by Clare Atkins
It was hard to be honest. ‘I can’t afford to. Not until I find something else.’
I park Phoung’s car and climb out. Light a cigarette and stand smoking in the car park.
My gaze falls on a security camera nearby, one of those smash-proof, black half-globes they use on street corners in the city. I wonder if I’m in range of it and if anyone is watching me now.
I stub my cigarette out, and urge myself to walk towards the staff entrance.
But my feet won’t move. I don’t want to go in. Don’t want to work here at all.
I force myself to put one foot in front of the other.
Once inside, I pass the girl’s – Anahita’s – room.
There are cleaners already in there, scrubbing it down in case of new arrivals, I guess.
One of the cleaners has a broom. She brushes cobwebs from the corners of the ceiling, then runs it roughly around the long rectangular fluorescent light. A few flakes of white fall to the floor. I take a step inside and see a scattering of glow-in-the-dark stars on the tiles by my shoe.
The cleaner with the broom looks up at me. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Oh, yes, yes. Sorry. Just checking …’
Just checking what? I don’t even know myself.
I hurry on to the staff computer room.
JONO
Today I don’t even have to ask.
‘They moved her. In the night,’ says Zahra.
I can see the deep well of fear in her eyes.
‘Where to?’
‘I don’t know … but people say Nauru … they say Iranian women with babies are sent there …’
I google images of Nauru detention centre online. It is a tiny island, as flat and round as a pancake. There are photos of green army-style tents in rows. People leaning on wire fences, staring bleakly out. Kids protesting with signs: Jesus help us and Let us back to Aus. Demountables on razed, bare earth.
The photos make me feel sick and sad and scared.
I send Ana a stream of messages, but get no reply.
Ana, I’m so sorry.
Ana, forgive me.
Ana, are you okay?
Ana, are you getting these messages?
Please, just let me know you’re alright.
Ana, are you there?
ANA
KENNY
My heart sinks as I reads Anahita’s mother’s file. For a moment, I sit there, thinking it through. I know Jonathan won’t be satisfied with just knowing where they are. He’ll want to know if they’re okay and what happens to them now.
I pull up the internal contact list and scan the names. I find a case manager called Eliza. There couldn’t be too many of those.
I dial the extension. Hear a man’s voice. ‘Brad Summers.’
‘Sorry. I was trying to call Eliza.’ I check the name. ‘Eliza Wood?’
‘Ah. She’s not working here anymore.’
‘Why?’ I know the question sounds unprofessional. ‘Sorry, this is just … a colleague. From work. I needed to talk to her … about a client.’
Brad pauses, seeming to weigh this up. Then he says, ‘Look, she’s been stood down. Got too close to some of the detainees. You know how it is, the ones straight from uni never last long. Is there some way I can help?’
‘No.’ I thank him and hang up.
I walk slowly outside and see silhouettes on the roof. Those two Rohingya men must’ve climbed up there again. They’re huddled under the eaves, making the most of the tiny sliver of shade. I remember Scott’s instructions to ignore them, and start to walk on. But I can feel their eyes on me. Could swear they’re watching me as I pass.
I stop and turn to look up at them, then raise my hand and wave.
They wave back but do not smile.
JONO
I get a job at KFC, and start to work there on the weekends and some days after school. It’s greasy and unglamorous, and the shifts seem long. I like working with Mel, but we both miss Will. He texts me and Snapchats photos from Geelong Grammar every other day. But it’s a strange new world of suit-like uniforms and rugby and frosty breath and freezing-cold early-morning rising. He feels far away.
I think about Ana every day. She still hasn’t replied to any of my messages. I picture the devastated look on her face when I asked why she left Iran. I read case studies of Iranian refugees and wonder if any of their stories are like hers.
One day after work, Mel invites me back to her house. Her mum gives me a forced bright-red lipstick smile, and rushes around us in a flurry of floral dress, as she sets out drinks and a plate of baklava for us to eat. We scoff a few pieces, then play kick to kick with Mel’s two brothers in the backyard. Her mum watches us from the kitchen with a slight frown.
