The Nightside of the Country

by Meaghan Delahunt

  So, on that particular night – let’s face it – I rolled the night-dice and took my chances. A late train at an unsafe station versus a ten-minute run on a warm Sydney night. I broke curfew. I often did, back then when I was young.

  Sometimes – and I have to question this, even though I’m old enough to know better – I still break curfew.

  Sometimes it’s a question of money for a taxi. Back then it certainly was. But not always. Sometimes, still, I just want to break the unwritten rules: I want the freedom and independence that any man enjoys. To go wherever I like and leave whenever I wish.

  And there is something, too, about being young and fit and invulnerable. Cocooned by youth: a vitality and eagerness for experience in the world. As I write this, I realise that risk-taking is more often seen as a quality of young men – all that testosterone – the urge to run along railway tracks, dive into strange waters, drive too fast, too much drink, too many drugs, too much, too much and the belief that death will never tap them on the shoulder. That no harm will ever come. But it’s not only young boys who have this feeling of invulnerability. Young women have it too. They just have fewer outlets for expression.

  That night I was careful not to drink very much. Back then, I was a keen runner. I wanted to go for a run in the morning and not feel hungover. I especially loved to run on a New Year’s morning; to greet the New Year in a positive way. I still like to be clear on the first day of January. That much hasn’t changed.

  If anyone in the room that night thought it was a bad idea for me to run home – and I seem to remember some dissent – it wasn’t enough to put me off.

  I remember lacing my runners tight. I remember exactly what I was wearing – a white V-necked t-shirt and black harem trousers. It was the 1980s – although harem trousers regularly make a comeback. The outfit gave me freedom of movement. I cite what I was wearing As if in self-defence, your Honour. As if the details of what I wore mattered. If I’d been wearing a skirt. If I’d been wearing shorts. A veil. A hijab. Whether I wore running shoes or bare feet or sandals. None of this mattered.

  It never does.

  Earlier that day, I’d read an article in Runner’s World about how women could keep themselves safe on the streets. I’d skimmed it, annoyed, noting the precautions one should take as a woman running alone. Why is it always the woman? On early morning runs I was used to the occasional ‘flasher’ (such a benign twentieth-century term) or to men following me and other female runners. I remember one such flasher. He was young, and it’s his youth that sticks; he was not the usual dirty old man. He’d appear suddenly on a bicycle, riding quickly past, only to emerge minutes later from behind the next tree, trousers at his ankles, waving his dick like a flag. He was ludicrous. Pathetic. I never saw him as a threat. He was a regular early-morning fixture in the park near the uni. I witnessed him do this to other women. I always ignored him. Sometimes I even laughed as I ran past.

  Men fear that women will laugh at them. Women fear that men will kill them.

  This article, ‘Keeping Women Safe on the Streets’, is on my mind as I lace my shoes and step out into the night. I start running up King St, turning right at the lights over the railway bridge, up towards Wilson St. The streets are strangely empty and quiet for 3 am New Year’s Day. The air is humid and soft, like a blanket. As I cross the street a car slows down up ahead on the left. There are two men in the front seats – a driver and a passenger – both lean over to look in my direction. They say something to each other – then they turn left into Wilson St, and speed up. I watch their tail-lights grow dim as I cross the street. I’ve clocked them and they’ve clocked me. But they’ve kept going, I’ve kept going, and I do not see them as a threat.

  Wilson St extends from King St all the way to Redfern station. Thirty years ago there was a complete racial divide along that street – perhaps it’s still like this. I haven’t been back. I shudder at the thought of going back. Closer towards Newtown and where I’d attended the party, the local residents were all white. Closer to Redfern station, where I lived, the white houses gave way to the black houses. In Redfern proper there were few white residents. Redfern station itself formed the unstated boundary. My end of the street – about 50 metres from the station – was exactly the point where the area tapered from white to black. The houses at the white end of Wilson St were grand – large Victorian single- and double-fronted – some with wrought-iron fences. Some had small front courtyards. Others opened direct onto the street. The poor and black and dispossessed were grouped near Redfern station and beyond. From there the houses grew squat and cramped and less grand. Sometimes from my rented house you could smell burning tyres down Redfern’s main street. You could hear the police sirens.

