Between Us

by Clare Atkins

  I am too.

  We smoke and drink and laugh and get high until the world is blurry and the pain is numb.

  But even in the haze, she is there, watching me with hurt reproach.

  ANA

  My voice is small.

  I say, ‘Maman?

  I want to go back to Iran.’

  I think of Baba’s old saying,

  about running from a snake

  only to end up in a dragon’s mouth.

  For a long time, Maman is quiet.

  Then I hear her say,

  ‘We can’t.’

  KENNY

  I sit alone on the old velvet couch in the lounge room. The sky outside is dark. Minh left hours ago, patting my shoulder goodbye with disappointment in her eyes.

  ‘You need to find a new job.’

  I didn’t argue or disagree. I think about calling her now, but don’t have anything new to report. Jonathan’s still not answering his phone, and Will’s mum had no idea where they could be.

  He could be anywhere.

  All I ever wanted was to protect him.

  And now he’s out there, doing God knows what … and all I can do is sit here … helpless and completely alone …

  A sob wrenches itself from my gut into my mouth. I gurgle in shock. Try to push it back down. But then another comes. And another. Wave upon wave upon wave.

  I sob noisily. Messily. Uncontrollably.

  ANA

  I close my eyes.

  Shadows of nightmares

  swim into view.

  Smooth tan hands.

  Thin, angular body.

  Triangle eyes.

  Unkind.

  I wake in a tangle

  of wet sheets

  and incoherent screams.

  Arash stares at me

  with panicked eyes.

  ‘Ana? I wet the bed again.’

  He starts to cry.

  I change the bedding,

  then settle him back to sleep.

  Maman doesn’t stir.

  I pull her

  bottle of black market

  sleeping pills

  from where they’re hidden

  in the cupboard

  and swallow one.

  Then another.

  And another.

  I’m …

  JONO

  … on the floor.

  One of the boys is smashing up the toilets with an axe. A couple is kissing, their bodies crushed together in the tiny armchair. Some guy is passed out beside me, slumped and drooling onto the filthy, charred concrete.

  A male voice says, ‘Hey, Nippy. Smoke?’ Something in its tone rubs the wrong way. It sounds bossy. Ungrateful. Rude.

  ‘Don’t call me that,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  I look up and see the random Year 11 from earlier. ‘Don’t call me Nippy. Only mates …’ I’m slurring but I don’t care.

  The guy rolls his eyes. ‘Whatever, mate. Give us a smoke.’ He holds out an empty palm.

  And suddenly I’m lurching to my feet, fists swinging. I can hear guys hollering and cheering, and my feet are flying and my fist impacts. Then his does. One, two, three. He’s better than me. I taste blood. It tastes good. Salty. Bitter. Alive.

  I stagger forwards, cliches streaming from my mouth.

  ‘You want a piece of me?’

  ‘Think you’re fucking good?’

  ‘Hit me again.’

  And then I’m on top of him, slamming his head back into the ground. Is this what Dad did to Ana?

  I hear the thud of skull on concrete, then someone seizes me from behind.

  ‘Jono. Jono. Stop! Get off him!’ It’s Will. ‘I’m serious, man. Fucking run. There’s police.’

  I scramble backwards, vision reeling, and catch sight of two cops in the corner with a bony Aboriginal man. He’s pointing around the shed, hand swinging wildly. I hear him say: ‘ They nicked my generator … been trespassing …’

  Everyone is bolting now. Clambering out the windows. Sprinting out the doors.

  I move to follow them, but a blur of blue hoists me back, marches me outside to a paddy wagon and shoves me in. There’s a bunch of people already inside. Will is thrown in after me.

  The policeman locks the door.

  And then we’re driving.

  The cool night air streams into our little cell.

  Darwin flashes past, framed by the square grids of our wire cage.

  And then I …

  ANA

  … black out.

  Someone shakes my shoulders.

  A woman’s voice,

  garbled and strange.

  ‘Get up.’

