by Nicola West
I refused to open my eyes, even when the door slowly shut. It wasn’t until I heard the shower running that I finally dared to move. Something had changed. No, something was missing and I knew that I’d never get it back: trust.
I threw back the covers and pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them as I strained to hear his movements. Eventually, he got out of the shower, cleaned his teeth and retreated to his room. Minutes later, I heard the familiar sounds of his snoring. Years of working nightshifts had left him with the ability to fall asleep almost instantly. It had always been an enviable trait to a night owl like me.
Now, crossing the road in front of the post office, I stuck my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the Swiss Army knife. I was still concerned that the meeting could potentially be dangerous and, while I had initially considered whether to tell my dad about it, obviously that was no longer an option. I wasn’t stupid though, I had written out the details – the time, the location, the person’s phone number, etc. – and closed the note inside my laptop. If something happened, I knew it would be one of the first places the cops would look.
I’d also considered checking in with Dan, telling him to raise the alarm if he didn’t hear back from me after a certain time. But I knew there was no way of doing it without sounding suspicious, and I was worried that he’d go behind my back and tell someone out of fear for my safety. I also wasn’t particularly comfortable involving him. Those powerful names on the list frightened me, and I didn’t want to risk losing another friend.
I decided to bring the Swiss Army knife and promised myself that I’d use it if I needed to. It may have been tiny, but I knew it could be incapacitating if I was quick and caught the person by surprise. I left the blade sticking out, which was probably not the safest thing, but I couldn’t risk accidentally pulling a nail file on someone. In reality though, the knife was nothing more than a totem for my safety – no more protective than the lapis lazuli stones hanging around my neck. I rubbed my thumb along the cool metal like it was a worry stone, but I kept worrying.
I approached the entrance to the harbour, ready to embark up the long, gradual slope to the lighthouse. I stopped and looked out over Storm Bay. It was a little-known secret that the cove happened to be positioned at the exact same angle as the ocean entrance to the town’s infamous blowhole. Which meant that you could use it to predict the intensity of its spray.
Watching the waves violently crash over the rocks of the bay, I knew that the blowhole would be putting on a show tonight. I would have loved to pretend that, after twenty-two years of observing the spectacle, it no longer impressed me. But there was something about that column of water – shooting twenty-five metres up into the air, accompanied by a deafening roar – that brought out the kid in me.
The blowhole was an intrinsic part of the town, but unlike the twee historic buildings painted in photo-op ready hues and the hulking monuments to long-lost ghosts, its reverence was actually deserved. There was something primordial about it. It was formed aeons ago – when Saddleback Mountain was still a volcano. A lava flow that cooled as it touched the ocean and created the perfect structure to channel waves inside its cave and up through its spout. It had always been there, and it always would be. The same couldn’t be said for the people of the town and their manmade structures.
The lighthouse rose ahead of me up the hill – a towering white monolith framed by rows of Norfolk pines. It was still a working lighthouse – a beacon to warn ships of the dangers of Blowhole Point – but it hadn’t been manned since the early 1920s, meaning that, most nights, the area was deserted. There’d been storms earlier in the evening and the downpours and southerly winds had dissipated the day’s warmth. I pulled my jacket around myself – though whether it was from the temperature or nerves, I couldn’t tell.
At the top of the hill, I scanned for a figure, but there was no one around. Even the car parks overlooking the blowhole were empty. I pulled out my phone, leaning up against the lighthouse’s hexagonal fence: 11.58 pm. My mystery person was nowhere in sight. The blowhole whooshed from behind the lighthouse, startling me. I tried to laugh off my skittishness, but it didn’t do much to help.
When the clock struck midnight, my phone buzzed in my hand. A message appeared on the screen:
COME TO LOOKOUT
I continued past the lighthouse, walking up to the edge of the blowhole’s top viewing platform. I placed my hand on the salt-slicked railing and heard the telltale gurgle of a wave entering the ocean cavern. Seconds later, I was pummelled by sea spray, which plastered my hair to my face. Scraping the strands away from my eyes, I peered out at the lookout.