I ask if we should explain that I’m not Mel’s boyfriend. Her parents never knew about Will; she’s not allowed to date. But Mel just laughs and says to let her mum sweat on it for a bit.
Mel’s dad arrives home. He’s a customs guy at the airport and regales us with a story from his work. ‘I asked him to step to one side and you know what he said? Accused me of choosing to scan him ’cause he looks Middle Eastern! I told him it was random. I’m not racist – my wife’s Greek! But of course he didn’t believe me. Started going on about terrorism and how people always expect him to apologise for all the bloody insane Muslims in the world.’
Mel looks uncomfortable. ‘Dad … Jono went out with one.’
‘What?’
‘Jono went out with a Muslim girl at our school.’
Her mum raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
Her dad backtracks quickly. ‘Oh. Well. She was probably alright. I’m not saying they’re all bad.’
I eat another piece of baklava, then excuse myself and walk home.
KENNY
I lean the rusty ladder against the side wall of our house. Test it’s stable, then start to climb. Heave my compact body up then over the edge of the flat corrugated iron roof. I scramble to stand, then look around.
The sun is beginning to set. The world seems bigger up here. Rounder. More open. Free.
I wonder if this is what the Rohingyas see. If they actually get a clear view out, beyond the grid of fence.
I hear a voice from below. ‘Dad? What are you doing up there?’
I walk to the edge and peer down. Jonathan is wearing his KFC uniform. There’s a bag on his back, and a cardboard box of chicken in his hands.
I wave him towards the ladder. ‘Come up.’ Then, as an afterthought: ‘Bring that chicken with you too.’
He looks amused but tosses his bag onto the ground and starts to climb. He passes the chicken up to me before hoisting himself, easily and swiftly, onto the roof.
He stands beside me. The sky is all around us, bursting with pinks and purples. The mango tree by the house dances as a handful of small birds alight on its branches. I watch as one cocks its head and angles its pointed black beak towards me.
Jonathan follows my gaze. ‘Rainbow bee-eater.’
‘You sure?’
‘Pretty positive. I could look it up in the book.’
‘Why don’t you take a photo? Send it to your mum, just to check. I bet she’d know.’
He slides his phone out of his pocket and takes a snap. The birds take flight in a shimmer of gold and green and blue.
‘You get it?’ I ask.
‘Yeah.’ He fiddles with his phone. I hope he’s following my suggestion and sending it to Roxanne.
I pull a piece of KFC from the box, and bite into it. Jonathan seems to be watching me for a verdict.
‘It’s cold,’ I say. ‘Still tastes good though.’
He takes a piece too. We stand side by side, savouring the salty, oily flesh.
I catch his eye and smile. ‘Not bad, huh?’
He grins back at me. ‘Not bad at all.’
ANA
We
spend
two months
back
on
Nauru.
It joins the
list
of
Things I Will Not Discuss.
Then we’re moved
to Sydney
into community
detention.
Our designated house
is made of crumbling
white cement.
It isn’t much,
but we’re together
and it’s ours …
for now.
We’re still not free.
But there are
no officers
and no fences
and we can eat what we want.
Maman starts watching The Voice again,
but barely talks.
Abdul is too scared,
and too scarred,
to go outside.
A neighbour gives Arash a trampoline.
Setareh learns to sit up.
Jamileh stops answering the emails I send to her on Nauru.
Zahra writes occasionally from Wickham Point.
She says Ponyboy still asks about me,
now and then.
But I don’t
reply to his messages
or call.
I start a new school,
so close that I can walk.
Each morning,
I tie my koala shoelaces,
push the iPod headphones
into my ears,
and with beautiful ugly music
in my head,
I start again.
POSTSCRIPT
As of August 2017, there are over 400 people seeking asylum who, like Anahita, have spent time on Nauru or Manus Island and are now in community detention in Australia. According to current Australian law, this group of people will never be permanently resettled in Australia. The government also announced in August 2017 that they will no longer be entitled to housing or income support and will be forced to return to Nauru or Manus Island, or the country they fled, in six months time.
