by Rohan Wilson
In the long moments that follow I hear someone walking up and down the corridor. There’s a lot of smoke. I hold my breath. I notice with a sort of detached concern that I’ve started shivering. Someone tries the door handle and moves on. More footsteps pass. They stop and then there’s talking. Not English. Dhivehi, I realise with an electric shock. I let my breath out in a gush. I crawl under the conference table and lay face down. It’s a vast space, dark and safe-looking. I fight the urge to cough.
‘Rin?’
‘Be quiet,’ I hiss.
The handle clatters. I can hear them outside, talking. My heart is punching the floor like a fist. I need to cough so bad my eyes are watering. They kick the door and the whole front wall shakes and they kick it again. After that, nothing. Nothing. Silence.
‘Rinny?’
‘Shh.’
‘She gave you up. You have to understand. Misaki Sakurai gave you up. The two of us, we’re meant to be together.’
‘Shut up,’ I hiss.
She’s sniffling. ‘Are you okay?’
‘You did this to me. You put me in here.’
There’s only the wet sound of her nose for a time. Then she says, ‘My baby, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
‘Can we do this later?’
In the far-off parts of the building I hear things falling, things breaking.
‘Rinny—’
‘Quiet. They’ll come back.’
‘Rin, Captain Rahmatullah’s telling me … He’s saying it’s too dangerous. They can’t re-enter the building.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t move,’ she says. Her voice is cracking. ‘Don’t leave the room. They’ll get you out. I’ll make sure.’
I think that’s what she says. I can’t hear because a loud fizzing has filled the air. From where I lay I can see sparks drop in a bright cascade. They’re cutting the door with some kind of torch. They’re cutting the door and coming in here and any pretence that I might be okay is gone. I make myself as small as possible under the centre of the table. Maybe I can hide. Michael Trevino used to tell people what he’d do to me if he ever had the chance. Are the four thousand men in this facility any better? The door handle falls glowing and smoking on the carpet. I clench my jaw to stop my teeth chattering.
All I see of the man who enters is his legs. Dusty blue jeans. Boots like a farmer’s. He walks past the table and stops and turns about. There’s a scratch and a thunk above me as he lifts something and drops it. My bag. I left it up there. He walks to the far end of the room and pushes a chair out of the way and there’s a few seconds where I’m holding my breath. Then he crouches down. Our eyes meet.
‘Well, bugger me,’ he says.
A white man. His profile appears in my glasses. Howland, Daniel Jason. Processed for deportation to the United Kingdom. Decision appealed. Awaiting review. Daniel Howland and his protestors. That Daniel Howland.
He drags a hand down his beard. ‘Isn’t this a fuck-up.’
‘You shouldn’t be in here,’ I say. ‘You can’t come in here.’
‘Thought it might be where they keep the weapons.’
‘The police are on the way,’ I say. ‘If you go now, I won’t tell anyone I saw you.’
He squints at me through the haze.
‘That’s a beaut pin on your jacket there. CYC logo, ain’t she?’
I don’t say anything.
‘Work for them, do you?’
‘Maybe you can help,’ I say. ‘I just need to get outside. There’s an evacuation point outside. Staff are being evacuated.’
‘Rin? Who are you talking to?’
It’s Alessandra. I tap the arm to end the call. Howland’s expression has changed though. He looks at my clothes, my hair, my glasses.
‘Rin,’ he says.
‘I need to get out of here. Please.’
‘Rin what?’
My teeth are chattering. ‘Rin,’ I say and then pause. ‘Sakurai.’
‘That’s a pretty name. Rin Sakurai. Japanese, are you, Rin?’
‘American.’
‘Lovely country, Japan. In a hell of a mess though. Debt default. Shrinking population. Not at all in a good way.’
I shuffle deeper under the table.
‘You don’t see a lot of Japanese women with blonde hair,’ he says.
‘I’m American.’
‘I suppose it’s the Eurocentric nature of our beauty ideals. The social norm is a white one. Puts a lot of pressure on a woman to conform. You want to conform so you dye your hair. Is that it?’
‘Please. I just need to get outside. It’s not safe in here.’
‘I asked you a question.’
‘No, I don’t want to conform.’
