelle Anderson.’
Watchkins’ hand is extended, so I shake it. She passes me the rolled-up piece of paper in her other hand.
‘Well done, Bel,’ she whispers.
Clutching the parchment paper in my hand, the clapping in the hall shatters into fragments inside my head. It echoes the cheering at my protest only weeks ago.
This is what it feels like to stand for something.
‘Hey, hey, check this out, little miss wave-maker.’ Tash plonks down on my bed with her iPad. ‘Guess whose protest made it all the way to News of Bangkok? It’s in English. Listen to this. The headline is Private School Girl Gone Bad for Drug Mule.’ She laughs.
I straighten up.
‘So, it says, a girl from an exclusive private boarding school in Sydney has rallied for a handsome young Australian incarcerated in Bang Kwang Prison for drug trafficking.’
She pauses to raise her eyebrows at me.
‘What? He is handsome,’ I say, smiling.
‘I’m not arguing with that. Okay, it goes on, Micah Rawlinson was sentenced to death by lethal injection nine months ago when he was discovered at Bangkok International Airport carrying five kilograms of cocaine.
‘School girl Annabelle Anderson, daughter of the Australian Minister for Justice, claims Bang Kwang Prison is mistreating foreign prisoners. She wants Micah Rawlinson and other Australians to be excused from the death sentence, and has convinced politicians to petition the Thai government to make allowances for Australians that are not made for any other foreign or local prisoners …’
Her voice trails off. ‘It’s a stupid article anyway. I think it’s a gossip column or something. Wait – here’s another one in English. The Bangkok Post, this will be better.
‘A rally against the death penalty organised by the daughter of the Australian Minister for Justice has attracted a crowd of over five thousand people and achieved in excess of 200,000 online signatures in support of Australians facing execution in foreign prisons. Australian Foreign Minister Jacqui Simmons has approached the Thai Ministry of Justice about the treatment of Australians awaiting execution in Thailand.’
‘Keep reading,’ I say, my stomach clenched in a knot.
‘Okay … so it says, Ms Simmons has requested clemency on behalf of Australian prisoners on Death Row, and has proposed a prisoner-exchange for two Australians currently in Bang Kwang Central Prison.’
I baulk. ‘Wow. Right-wingers are requesting clemency.’
Tash thinks for a moment. ‘Airlie’s Dad took up the cause too.’ She grins. ‘I guess the Shadow Minister for Justice wants to throw a spanner in the works for the Government.’
‘What else does the article say?’ I ask.
‘Right, where was I? Oh, so, The Thai Ministry of Justice has reiterated Thailand’s notoriously tough stance against the trafficking of narcotics, pointing to the scale of the drug trade, particularly in tourist hotspots like Bangkok. The Thai Justice Minister went further, pointing out the degenerative effects the drug trade has had on traditional Thai culture, including the propagation of prostitution and child pornography, together with the costs associated with drug overdoses and deaths each year.’ The smile has fallen off Tash’s lips, and she frowns as she reads more slowly. ‘The Justice Minister expressed offence at Ms Simmon’s suggestion of leniency in a country which prides itself on zero tolerance for, uh, drugs …’
She falters.
‘Keep going.’
Tash angles her iPad away. ‘That’s about it really.’
‘What? What else does it say?’
She reluctantly hands it over.
‘… and promises a strong response to any perceived threats to Thailand’s national sovereignty,’ I read. ‘The Ministry of Justice reserves the right to carry out sentences swiftly and efficiently and by direct order from the King.’
I lower the iPad to the bed, my skin prickling.
‘If they were looking for an excuse to ease the overcrowding,’ I say, my eyes locking onto hers. ‘I think I’ve just gone and given them one.’
10/03
They took Dutchy. He’s gone. Shit, he’s gone.
Did I ever tell you how Dutchy does this whistle right before he falls asleep? So I was lying under the glow of the bulb listening to the breathing of the boys round me. And I heard that whistle Dutchy makes. Then another noise, a screeching. Locks turning. There was the shuffle of boots. The screws bursting in, two of them.
‘Luke Jansen,’ they said. That’s Dutchy’s real name.
My chest, it went all tight, and Dutchy woke up.
The screws were holding papers.
At first, I thought he’d got himself a transfer. Except it was the middle of the damn night, and I got this feeling in my guts. Something’s not right.
Dutchy, he must have got the same feeling, cause he didn’t move.
They made straight for him anyway, and his sh
ackles jingled as he fought them. Then he pissed himself all down his pants and onto the floor, and yelled something in Dutch. It’s the loudest I’ve ever heard him. And the screws said sorry as they dragged him out, and all I could think is, Dutchy. They got Dutchy. They were telling him to calm down. Saying it’s no good fighting or in his next life he’ll come back someplace bad.
But I could still hear him screaming down the hall.
Boxer just said, ‘Shit, man, shit.’ And thumped his big fist into the wall of the cell, till the other guys told him to shut the fuck up. But Boxer wouldn’t listen and none of them were game enough to make him.
‘I’ve seen this shit before,’ Boxer says. ‘Some of us gotta fold to make room.’
And I tell him, Shut it, man, cause he’s freaking me out.
But what I want to know is why’d they have to pick him? Dutchy never harmed no one, hey. Now he’s gotta go die on his own. Even Boxer couldn’t save him this time, and it’s eating him up. Dutchy doesn’t deserve it. And he can’t handle it. They should of picked me. I could of handled it.
I keep looking at the empty space, with the sheet pulled back. The puddle Dutchy left where he pissed himself, and the picture of his family poking out from his pillow. The guards didn’t tell him to get his stuff, cause he won’t be needing it.
So I’ve been sitting here five hours, head spinning. Thinking about you too. About us.
Remember the time you asked if this was real, you and me?
I said it was.
But what we have, Bel, it’s not real. Never going to be. I only said it was cause I wanted to believe it.
There’s before you, Bel, and after. Before you, life was getting along. Then your letter came into my hands and everything changed. Fuck, I hate how much I love you.
I wait for you every day. For a letter or a parcel or a picture. I’m not happy just being anymore. Can’t sleep at night. I could smell your perfume on that letter you sent for my birthday. You’ve got no idea what it did to me.
I’ve got too attached to you, Bel, like I do most things, and it’s killing me.
Inside the Tiger Page 22