There are approximately 1200 people in immigration detention in Australia, including on Christmas Island, and a further 2000 refugees and people seeking asylum on Nauru and Manus Island.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost, I would like to thank the amazing Shokufeh Kavani, who acted as a cultural adviser for the writing of this novel. Thank you for sharing your knowledge, stories and positive energy. I feel very lucky to have had your involvement and feedback on the drafts.
Huge thanks to Natasha Blucher, refugee advocate extraordinaire, who acted as a consultant, answering endless questions over three years and rigorously ensuring the story was true to life, accurate and honest. Thanks also to Justine Davis and Richard Davis from DASSAN, Caz Coleman and Joan Washington from Melaleuca Refugee Centre, and Claire Hammerton from Chilout.
While this story is fictional, and Darwin High is not the actual high school that asylum seekers have attended in Darwin, I am grateful to former principal Trevor Read for his support in allowing me access to the school, which is wonderfully diverse and has a high number of ESL and refugee students. Special thanks to Sarah Calver for sharing her teaching experiences.
Between Us has been researched and written at a time when the Border Force Act has been in place. This law prevents people working with asylum seekers – including public servants, doctors, teachers and security workers – from speaking out about the conditions they witness in immigration detention centres. I am therefore not able to name everyone I interviewed for the novel.
Some wonderful people I am able to name (to varying extents) include Veronica M. Hempel, Mark Conden, Sarah P, Sara, Natalie, Mike and Justin. Thank you for your expert knowledge, which added rich detail and authenticity. Many asylum seekers and refugees were also extremely generous in sharing their stories. Thank you in particular to Nirvana Qasimi, Atefeh, Habib, M, C, M, M, S, A, S and A. I wish you freedom and every happiness.
Others I want to acknowledge include: Johanna Bell for her knowledge of birds, friendship and all-round creative support; Jess Ong and Sam Pickering for their tales of growing up in Darwin; Dave Ma for answering questions about living between two cultures and our time in high school; the Ladies Who Write – Miranda Tetlow, Kate Wild, Kylie Stevenson and Jen Pinkerton – for their insights and feedback along the way; Annabel Davis for reading the first draft and providing invaluable feedback, as always; Khia Atkins for her science-lesson expertise, Jessie Cole for her grant-writing support and wise emails; Sarah Klissarov for her extensive knowledge of Iran; Mark Goudkamp for putting me in touch with Shokufeh and Sarah; Jarvis Ryan for some great research contacts and helping me find time to write; and Jeanne Ryckmans for believing in the idea for this book when it was only a paragraph long. Samanti De Silva, I would’ve loved to have had your wise input once again – rest in peace.
Elizabeth Troyeur, you are a wonderful agent and ongoing source of enthusiasm, support and advice. Aviva Tuffield, your edit notes were meticulous, and your honest and intelligent feedback pushed me to make the story stronger. Thank you to Black Inc. for being my publisher once again. Fiona Wood, Alice Pung and Melina Marchetta, thank you so much for taking the time to read Between Us and for your kind words. Having this dream team endorse this novel is a definite career highlight.
It would have been extremely difficult for me to have had the time to write this book without financial support in the form of grants from the Australia Council for the Arts, and the Northern Territory Government through Arts NT.
Thanks also to Varuna Writers House for the Residential Fellowship, which allowed me two focused weeks in which to complete the first draft.
To my extended families – both Vietnamese and Australian – you enrich my life in so many ways. To my dad, Binh Dinh, and mum, Pip Atkins, for your unwavering love and support.
And, finally, to Louis, Rosa and Nina, for always lighting up the dark.
ALSO BY CLARE ATKINS
Rosie and Nona are sisters. Yapas. They are also best friends. It doesn’t matter that Rosie is white and Nona is Aboriginal: their family connections tie them together for life.
The girls are inseparable until Nona moves away at the age of nine. By the time she returns, they’re in Year 10 and things have changed. Rosie prefers to hang out in the nearby mining town, where she goes to school with the glamorous Selena and her gorgeous older brother, Nick.
When a political announcement highlights divisions between the Aboriginal community and the mining town, Rosie is put in a difficult position: will she have to choose between her first love and her oldest friend?
WWW.BLACKINCBOOKS.COM