  My first evening in Sydney, I’m walking up Broadway, the location of the Party HQ, and a car slows down. A middle-aged white man leans across the seat and through the open passenger window warns, It’s not safe for white women round here. It’s only 7 pm. Summertime. On the cusp of dark. He urges me to get into his car so that I’ll be safe. I refuse, politely. I say I’ll take my chances, that I live nearby. There’s something about the man. He keeps insisting that I get into his car. I don’t trust him and he persists and then becomes angry, curses me for not getting into his car and drives off at speed. Another person has witnessed this encounter – a young black man has stopped behind me. He catches up with me as the car speeds off

  Are you OK? he asks, concerned. Look, he sighs, indicating the car – it’s not safe for women round here. Should I walk with you?

  It’s OK, I say, looking at the car in the distance. Relieved that the car has gone. Relieved also that there has been a witness to this encounter.

  I’m good now. Thank you.

  He nods, courteous, Be careful, he says, nodding again in the direction of the car, and walks on up the hill.

  That was Redfern and Chippendale back then. It’s not the first time in my life that a car driven by a concerned white man has slowed down, urged me to get in for my own safety and then, when met with a refusal, the driver turns violent and angry. It’s a common occurrence. The predator often wears a mask. A woman’s refusal undoes the mask.

  Back to New Year’s Eve, 198—. I’d kept an eye on the tail-lights of the car with the two men, the driver and his passenger. I noted that the car had slowed and then sped up. I saw its headlights dim and disappear in the distance. I’m now less than five minutes from home. I run at a leisurely pace along Wilson St. I’m enjoying myself. I feel loose-limbed and athletic. I am young and free and happy. There’s the scent of frangipani and jasmine on the warm Sydney air and I’m the only person on the street before dawn on this first day of the year. I’m optimistic, I’m enjoying the pace: my breath even, arms going, legs going, heart going. I feel in balance in my strong female body. I feel good.

  I’m about 500 metres from home. Up in the distance, two or three streets up, near Redfern station, I see a car stop at the corner and someone get out and start running towards me.

  And my first thought is: Another runner…someone just like me. Running home after a party on New Year’s Eve.

  I’m three blocks from home now. The man up ahead is running fast, faster than me. I’m enjoying the calm of the night; the warm scented air. From about 100 metres away I see that the man has straight, blond hair. It falls across his face. He is young, he has no shoes on his feet. His arms are pumping furiously and his head is down. He is dressed in shorts and t-shirt. Blue shorts and white t-shirt. He looks like a student, I think. But there’s something not quite right about the way he is running. Who runs with their head down, arms like pistons on a glorious night like this? Who runs like that early on a New Year’s morning, after a party? His very blond hair, almost shoulder-length, looks white in the street lamps. He seems to be running towards me in a race with no other contenders.

  He’s about 10 metres away and he’s running down the centre of the path, head down now, as if I don’t exist. I register that
something is off, but I’m not sure what. Instinctively I move closer to the Victorian terraces on my left, to make way for him. Instinctively, I do what women always do in public spaces – make themselves smaller, cede space to men. The thought comes: Is he running from or running to ?

  Again, the street light and his too-white hair.

  I edge further over and keep trying to rationalise this running man as a non-threat – another runner just like me – until the last possible moment, when I think he’s run past, he swings round and grabs me by the collarbone, grabs me by the throat, throws me off balance. He pushes me against the wrought-iron fence and starts punching.

  I put my hands up. He grips my collarbone with one hand and with the other he keeps punching. He has me by the throat. I try to protect my face. Then I’m on the ground with my hands up – I’m wearing long earrings – I worry that he’ll rip them from my ears. I hold my house keys in the hand which is up protecting my face. He keeps striking at this hand which holds the keys until the keys carve into the back of my head. My own house keys are used against me. He keeps on. I’m not sure how long the whole thing takes. In memory, time stretches, the attack lasts hours, although it can only be a matter of minutes as I lapse in and out of consciousness. He keeps landing blows at the top of my head, at the back of my head. I’m still on the ground, he’s bent over me. I’m lying right outside someone’s front door. It feels as if the blows will never stop. As if he will never stop. He’s trying to kill me, I know this much. He seems determined to finish what he started. I try to curl up. I try to cry out. I’m being attacked by fury itself. But his fury is cold and calm, I remember that much. This man knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s a calculated attack. It is something he wants to do. I’m not sure whether he calls me bitch or whether I just imagined that later. But in that moment – in those moments – he didn’t have to say the word. For him, I was the world’s bitch. His anger felt righteous – the most terrifying sort. Why was he so angry? It was a primal rage at the world – at all the women in the world – starting with the mother – might as well start there – and then me, the individual woman, a stand-in for all women who had ever slighted or ignored him. Perhaps a woman laughed at him once? Perhaps a woman once got in his way. Perhaps a woman once called him to account.

