Inside the Tiger

by Hayley Lawrence

  I inch down beside him.

  ‘Uh-oh. This time I really am getting a new mother.’ I laugh. ‘It’s Jacqui, isn’t it?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, sweetheart.’ His Adam’s apple bobs. ‘Annabelle, I, uh, I wanted to tell you this before …’

  There’s a chill in his tone. So serious.

  He squints at the harbour, clears his throat. ‘It’s about your boy … Micah.’

  Dad’s never said his name before.

  ‘What about him?’ I look straight at Dad.

  But I already know.

  ‘I wanted to tell you myself, before you heard it on the news.’ He puts one hand on my knee. ‘It happened early hours of this morning.’

  A knife twists in my gut. No. No. Not possible.

  ‘Jacqui called as soon as they confirmed the names. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.’

  I need him to say it. I need it spoken.

  ‘Micah was one of the two Australians executed last night at Bang Kwang. Danny Miles was the name of the other man. I think you knew him as Boxer.’

  I shake my head. ‘No. No.’

  ‘I know …’ He takes a big breath. ‘I know it’s a shock –’

  ‘No, they’re wrong. The King, Dad. The King’s granting pardons next week. Micah’s lawyer says they’re even giving them to drug traffickers. Micah stands a really good chance.’ But the way Dad’s looking at me, his face ashen, makes my mouth go dry. ‘He’s still waiting for his pardon. There’s been a mix up.’

  Dad’s hand moves to my shoulder. ‘Sweetheart, he was refused the King’s pardon three days ago. That was his last legal avenue.’

  ‘No.’ This is a bad dream. Another one I’ll wake from.

  I clench the edge of the concrete step. ‘The pardon’s not till … next week.’

  But even as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s not true. My dream. Him flying like an eagle. It was real. He met me in his last moment. I want to tell Micah it is real. It is possible to meet in our dreams.

  My eyes blur as I hug myself, rocking.

  How could Micah be erased so quietly?

  I try not to visualise it, but I know too much.

  Did he fight the way Dutchy did? Did he cry? Piss himself? I shudder, trying to shake my mind blank. Erase all knowledge that places like Bang Kwang exist, but the etchings are too deep. What did he think of as they strapped him to the table and tied him down?

  Fire curls round the edges of my heart. I can’t breathe. Don’t want to breathe. I lean forward as my stomach empties itself of everything.

  Micah’s gone.

  Gone like my mother.

  There will be no more letters stamped from the Kingdom of Thailand. Not a single one, ever. No more words, written in his imperfect scribbly hand. Not even a chance to say goodbye.

  All I want is to have him back, breathing in the same world as me. My lungs keep on breathing. My body working dutifully to keep me alive when his never will again.

  Dad rubs my back gently in a circular motion, a small patch of warmth.

  ‘It was a matter of time, Annabelle. Always a matter of time.’

  I look up at him through blurred vision, watch the tears slick down through the bottom of his sunglasses. And I don’t know if he’s sad for Micah or for me, or whether it even matters.

  I lean into him, and he holds me firmly round the shoulders as I sob out all the fear and heartache and love smashed up inside. I cry on the concrete step like there’s no one else here, and I don’t care if there is. My world is a bubble of watery silence.

  We sit there until my legs go numb and the shadows grow long. We sit there long enough for me to realise that whether or not I deserve it, I have a future.

  It’s no longer about what I want to do with my life, but what I need to do.

  It’s about what I owe to Dutchy, to Micah and to my mother.

  My life is not my own to waste.

  When Dad pulls up at home, there’s another media scrum waiting. Cameras squash against every car window with flashes that sting my eyes. I don’t bother to hide my face or my tears from them. I no longer matter, not in the way I thought I did. A new story will break tomorrow, and they’ll forget about this one, forget about Micah.

  I will never forget though. Never.

  When Dad opens the door from the garage into our house, someone’s sitting at the bottom of the staircase.

  ‘Eli.’

  A thousand weights drop off my shoulders at the sight of him. He stands and I fall into him. He holds me tight in his arms, grabs a fistful of my hair. My legs are weak, and I clutch at his shirt.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Dad says.