Floodlights illuminated the general area until 1 am, but the lookout itself was shrouded in shadow. Still, I could tell no one was there, and the fact that there was only one path in and out made me uneasy. If I went down there first, the person I was waiting for could easily block my exit and trap me. The only other way out would be down – off the jagged cliffs into the surging water below. I tried not to think of my dream; of my decision to jump.
But then I saw it. A flash of light next to the lookout, up on the rock shelf. The area afforded a far better view, but it was treacherous, especially at night. Signs warned of its danger but that seldom stopped people. Two entire families had drowned there after being swept off the cliffs in the nineties, and countless rock fishermen had met their demises in the murky water below. After being on the body recovery teams, my dad had taught me to respect the area and recognise its danger and unpredictability. I would have normally rebelled against that kind of advice, but I’d come to fear the blowhole on an almost primal level.
I continued watching the light. It was slowly pulsing on and off, almost mimicking the pattern of the lighthouse. But it was obviously something small, like a handheld torch. Before I knew it, the light stopped and I frantically tried to search the darkness for any further sign of its source. Suddenly, my phone vibrated and I jumped so hard I almost dropped it over the railing into the gaping hole. I looked at the screen.
DON’T WORRY
I DON’T BITE
I wasn’t so sure, but I knew if I wanted answers I’d have to go down there. I inhaled deeply, feeling the ocean air brine my lungs. I put my phone back into my pocket and wrapped my other hand around the knife. The salt on my fingertips made it tacky to the touch. I slowly began my descent down the blowhole’s sweeping staircase, pausing at the end to let the next jet of water explode. It was spewing over the walkway’s railing, drenching the entire path, and I’d have to be careful not to slip.
I was cautiously making my way along the footpath when a towering humanoid shape sprouted from the clifftop. I froze. The person was still only visible in silhouette – ageless, genderless – but they were tall, thin and imposing. The figure effortlessly slithered down the rocks onto the path. A long jacket. Hood up. My fingers tensed around the Swiss Army knife. My breath was ragged.
By the time I heard the gurgle, it was too late.
The water crashed over me. It dumped on top of my head, drenching every part of my body. I gasped at the pressure of the ice-cold ocean, coughing and spluttering, disoriented by the sheer magnitude of the wave that had engulfed me. Had I been sucked into the blowhole? Was I actually drowning?
But then I heard it. Shrill laughter pierced the night air. I was still on land. I inhaled deeply. Oxygen instead of water this time. I was out – it was over – but then the pain seared.
I pulled my bloody hand out of my pocket, splaying it open so that the Swiss Army knife fell to the ground. I couldn’t tell how deep the wound was but it sure as hell hurt. The laughter stopped.
‘Shit. Are you okay?’
The figure rushed towards me and I finally saw his face.
‘Jarrah?’ I asked, shocked.
CHAPTER 18
The last time I’d seen Jarrah Watson, he’d been sitting on my lounge, a distant and defeated look on his face. He was two years older than m
e – in year twelve when I was in year ten – and had been expelled from school for attacking a classmate. However, there was more to the story.
Jarrah was openly gay, and his peers had hurled homophobic slurs at him since kindergarten. It may seem preposterous to think of a six-year-old spouting hate speech but kids are impressionable creatures and Kiama was the kind of town that bred and nurtured prejudice. Any ‘differences’ were seen as traits to be stomped out. Even if you were born with them. The bullying was just the first step. The town would wear you down until you changed or left. There was no other alternative.
Despite all this, Jarrah was an exuberant and confident kid who always struck me as someone completely comfortable in his own skin. He was a larrikin who loved to make people laugh, but he also never shied away from a debate and was quick to become political. He would question his teachers, almost constantly, loathing their black and white approach to the world. But he adored the arts and his talents were nurtured by a select few members of staff who recognised his tremendous potential. Drama and visual arts were his domain, and he was often selected to represent the school at various camps, workshops and exhibitions.