  I’m underwater.

  My eyes are glue,

  and my body is heavy.

  ‘Come on. Get up. You’re being moved.’

  Hands under arms.

  Feet on cool tiles.

  I sway.

  Someone’s body against mine.

  ‘Shit! Come on! Wake up! Stand up! Start walking!’

  Hands yanked behind my back,

  pinned to my waist.

  I urge my eyes open,

  see the orange rug on the floor,

  remember promising it to Zahra:

  how will I get it to her now?

  Try to form my lips

  around the words:

  ‘Our things …’

  A shake of red curls.

  Milly.

  Her tone is cold.

  ‘Leave your stuff.

  We’ll pack it up.

  And get any items from property too.’

  I’m pushed forwards,

  head jerks back,

  eyes up.

  Pale star stickers,

  barely visible in the

  glaring fluorescent light.

  I open my mouth,

  but a hand clamps over it

  and my bare head is wedged under

  someone’s arm.

  They drag me out …

  JONO

  … and line us up. Search our bodies for ID. A male cop pulls out what’s left of Will’s pot stash along with his wallet. He looks at the student ID and gives a low whistle. ‘This one’s Anthony Miller’s son.’

  ‘Who?’ The female cop looks at him blankly.

  ‘Big shot lawyer. Better call him straight away.’ He turns to me. ‘What about you, son? Who’s your dad? Someone famous too?’

  I slur my response. ‘Nah. He’s just an arsehole. A fucking no-one.’

  He searches me anyway; I’m not carrying a wallet. I’ve only got my dumbphone on me; he tosses it dismissively to the female officer, then shouts in my face. ‘What’s your name?’

  For no good reason, I say, ‘Mohammed.’

  Will cracks up laughing.

  The policeman looks unimpressed. ‘Got a last name, Mohammed?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  The Year 11 guy I punched speaks up from down the line. He glares at me, with one swollen eye and a bloody nose. ‘He’s full of shit. His friends call him Nippy.’

  Will laughs even harder. ‘Nippy! Does that sound like a real name to you?’

  And then I’m cracking up too.

  ‘You fucking Nip!’ Will gasps.

  And we’re on the floor of the police station. Rolling, hysterical, crying, laughing.

  I hear one of the cops say, ‘Oh boy.’

  KENNY

  I feel the soft weight of my mobile in my hand. I press ‘R’ then select Roxanne’s name. It rings. I think it’s going to click onto voicemail, but suddenly she’s there.

  Her voice is sleepy but familiar. Comforting, even. ‘Dzoung, is everything alright?’ She always refused to call me Kenny.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say.

  The flood of memories is so strong it almost washes me away. Roxanne riding the kids to school. Roxanne serving dinner at the outside table, asking about everyone’s favourite things of the day. Roxanne in the garden, binoculars in her hands.

  Her voice i
nterrupts the deluge of images. ‘Is there a reason why you’re ringing?’

  ‘Jonathan – has he called you?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him in ages.’ There’s accusation in her voice. ‘Did something happen?’

  I don’t know where to begin.

  Roxanne prompts: ‘Lara said you think he has a girlfriend. Did that … go wrong?’

  I know without asking that she is thinking about before, when Priya broke up with Jonathan and he got so depressed, so violently low. I know Roxanne blames herself for that; it happened just after she left.

  I hurry to say, ‘No, no, nothing like that. I mean, not really …’ I have to force myself to continue. ‘We had a fight. I really stuffed up. He ran out. And now I don’t know where he is.’

  I steel myself for her scorn, her condescension, her distaste. I want it. I deserve it.

  But when Roxanne speaks again, her voice is soft. ‘Hey … hey … it’ll be alright. Whatever happened, it’s okay. He has to come home eventually … and when he does, just say you’re sorry, okay? And, in the meantime, I’ll try to call him too. I’ll use Lara’s phone. He never answers when I call.’ She pauses, then says, ‘Why did you have to do that, Dzoung? Make him on your side?’