  ‘No, I do it.’ Marcella appears from the kitchen, dusting her hands against her apron. ‘You go shower. I will look after these two.’

  Dad presses his lips together and obeys. One hand on the rail, he makes his way upstairs, pausing at the top to take in my mother.

  Eli eases me down next to him on the bottom step.

  I close my eyes and rest against his chest while Marcella makes tea. He holds me to him and I listen to the beating of his heart.

  ‘Drink, my darling.’

  Marcella crouches at the bottom of the stairs with a cup. She presses it into my hands, and the steam is soothing.

  ‘Camomile. It will help,’ she says gently. ‘Drink. She need to sleep, Elijah.’

  ‘I’ll take her up,’ he says.

  When we reach my room, Eli peels back the covers and I sink gratefully into my sheets. He pulls my desk chair alongside the bed and sits.

  ‘Looks like you get to be on the front page again,’ he says.

  ‘Just like old times,’ I say wearily.

  ‘Bel, the media’s going berserk. Human rights outrage. Everyone already knows Micah, thanks to you. Things are going to change, you watch.’

  ‘But it wasn’t meant to end like this.’

  Eli’s quiet for a second. ‘Tell me anything that ends the way it’s meant to.’

  I think about Mum’s life. Dutchy’s. Micah’s. Dad’s. None followed the plan. Who says there even is a plan?

  ‘I’ll fight the death penalty,’ I say. ‘Till I die, I’ll fight it.’

  ‘Shh,’ Eli says. ‘Tonight you just need to rest.’

  ‘I don’t want to …’ But the fatigue in my voice betrays my flagging spirit.

  Eli kisses me on the forehead. ‘Go to sleep, beautiful.’

  ‘Are you leaving?’

  ‘No,’ he says gently. ‘I’ll be downstairs.’

  ‘Will you stay all night?’

  ‘I’ll stay on the couch.’

  As he heads for the doorway, I squint after him. ‘Eli, you don’t always have to pick up my pieces. You don’t have to be that guy.’

  ‘I know.’ He smiles softly. Holds onto the architrave, illuminated by the light streaming into the hall. ‘But I want to be that guy. For you.’

  He turns and pads softly down the stairs, and I lie awake a moment, letting the warmth of those words sink in. Then with one hand, I reach up and rip open my curtains. The first evening stars peer into my room, and I sink into my soft bed until I’m washed into a deep sleep.

  I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and check my braid in the mirror. Smooth my new dress over my hips and check in with Mum. She smiles encouragingly at me from my dresser. I run my fingers over the tin next to her photo – Margaret Olley’s painting. Captured life.

  I wedge open the tin, and lift the scraps of existence inside. Words from two unique souls killed at opposite ends of the law.

  I pull out the letter resting on top, close my eyes, hold it in my hands a moment. When I wrote to Micah’s mother after his funeral, it felt like writing to my mother in the seventh grade – I didn’t expect she’d write back.

  But I knew Micah would want me to contact her and I thought I owed it to them both. So I took a chance. I dropped the letter in the post box, forcing my fingers to let it slide into the pool of envelopes, b
eyond my grasp.

  Ten days later, I received her letter in the post. And in the envelope was another letter. Written in that slanted writing I’d grown to love.

  She’d sent me a copy of Micah’s last words.

  A gift for me.

  14/10

  Hey Mum,

  It seems the King decided this wasn’t the year for the drug guys. But if you’re reading this, you’ll already know.

  The screws came for me and Boxer tonight. I want you to know there was no fighting or yelling but. Just Boxer hugging me. So long, brother. Then the screws pulled us apart.

  They say it’s probably going to be a couple of hours. Asked what I want to eat. I said can I have a paper and pen instead cause if I get any last words, I want them to go to you.

  Mum, you’ve gotta promise you’re not going to worry about what they do to me, cause I’m not scared of dying. I’ve done a lot of thinking about the end.

  The thing that scares me most is who I’m leaving behind. I need you to promise you’ll be tough. Tell Sammy to be tough too. And check in on Bel for me, okay? She hasn’t got a mum to look after her. Maybe send her a copy of this letter so she knows I’m okay. She deserves some last words too.