‘I’d say it’s de-racialisation too. Some form of self-hatred. You want to look white and that’s the easiest way to do it.’
‘No.’
‘You’re trying to replicate a Western ideal of beauty.’
‘No. I’m really not.’
The man lifts his eyebrows.
‘Why can’t it be about self-expression?’ I say.
‘The problem with that—’
‘The problem,’ I say and I sit up and face him. ‘The problem is white people seeing themselves everywhere they look. It’s narcissistic. It’s sickening.’
‘Fair point,’ he says.
We look at each other for a time.
‘Where are the weapons?’ he says.
‘I don’t know.’
He jerks his head. ‘You can come out. I won’t do nothing.’
‘I’m fine right here.’
But I’m not fine. There’s smoke and it’s getting thicker. I’m thinking that if I run, maybe I can make it. It wouldn’t be more than fifty metres to the front exit. If I run, maybe they won’t stop me. Maybe I make it out. I look towards the door. Men in caps and men in hoodies pass in the dimness and disappear. Some are carrying shields or batons and some are hauling out the furniture as if even this vandalism is only another form of labour. They call to each other in Dhivehi. One man comes by wearing a bloodied officer’s shirt and another carries a sort of club. I push my glasses up my nose. Yeah. Running might not be smart.
‘I’d say they’re expressing their contempt for your company, Rin Sakurai. Wouldn’t you?’
I twist around to him.
‘What’s happening out there,’ he says. ‘It’s not simple-minded destruction. It’s not deros or crims smashing the place for laughs. It’s contempt. These men know what CYC intend for them. What the Australian government sold them into. They won’t stand for it.’
I decide to take a risk.
‘And how do they know what CYC intend for them?’ I say.
Howland sniffs. He’s trying to puzzle me out.
‘Yamaan Umair has some glasses,’ I say.
He’s looking at me hard.
‘Right?’ I say.
‘Right.’
‘And how does he have glasses?’
He chews the inside of his lower lip.
‘Me,’ I say. ‘That’s how.’
‘You?’
‘I gave them to him.’
‘Did you now.’
‘I’m trying to help,’ I say. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
It’s a risk, telling him this, but it’s not like things can get worse for me. After a time he stands up and all I see is his jeans again. I hear him drag my bag across the table. I hear him upend the contents. He might be three times my size but it makes me mad enough to try something. I drag myself from under the table. He’s sorting through my makeup, my chewing gum and chocolates. My tampons. I snatch them out of his hands.
‘Who are you, exactly?’ he says.
It’s a dangerous question. The daughter of the CEO? It’s better if he doesn’t know that. Michael Trevino knew that and things didn’t go well for us. Instead, I say, ‘I work in marketing. You know, ads and jingles. Or I did. I think I just got fired.’
‘There’ll be a few of
you fired today I reckon.’
There’s something about the way he says it that makes me nervous. That’s when I notice the smell. With the smoke, it’s hard to smell anything, but I’m sure he reeks of chemicals. Gasoline?
‘Well, look what old Uncle Howler’s found,’ he says.
He’s not talking to me. He’s looking past me, looking towards the door.
I turn and Yamaan is standing there.
He’s dirty. There’s a shadow of growth on his chin. When he steps into the room I see how his hands are squeezed into fists.
‘They said you had an American girlfriend. Wouldn’t be Rin from marketing here, would it?’
‘Come with me,’ Yamaan says.
I grab my bag. My heart is kicking and I have to breathe to calm myself as I walk towards him.
‘This is gold,’ Howland says. ‘Don’t waste it, mate. Don’t give it away.’
‘Let her go home,’ Yamaan says.
‘The police are coming. What do you reckon they’ll do?’
I look from one to the other. ‘Not just the police,’ I say. ‘Anti-riot drones. Bipedal. They’re bringing them down from the mainland.’
‘Hear that, Yammy? Anti-riot drones. That’ll be the end of it.’
Yamaan takes me by the hand.
‘You want to force a change,’ Howland says, ‘this is how you force it.’
‘Not her. Not that way.’
There’s a subtext here that I’m missing. Force a change? These guys aren’t going to force anything on anyone, I mean, how could they? Then it dawns on me. Howland thinks I might have value in negotiations. He wants to use me to bargain.