  I knew at that moment, He hates me for being a woman.

  I was a woman who used to break curfew. I was a female night-gambler who threw the loaded dice. Such a woman must get what’s coming to her. Such a woman deserves everything she gets.

  I remember calling out. Or trying to. I lose consciousness again. I come round. He’s still standing over me. I see the light from the streetlamps angle through the man’s legs. The blows still falling hard. I try to call out once more. I must’ve called out. A door opens and then closes up the street and a cone of light spills into the dark. A voice. Voices. The man looks up in the direction of the light, releases my collarbone and pushes me back to the ground. He runs in the opposite direction to the light. Before I black out again again I try to sit up, turn round, and see the Neighbourhood Watch sign on the window behind me.

  The driver is waiting for my assailant at the other end of the street. They have done this before. A driver always has an accomplice. The attack came from the front, something I’d never expect.

  And it gets to me, after three decades, it gets to me still: I did not see the threat until it had me by the throat.

  ✳

  16

  B hands you the pages back. You’ve left the guesthouse, gone for a walk to the port while she reads this section. You watch a tourist boat come in and follow the passage of pilgrims up to the Abbey. You watch a private helicopter circle overhead, then you turn and walk back slowly to the guesthouse. You can’t bear to be in the same room with someone reading a draft of your work. Especially this. Especially now. You feel exposed, turned inside-out. You feel the old anxiety grip at the neck; at the collarbone. When you return, B doesn’t look up. She takes a big breath and sinks further into the sofa. She taps the pages with her finger. When she sees you, she purses her lips, seems as if she’s about to speak but all she can say is:

  There, that’s it. Was that so hard?

  She sounds so offhand, you can’t believe it. Is that all she has to say? You take a deep breath.

  Yes. Bloody hell. Of course it was hard.

  And now? She points to the manuscript.

  How do I know? What does she expect from you?

  It’s out there, she says. You’ve done it. It must feel good to write about all this…

  So they tell me. You can’t keep the sarcasm out of your voice. I’m not so sure.

  You’re not sure?

  It’s out there and I’ve said it but…I don’t feel good Not yet. It’s still raw. Like it happened yesterday.

  She nods. And this gets worse before it’s gets any better. Believe me, I know.

  You do?

  I do. But the problem is this: you thought you could escape by telling my story.

  There’s still time…you manage a half-smile.

  No, she says, her face serious. That time has gone. I keep telling ye. There is no escape. There’s only one story here. And a free person tells her own story.

  ✳

  WRITE ABOUT WHAT YOU KNOW

  I tell the woman behind the counter in the General Store, when asked, that I’m a writer. It’s the first thing that comes into my head – godonlyknows – this island is awash with notebooks and easels in the summer. All manner of artists and writers.

  And should I’ve heard of you? the woman behind the counter asks.

  I don’t think so.

  And have you published?

  Not really.

  And is this your first book?

  Yes, I nod. The lie comes quick. My first.

  Well, now. The woman widens her eyes, takes in the age of me. Never too late, she says. A novel, is it?

  Ye could say that.

  Write about what you know, the woman is breezy and assured as she opens the till. At least, that’s what they say.

  Is it now? I feel riled, all of a sudden.

  You’re Irish? the woman asks.

  So it seems.

  Well… Plenty to write about there…she laughs and shrugs at the same time.

  I attempt a smile.

  I’m of Irish descent myself, the woman says in her very English accent. So many stories!

  That there are, I reply, morose. Plenty of books on the Irish.

  Ah, but they’re all miserable…

  I see, I look down at the counter. Then I can’t help myself, I lift my head and meet her gaze: And it’s the happy Irish ye’re wantin?

  Yes, exactly! The woman beams.

  Do they exist?