  Please don’t cry, Mum, cause living here, it was no life. They’re only setting me free. No more eating that fishy soup, no more shackles and squat holes and lice in the mattress. No more fighting to survive. Where I’m going, there’s no rules and no screws. And I can play poker with Dutchy all day long without someone saying that I robbed them.

  God should of given me up years ago, but Father Ramone, he says God doesn’t give up on anyone, even that thief hanging next to Jesus on the cross. So a guy’s gotta hope, hey. Maybe if there’s no mercy in this life, there’ll be some in the next.

  I love you, Mum. You gave me the best of what you had and I want only the best for you and Sammy, too. I might have only got twenty years, but I hope you get a whole long lifetime. I know you’ll live it good.

  Love Micah xxx

  I press the paper to my lips. A kiss for luck. Then I rest it back on top of the other letters. I close the lid firmly and put the tin next to the potted Thai orchids Marcella bought me. She never asked what happened to the vase, but she said these flowers won’t wilt.

  I touch the silver locket around my neck. In it are photos of Dad and Marcella. I’m keeping my loved ones close. The faces of Micah and the boys no longer haunt me any more than my own does. Saint Jude stands vigil alongside their framed photo – the patron saint of hopeless causes.

  My soul isn’t green like my mother’s, but it’s far from black. Maybe it’s blue, the colour of the ocean.

  My phone buzzes on the bed.

  Looking good. You ready?

  I move closer to the window, and there’s Eli. He’s grinning wryly, the keys to his new beat-up Camry dangling from his fingers. He holds them up, and I give him the thumbs up.

  Born ready, I type.

  I sling my new shoulder bag across my chest. The polished timber balustrade glides beneath my hand as I head for the kitchen.

  Eli and I decided to launch right into uni. We don’t need a gap year. Unlike Tash. Even though she made the cut at the Conservatorium of Music, she rattled her mum’s bones by deferring. Saved up for a round-the-world ticket and left with Alex on Saturday.

  They have no accommodation booked and no set agenda, except a stop in Thailand along the way to meet a girl in Lard Yao prison she’s started writing to. I’m not sure I’ll ever go back to Thailand or write to another prisoner, but I’m glad she has.

  ‘How do you want your eggs?’ Marcella asks as I enter the kitchen. Steam is rising in puffs from the stovetop. ‘Sunny-side up?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Marcella serves up and the three of us sit around the table sipping double espressos over mushroom and eggs.

  ‘What’s your first subject?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Politics.’

  ‘Ha! You’ll kill it.’

  The doorbell rings.

  ‘That’s Eli,’ I say.

  ‘You’d best hop to it then.’ Dad winks at me. ‘Don’t want to be late on your first day.’

  I force a nervous smile and head for the blurry silhouette behind the dappled glass door.

  My heart flutters as I open it.

  Eli’s standing on the porch, one hand shoved in his pocket.

  I lace my fingers through his and kiss him slowly, in front of that blonde-brick façade, on the cobblestoned path we have trodden so many times, and he kisses me back. I press myself against him, not caring if Dad or Marcella sees, or even if we’re late for our first day at Sydney Uni.

  After a while, Eli pulls away, smiling at me. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Because we can,’ I say.

  In the light of the new morning, I take his hand and we head for his car.

  My past may be written, but I still have a future. And as long as I do, I am going to make beautiful things with it.

  ‘Let’s do this,’ I say.

  It takes a village to raise a child, and a book is no different. Without the contributions of some very special people, Inside the Tiger would not be what it is.

  I want to thank my editor, Michelle Madden of Penguin Random House Australia, for taking a chance on me, a debut author. You’ve brought your vast experience and glorious ideas to this novel and have made it so much brighter and better than it was. Also to artist Marina Messiha – thank you for giving my book a beautiful face!

  I feel so privileged to have my agent Clare Forster and the team at Curtis Brown in my corner pushing my first book baby to places I never thought it could go. Your team blows my mind! Also Roxane Edouard from Curtis Brown UK, for managing translation rights. And to Jill Corcoran and the team at Jill Corcoran Literary Agency in the US. My heartfelt thanks to you all for championing Inside the Tiger in other ports around the world.