  I am silent. Numb.

  I choke out the words. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She’s quick to say, ‘It’s okay. Forget I said that. It’s alright. I’ll try him now and call you back.’ She hangs up.

  I recognise her words and actions for what they are: a grain of parental solidarity.

  A kernel of forgiveness lying on the earth between us.

  ANA

  Stark white

  brick box.

  Maman rocking

  on the floor.

  River of Farsi,

  and the repeated phrase:

  ‘No Nauru … please, no Nauru …’

  Eyes swing wildly

  around the room.

  A male officer bounces Setareh

  in his arms.

  I am grateful

  that she is sleeping,

  that this won’t be imprinted

  on her baby brain.

  Another family,

  another mother begging:

  ‘Where are they taking us?

  Please.

  Can’t you tell us anything?’

  Milly shakes her head.

  ‘Won’t be much longer.’

  But it is.

  We wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  And …

  JONO

  … wake with a pounding head and sunlight striped across my face. Where the hell am I? The memories tumble in fast and backwards. The police station. The cops. The fight. Will. Dad.

  Ana.

  It hits me like a physical pain in the chest.

  I close my eyes again.

  Somewhere down the corridor I hear Will’s voice. ‘Can we take Jono home too?’

  ‘Don’t push your luck, buddy.’ A gruff male, probably Will’s dad.

  Then a female, apologetic: ‘It has to be a legal guardian in any case, as I’m sure you’re aware, Mr Miller.’ And then softer. ‘Don’t worry, your friend’s dad’s on the way.’

  Will’s dad again: ‘Thanks, officer. Sorry for the trouble. And thanks again for not pressing charges.’

  The door to the cop-shop screeches open then shut, accompanied by the light ring of a bell.

  Then silence.

  I lie there, numb and alone.

  I wonder if this is what it’s like for her in Wickham Point. Is Ana’s room bigger or smaller than this? Do they lock the doors? Do the guards feel like police? There is so much I never dared to ask. So much I assumed but don’t actually know.

  The air inside my cell is thick with alcohol fumes and regret.

  Eventually, I hear the sound I’ve been dreading: Dad’s voice. Two sets of footsteps approach, and there’s the clink of keys in the lock. ‘Here he is. All yours.’

  The door swings open. I can’t look at him; I keep my eyes on the ground as he walks me out. We stop at the desk to sign some paperwork and reclaim my phone.

  ‘Are there going to be any charges?’ asks Dad.

  ‘Not sure yet,’ says the officer. ‘We’ll let you know.’

  I think about arguing. I know Will’s getting off and I wasn’t even carrying pot. But Dad’s look silences me. I follow him out to the car. He climbs into the driver’s seat, then leans over to unlock the passenger door for me. I climb in and flick my phone open. There are nine missed calls from Lara.

  I dial voicemail and wait to hear her voice. But instead I hear Mum. The gentle care in her voice throws me backwards through the years.

  ‘Jono … you there, darling? I know you don’t want to talk to me … but your dad’s really worried … he doesn’t know where you are … if you could just call him …’

  I hang up mid-message and look across at Dad. He’s just sitting there in the driver’s seat, holding the keys in his hand.

  ‘It was Mum,’ I say. ‘How did she know?’

  ‘I called her.’

  ‘What?’ I wonder how long it’s been since they talked.

  He repeats: ‘I called your mother. Last night. I didn’t know what else to do, who else would understand.’ His voice wavers with emotion.

  I don’t move. I hardly breathe.

  ‘She’s not a bad person, you know. I’m sorry if I made you think she was. We’re just … different. It was what drew me to her at the start. She was always so carefree. With that smile. And those legs.’ I squirm, but he doesn’t seem to notice. ‘And that hair. So blonde. My Australian girlfriend.’

  I feel almost embarrassed for him. ‘You say it like that’s some kind of prize.’