Yamaan pulls me close. We turn into the corridor.
The smoke is thick and I hold his hand so tightly that I must be hurting him. Downstairs, past the cubicles, past the office chairs and fake indoor plants, past the medical bay. I see a client holding foil blister packs of pills and popping one after another into his palms; others are ransacking the cupboards and shelves. One lies sprawled on the carpet tiles in a puddle of vomit. I see a fire burning on a desk, a fire lit from the posters torn off the walls. That’s where the smoke’s coming from. It’s so dense that even the overhead lights are dimmed.
And I’m thinking, Howland is right. I do have value.
They could use me to bargain.
From where we stand, the glass exit to the admin building is visible. A pile of furniture, desks and chairs, is stacked in front of it as a barricade. Outside is a line of riot-ready officers. I tell Yamaan to stop.
He’s dragging on my hand. ‘Come on.’
‘Slow down. Stop.’ My eyes are watering with the smoke. There’s an alarm sounding somewhere. I’m trying to think straight. Am I crazy? ‘I can’t leave you here.’
‘You can. You will.’
He pulls me.
‘That guy is right. They won’t send in the drones while I’m here. Alessandra won’t let them.’
He winces.
‘I can help you,’ I say.
‘No. No, no, no.’ He’s tugging on my arm. ‘You need to leave.’
The feed in my glasses hasn’t stopped. Messages from Dieter Brown, from Alessandra. we can see you on the security feed. we’re tracking your location and biosigns. hold tight. black team inbound. ETA one hour.
I must be crazy, but I look at Yamaan and I think about how I once lived in a world where he was dead and I was alone and there was no hole dark enough to hide inside.
‘There’s a better way,’ I say.
‘Leave.’
‘We can negotiate. We can get you deported. Get you out of here.’
‘No.’
I snatch my hand away. ‘Listen to me.’
His jaw quivers with swallowed emotion.
‘Listen. It’s the only way. Do you want to spend ten years in here?’
The thing I don’t tell him is that I’m screwed. The moment I place a foot outside this building, I’ll be arrested. I don’t tell him this. Why would I tell him this? If they’ve nailed me for leaking company secrets, I could do twenty years in a federal detention centre. Twenty goddamn years. Instead, I cup his cheeks and reach up to kiss him.
‘There’s nothing you can do,’ I say. ‘You can’t make me leave.’
‘This is insane.’
‘Can you think of a better way? Cause I sure can’t.’
‘You don’t owe me anything. You’re going to get hurt trying to help me. It’s madness.’
‘Too bad. I’m here. I’m not leaving and I’m not giving up.’
‘Here he comes,’ Yamaan says.
It’s Howland. He appears from the smoke at the end of the corridor like a cheap magician. He’s eating something—something long and thin. A raw sausage. He has a packet of them in the other hand which he offers to us.
‘You know that sound a dog makes before you kick it?’ he says.
‘What?’
‘The whimper.’
Yamaan takes my hand. He pulls me back.
‘They lower their ears. Tuck up their tail. Take my word for it. When they know that kick is coming, they whimper.’
Yamaan steps in front of me, puts himself between us.
‘That’s the sound I hear,’ he says. ‘Cabey-Yasuda Corrections is whimpering in fear of us.’
‘We negotiate,’ I say. ‘As a group.’
He smiles and there’s meat in his teeth. ‘We negotiate.’
‘My way,’ I say. ‘My way or I walk out of here.’
‘We’ll need weapons,’ he says.
‘I’m not doing this without protection,’ I say. ‘Believe me. I don’t want to die in here. First, we find the weapons.’
‘Well then,’ he says. ‘Here comes the kick.’
ROYAL COMMISSION INTO THE EAGLEHAWK MIGRANT TRAINING CENTRE RIOT
THE HONOURABLE OSCAR AMBROSE IPP AO QC
PUBLIC HEARING
DAY 15
TRANSCRIPT OF PROCEEDINGS AT HOBART
ON TUESDAY, 21 MAY 2075 AT 2.00 P.M.
JUSTICE AMBROSE: Thank you. Yes, Ms Nguyen.
MS NGUYEN: Are you Charlie Melissa Marie Chadwick?