  To the gorgeous Varuna Writers’ House, thanks for being such a haven of creativity. Special thanks to Stephen Measday, Peter Bishop, Veechi and the board who keep Varuna thriving.

  I’m eternally grateful to my critique partners. To Dave Archbold, thanks for taking messages at any hour of the day or night, for your unwavering belief and for teaching me countless lessons along the way. I can’t wait to see your stories come alive. To Stephanie Holman-Lee, you’ve been on this journey with me from the beginning. Thanks for letting me get away with nothing, for teaching me to be more visual and for helping me edit to very tight deadlines. I can’t wait to see where your novels take you.

  To everyone who read early drafts of my manuscripts. To my sister and number-one fan Shelley. Your passion for my stories thrills me no end. I’m so lucky to have you by my side through the rollercoaster of life. Thanks also to my sister Brookelyn, for your encouragement and excitement, and to my in-laws Peter and Mary who have always been supportive of my writing. To my wing woman, Anne Johnston, who can sing me under the table, endures my scatter-brained ways and makes me laugh through every disaster. Also to Jamie, Hannah and Rylie Johnston, you’ll always be family, even if our blood doesn’t match. To Father Donnelly, for your wit and suggestions. And for humouring me when I take life too seriously.

  To my mum Karen – all the mothers in the world, and I got the best! You ride every high with me as though it were your own and let me spam you with my book news. And to my dad Ian, my hero in a crisis. The love and support of a father is a special thing.

  To Chad, my first love, who reads my drafts and gives me time to write. Thanks for enduring sock and undie drawers running empty and for picking up the slack without complaint. Thanks for backing my dreams and being generous with me always.

  To our five beautiful girls, Mia, Zara, Sophie, Heidi and Lacey. Without you, life is colourless. Thanks for the privilege of being your mum and for forgiving me when I drop balls in the daily juggle. May you chase your own dreams too.

  Finally, to Obi, who may never read this book, but whose letters were t
he spark that inspired it.

  The death penalty is a hot and divisive issue, but Inside the Tiger is primarily the coming-of-age story of Bel, finding her feet against a backdrop of loss, love and hope. This is a love story about imperfect people in imperfect places.

  Few of us have to face what Micah and Bel face in this novel. But at some point, we all have to deal with the question of what we believe is right, and the lengths we’re prepared to go to in standing up for those beliefs.

  I hope Inside the Tiger gives you a sense of what it might be like to walk in the shackles of a Death Row prisoner, and in the shoes of the people who love them – each are lonely and fearful situations to be in.

  There used to be a saying on the Foreign Prisoner Support Service: Write to a prisoner. It will make your day, but it will make their life. I once took this advice. Much of Micah’s experience is based on what I learnt from five years writing to Obi, a Nigerian man on Death Row in Thailand.

  The first time I received a letter from Obi, I was leaving our apartment. On my way out, I checked the letterbox. As I sifted through the mail, my hands froze. Nestled amongst bills and junk mail was an envelope stamped all over in green ink. The Kingdom of Thailand, it said. I turned the envelope over. The return address was chilling:

  BUILDING #5, DEATH ROW.

  I couldn’t wait the forty minute trek to work. I couldn’t even wait five. So I tore that envelope open straightaway. By the time I arrived at the law firm where I was a newly graduated solicitor, I couldn’t stop smiling.

  Over the years, I sent care packages and news from Australia – the birth of my first baby, then my second. Obi wrote back, always thankful for the help, happy to hear my news and share his. When our first daughter turned one, he framed a picture of her in a frame he’d made.

  In 2007, my husband and I went to visit Obi in prison. He said he’d never been visited before, and didn’t want to bring shame upon his family by telling his mother where he was.

  My meeting with Obi was nothing like Bel’s meeting with Micah, but it was an unforgettable experience. I was so nervous, my palms were sweating as I gripped the phone in my hand waiting for Obi to arrive on the other side of the glass partition.