  ‘At the time it kind of felt like it was. I tried my best to be Australian too. Dropped out of engineering. Worked in construction. Wore stubbies and drank beer. Changed my name. Your mum hated it, always insisted on calling me Dzoung. We started fighting more and more. But by then we had Lara and you. She wanted me to teach you Vietnamese, but I didn’t see the point.’

  ‘I wish you had,’ I say. And I mean it.

  ‘Me too.’ He looks me straight in the eyes. ‘Wish I’d done a lot of things differently.’

  And I know he is talking about Ana, and his job, and calling me pathetic and weak.

  ‘I just want you to have the freedom to do something you love. Your mother does too. She offered to have you live with her actually, when Lara moved down at the start of this year.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘I know, I should’ve said … I’ll understand if you want to move down there now.’ He looks at me with fearful, searching eyes.

  It is so much to take in.

  ‘I don’t know, Dad,’ I say.

  ‘Sure.’ He seems to slump. ‘Think about it. Take your time.’

  He finally puts the keys in the ignition. The engine coughs into life then splutters out.

  Dad turns and sees my incredulous expression. A smile creeps slowly across his face. ‘Fucking car.’

  I don’t think I’ve ever heard him swear.

  I laugh, then stop, head pounding …

  ANA

  … stomach lurching,

  as wheels lift.

  Airborne in a giant metal bird.

  Yellow armband on my wrist.

  Darwin shrinks,

  into a smattering of buildings

  clinging to the coast.

  And then we’re out over the ocean,

  peering down

  at nothing

  but the endless chop

  of waves.

  JONO

  I pull my laptop out as soon as the taxi drops us home. Make myself focus on the glare of the screen. Type in my password: EagleEyes, a nickname Mum used to call me when I was small.

  I open the visit-request form for Wickham Point. It is still filled out from last time. Yesterday. Time has become a blur.

  I change
the requested visit date, and swap Aunty Minh’s name for Dad’s.

  Then I email it off and wait.

  I doze, slipping in and out of sleep.

  I hear a tow truck arrive with Dad’s car. Hear the driver’s comment: ‘How old’s the Ford, mate? Practically an antique! Sure you don’t want me to tow it to the mechanic? Don’t think you’ll get it running again in a hurry.’

  Aunty Minh brings over some food – her cure for everything. But I can’t stomach much.

  Will calls with news, delivered in stunned, self-pitying tones. ‘They’re sending me away. Down south. To some boarding school called Geelong Grammar.’

  ‘Shit.’ I don’t want to lose him. I don’t want him to go. ‘I thought your mum was cool with everything. She let us drink and smoke.’

  ‘Only in our house, remember? And Dad never liked that rule anyway. Always said she was too soft. Now he reckons he’s got proof.’

  I feel lost, and he hasn’t even left. Yet another person I love, gone.

  I express my devastation in language he’ll understand: ‘You’re a fucking moron, you know that?’

  I hang up and sink back into bed.

  When I open my eyes again, there’s a new email in my account. Wickham Point Security.

  Classification: IN CONFIDENCE

  Dear Kenny and Jonathan Do,

  Please be informed that Fatemeh (KIN014), Setareh (KIN014.1), Arash (KIN015) and Anahita (KIN016) are not in Wickham Point so your visit can’t be facilitated. You are requested to contact Australian Border Force for their current contact details.

  My heart drops into my feet.

  I push myself up straighter, and yell, ‘Dad!’

  KENNY

  The Ford appears to have finally died, so I get Phoung’s number from Minh, then call and ask to borrow her car so I can get to work. She playfully says I can use it as long as I take her out for dinner to say thanks. I’m blushing as I agree.

  I drive her gleaming SUV out to Wickham Point in the cool of early morning. The sun rises golden and full of promise. We’re inching towards dry season now, and the days are uniformly perfect and clear. But inside I feel numb, picturing Jonathan’s hopeful face as I left: ‘This will be your last shift, right? You’ll just find out about Ana, then you’ll quit?’