However, his projects were not without controversy. For his year ten major visual arts work, he arrived at the school in the early hours of the morning to hang hundreds of blood-soaked tampons in the school’s trees. As the sun rose over the main quad, the streaks of blood he had poured onto the concrete glistened. They spelled out the words ‘Mother Nature’. He always claimed that the blood was real, sourced from a nearby abattoir, but the school’s official statement was that it was fake. Seeing the way the flies flocked to it as it slowly congealed in the morning heat suggested otherwise.
Despite his flair for the dramatic, Jarrah had put up with a lot over the years: being tied to a basketball hoop and left for hours in the scorching sun; having his artwork destroyed and utensils stolen; and seeing his name scrawled next to homophobic graffiti all over the school. But he never fought back – at least, not until that day.
He’d been using the urinal when three of his year’s most popular students had entered the bathroom. They were walking clichés – sporty, rich, dumb – and possessed the unflinching arrogance of true privilege. The ringleader of the group (who also happened to be the school captain) sidled up behind Jarrah, pressed his body against him and whispered in his ear: ‘Does this make you hard, f*ggot?’
Jarrah remained silent as the captain’s companions laughed and egged him on. The captain’s hand snaked its way up Jarrah’s back before grabbing a fistful of his hair. He pulled firmly, buckling his neck.
‘I said,’ he hissed into Jarrah’s ear, ‘does this make you hard, f*ggot?’
‘Maybe you’re not his type?’ one of the other guys said, laughing.
The captain shot him a threatening look, before tugging harder on Jarrah’s hair.
‘Nah, he’s too scared he’s gonna jizz himself,’ the second guy said, pretending to orgasm.
‘Guess I’ll have to check for myself then, won’t I?’ the captain asked, slamming Jarrah’s head into the bathroom wall and reaching around to grab his crotch.
As soon as he made contact, Jarrah snapped his elbow back, knocking the captain to the floor. While the two offsiders looked on in shock, he quickly fastened his pants. The captain lunged for his legs but Jarrah sidestepped him, so he sprang to his feet and went in for a punch. It didn’t land, and Jarrah grabbed him by the collar before pummelling him in the face. He felt the captain go limp and let go of him, watching as he slumped to the floor. Wordlessly, he stepped over the moaning body in front of him and walked out of the bathroom while the two grunts scrambled to help their friend.
Jarrah walked straight to the school’s administrative office. He calmly strode up to the receptionist and asked for three things: an ambulance for the captain, an ice pack for his hand and to see the school principal. Even then, he knew that his time at the school had come to an end.
Of course, the official story never included the sexual assault. Instead, the captain and his goons claimed that they had been using the urinal when they had caught Jarrah perving on them. They’d confronted him, they said, and he’d just snapped. If their piss-poor attempt at corroboration wasn’t enough to alert people to the lie then their outright bragging about the true story sure as hell did. The captain was untouchable – the son of the deputy mayor at the time, Peter Walsh – and he knew it. He freely admitted what he had done, but only after Jarrah had been expelled and his name had been dragged through the mud by the local paper.
My dad had tried to help him, but I don’t think Jarrah ever saw it that way. Peter Walsh was champing at the bit to have him charged but my dad was able to talk him down. Both men knew who the real instigator in the fight had been. And my dad had calmly reminded Peter that if the three boys couldn’t get their story straight during an informal interview then they’d never survive in court. But there was a catch – Peter would only agree to not press charges if Jarrah was expelled and forced to submit to a psychiatric assessment. My dad was the one who had to break the news.
That was the conversation I’d stumbled in on when I saw Jarrah sitting on my lounge all those years ago. His mother and father were there, looking just as defeated as their son.
‘It’s not fair,’ Jarrah said to my dad. ‘It was self-defence.’