  The woman’s smile drops and she draws herself up a little. Of course. My family was very happy.

  Good luck to them, I say, tryin to lighten the tone. Of course they was happy. I want to get the hell out of there. I stuff the change in my pocket and ease out of the store, wave to the woman. Good-bye to ye now. Good luck. As soon as I’m out the shop, I open the bottle of water and sigh a long sigh. For Christsake. In my mind, as I walk back to the guesthouse, just for my own amusement, I make a list of all the things I know – what this life has taught me: how to get past a checkpoint; how to tie a tourniquet; how to work with Semtex – the beauty of it – brick red, malleable. How to mix fertiliser and diesel oil in a tin, make a handle for the tin. Ignite. For sure, I know how to lie and dissemble. How to run a tight team. But, hell on earth, ye could never put all that in a story. And what about the other forms of knowledge? The body memories. How the body feeds on its very own self when starved. First it draws on the fat, then the muscle and then the brain. Make a story from that! Some godawful happy Irish story. I could tell ye a thing or two, I address the woman in my mind. And I’m on my high horse now, all fired up in this imaginary conversation. Things ye would never believe. In another place and time – oh, the tales
I could tell – and not one of them tales would be happy. How could ye put such things in a story? In such a story, they’d make the girl a monster, for sure. A girl like that would always be a monster in a story. Whereas, in my own way, me and everyone I know are good people. We’re good people. I was at the university, but my course got interrupted. In my defence, ye could say Empire interrupted it. If a thing was worth belief, it was worth the fight. Here, on this island, the Saint knew that. Back in the day, they were all warriors, them monks. There’s been mistakes, course there has. Of course. And I have regrets.

  Write about what ye know. I close my eyes at the thought and a shadow passes through me. Not the sort of things I know, missus. Not that sort of a knowledge.

  ✳

  17

  There’s all sorts of monsters in this world, says B, warming her back at the fire, looking out the big window. Her face is set. And I’m not one of them. She gestures towards the manuscript on the table. I’m glad ye know that.

  I do. That much I do know about you.

  But ye still don’t know the half of it, she says.

  Not yet. But I’m trying…I’m getting there.

  And yer woman in the shop, B is dismissive. She didn’t have a clue.

  She didn’t.

  God, says B, wrapping her arms about herself. Write about what ye know?

  I prefer the unknown. There’s more fun in that.

  That there is, she agrees. But the body knows, she says sadly. The body remembers. That’s the key, she says. That’s your way in. To any story, anywhere.

  Any woman will tell you that.

  ✳

  MY TEETH, MY HAIR, MY BONES

  I try to avoid breakfast in this guesthouse, though I know it’s the most important meal and so on, but food is still difficult. Decades on, still difficult. I prefer to eat alone. I get up early to avoid M or anyone else at breakfast. Food is not easy. It’s the same with the loud noises. When I got free of the gaol, at first it was the choke of buses, the roar of cars in the street. I just couldn’t walk into a pub or a cafe. The people, the clink of glasses, the clatter of forks and knives and spoons on a table. It all strained through me. Prison sound was what I knew. The turn of a key. Voices through the Tannoy. The scrape of a chair in the meal room. The approach of certain steps on the concrete. Inside, all my senses got tuned to prison pitch. I felt sounds through my feet, through my limbs; had eyes at the back of my head. In solitary, I learned there’s no such thing as total silence. There’s the beating of blood in the veins; the sound of the breath. And with the blows: my ears, anyway, the damage done. Though the guards denied the blows. Course they did. And sometimes, when I wake, even now, is it the shrill of the alarm or the shrill in my head what wakes me? Even this, I’d got used to. A human being adapts. I’m a livin testament to that proposition. But with the food. I despair at the guesthouse breakfast. This is the worst, what with the eggs and the juice and the milk. I push it all aside. My jaw aches and once again I feel the wooden clamp at my mouth, the rubber hose down the throat. Since that time, I no longer view food as nourishment. I only have to look at certain plates to feel my jaw prised open and the tube forced down and the milk-soaked glucose and the iron and the juice poured in straight. Worried that I might choke and that’d be the end of me. The kindness of the prison doctor: My girls, he used to say, to the political prisoners, the ones like me: My girls, he’d say, after the guards had went with the clamps and the hoses: Why do this to yerselves?