MS CHADWICK: Yes.
MS NGUYEN: Ms Chadwick, you’ve appeared before the Commission before, giving evidence in relation to the events of 15 February.
MS CHADWICK: That’s correct.
MS NGUYEN: You testified about decisions taken on the morning of 15 February, decisions that led to an incursion by the Centre Emergency Response Team.
MS CHADWICK: Yes.
MS NGUYEN: I’ve recalled you today to ask about Rin Sakurai.
MS CHADWICK: Rin Braden. I knew her as Rin Braden.
MS NGUYEN: You knew her as Rin Braden, yes. You said in previous evidence that—I’m quoting you here—you said that Rin Sakurai assumed responsibility for the operations at Eaglehawk Migrant Training Centre upon her arrival.
MS CHADWICK: Yes, I said that. Yes, she did assume those responsibilities.
MS NGUYEN: You also said in previous evidence that Rin Sakurai sent the Centre Emergency Response Team into Delta compound.
MS CHADWICK: Yes, she made that decision.
MS NGUYEN: With no input from you?
MS CHADWICK: I advised against that course of action. Those people were in my care. I didn’t want to see anyone hurt.
MS NGUYEN: But you didn’t stop her?
MS CHADWICK: No.
MS NGUYEN: Legally, you had the authority to override that decision, didn’t you?
MS CHADWICK: She was my boss.
MS NGUYEN: Please answer the question.
MS CHADWICK: I was new to the position. Rin Braden was an executive vice president.
MS NGUYEN: The question I asked is did you have the legal authority?
MS CHADWICK: Yes.
MS NGUYEN: And yet you say that Rin Sakurai is responsible. That sounds like a contradiction.
MS CHADWICK: It should
be obvious to everyone now that Rin Braden came to Eaglehawk with an agenda. She had an agenda to free the detainees. She had an agenda to damage the company. She’s a dangerous activist who hid her true intentions from us.
MS NGUYEN: You’re the third person from Cabey-Yasuda Corrections to use that phrase here this week, Ms Chadwick. A dangerous activist. Have you been coached to use that phrase?
MS CHADWICK: It’s the best way to describe her.
MS NGUYEN: I’d suggest that Cabey-Yasuda is trying to position Rin Sakurai as a scapegoat. You want to blame the events at Eaglehawk entirely on her. Would you agree?
MS CHADWICK: What happened on 15 February was her fault.
MS NGUYEN: And yet you had the legal power to change her decisions. It certainly sounds as if you’re looking for a scapegoat.
MS CHADWICK: That’s not true.
MS NGUYEN: I’m not falling for it. No one else here in this courtroom is falling for it.
Yamaan
He wasn’t always like that, my cousin. So incurious. The incuriosity of the fundamentalist. He had questions that even the Holy Text couldn’t answer. Big questions, deep questions. They pained him deeply, as they pain all of us. One finds relief wherever one can. In time he found comfort with Dr Nazeem and the mosque on Hulhumalé, and the pain eased as his certainty grew. Somehow he became a man who would stab his cousin. I remember him differently. I remember the easy pleasures of being friends and being young and being unsure. That’s what I like to remember about him. The uncertainty.
One day I left school to find him sitting at the gate on his Suzuki bike. This happened from time to time and became a great source of pride for me. You see, Shadi had graduated. When this fearsome eighteen-year-old appeared on his bike, it was like a visit from a celebrity. My friends were envious. He stubbed out his clove cigarette and watched me cross the intersection thick with other bikes. I knew something was wrong. He would only visit when life troubled him. I cut through the traffic and climbed on the back. He said nothing. I said nothing. We knew each other too well to say anything. When he wound the accelerator, the torque of the electric engine lifted the front wheel with a whine.
At these times we’d make for the Artificial Beach. We found shade under a palm tree, on a concrete bench, and watched the waves pound in. It wasn’t much of a beach, not a beach of legend like the one at Feydhoo Finolhu with sand as white as salt. It sat outside the sea wall and was so steeply eroded you almost rolled down it. The city added more and more sand and the sea took it away. The sea has always been taking from us. I unknotted my school tie and folded it. I picked at a scab on my knee. He would talk when he was ready.