‘I know, mate.’
‘Then why won’t you let me fight it? If we go to court and win, they’ll let me graduate. I only have six months left!’
‘It’s not worth it, son,’ my dad continued. ‘If you lose, you could go to jail. You’re underage now, but I know for a fact they’ll be pushing to try you as an adult.’
Jarrah looked at his parents pleadingly. Tears streamed down his mum’s face, while his dad stared at him, helpless.
‘Please,’ he begged. ‘Let me try.’
‘I’m sorry, mate.’ My dad sighed. ‘But it’s not your decision. You’re only seventeen so it’s your parents’ call.’
‘You can’t say that I’ll be tried as an adult in one breath and then tell me I’m not old enough to make the decision in another!’
‘He’ll take the expulsion,’ a small voice croaked. I was shocked to see the source was Jarrah’s mother.
‘What the hell, Mum?’ Jarrah asked, stunned.
‘You won’t win, sweetie. You’ll never win. Not against him. And I’m not having my only son go to prison.’
‘Dad?’ Jarrah implored.
His father sighed. ‘She’s right, Jar. You won’t beat him. I know you didn’t do anything wrong, but they’re not going to see it like that.’
‘But that’s not fair,’ Jarrah repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You’re all cowards.’
There was no reply from anyone.
For the first time since I’d entered the cottage, Jarrah finally noticed my presence. We stared at each other in silence. I hadn’t realised I was crying.
Jarrah left the town – for good – not long after that. As soon as he turned eighteen, he moved out of his parents’ house and began couch-surfing his way around Sydney. He was determined not to let Kiama get the better of him. Eventually, he enrolled in a visual arts course at TAFE, which he then used as a stepping stone to secure a scholarship to the National Art School.
In contrast, Jarrah’s abuser became the dux of the school that year and received a full-ride scholarship to complete his undergraduate degree at Sydney’s top law school. Rumour had it that he was involved in some sort of hazing scandal and that his father – once again – had to tidy things up. While his son was up to his old tricks in Sydney, Peter Walsh was eventually granted the mayorship of Kiama.
Even after the truth came out, nothing was ever done about it and Jarrah was never vindicated. It didn’t matter that the town knew he was innocent or that he was now successful. It was fit in or fuck off, and Jarrah had never even attempted to fit in. His very identity was seemingly perceived as an affront to the locals
– small-town xenophobia at its finest.
But, instead of letting his experience in the town destroy him, Jarrah used it as ammunition to fuel his creativity and drive. He quickly became a force to be reckoned with in the Australian art scene.
In the profiles written about him in national newspapers and art journals, he often joked that he was a disappointment to his family. After all, they had done everything they could to keep him out of prison, only for him to end up studying at the National Art School whose campus happened to be the old Darlinghurst Gaol. ‘Guess it was my destiny,’ he’d deadpan.
In truth, it was his family who were the disappointments to him. He largely shunned them after they vetoed his decision to take the assault charge to court. Jarrah loathed them for being so weak – for refusing to fight – and promised himself that he would never be like them. The town had done that to them – he was sure. He’d gotten out early enough to retain his identity, though, and he assured the world that he would never give it up.
It may sound messed up, given what he went through, but I envied Jarrah more than anyone in the world. I remembered the first time I saw him again, smiling back at me amid a group of emerging artists in a national newspaper. His signature curly hair had been completely shaved off, replaced by a glistening dome that looked slick to the touch. He dressed like a male model for some sports-luxe fashion brand, clean and futuristic, yet made it look effortless and inherently his own. He was the physical embodiment of my definition of success – he’d escaped – and I hated him for it.
Still, I followed his career closely, and he became my poster child for getting out of Kiama. When he wasn’t in the media for his projects, you’d almost always still spot him in the social pages. He was a regular fixture at all the hottest parties and events, and I often caught him rubbing shoulders with some unexpected characters. He seemed to know everyone who was someone.