The Scoop

by Terence J. Quinn

  ‘You have also spoken about feeling numb and lacking feelings or emotions. The anger you are now beginning to feel is actually a good thing as long as we can find ways to channel it more positively.’

  I’m not angry, Annie thought . . . I’m fucking outraged! Those brutal men humiliated me. Treated me worse than they would a dog. They’ve changed me, changed me irrevocably as a person, as a woman. I hate them. Especially that evil bastard – ‘BangBang’ they called him in the newspaper. His image haunts my mind. His gold tooth, that horribly scarred face, his sing-song voice. The heinous smell of his cigarettes. He was responsible for it all: the abduction and the abuse. He left me for dead. And then he hunted us down . . . me and Jonno. I’ve never been an advocate for capital punishment but I’d happily make an exception for that scumbag.

  ‘Now we have to confront what has happened,’ Dr McCabe continued, ‘and learn to accept the trauma as part of your past. At the same time, deal with your relationship with Martin and now your feelings for this man Jonno.

  ‘It will take time. How fast or how slow will be down to you. You might find that medication helps the process. Have you been to see the doctor I referred you to?’

  Annie felt bad. ‘Not yet. I will soon. But no medication, thanks.’ At the mention of drugs, she had thought instantly of Jonno and her heart beat a little faster.

  Since she had left Australia, he had emailed her every day, telling her how his book was progressing and that he loved her and hoped to see her again. She looked up because the doctor was still talking.

  ‘You should have a general check-up, Annie.’

  ‘Sorry. Yes, fine, I’ll go soon. Promise.’

  79

  THE GP’S practice was close to the Gloucester city centre. When Annie arrived there three days later for her appointment, it was a cold, wet Friday. She didn’t relish the prospect of having to provide another full account of her ordeal but now that her mind was beginning to heal, thanks to Maddy McCabe’s help, she knew she also had to consider her physical state. She hadn’t been eating properly and, at her mother’s suggestion, she had gone along to self-defence classes for women at the local community centre. She felt good about the exercise and the empowerment it gave her. Yet she seemed to be putting on weight and her body seemed different somehow. Probably just the lingering effects of the trauma, she thought.

  The doctor turned out to be an Indian woman called Munita Joshi. She was a plump-faced woman in her mid-thirties with a slightly formal manner who listened carefully to Annie’s summary of the tragic events before, during and after her ordeal. She leaned forward over the desk and said: ‘Mrs Greenwood, I am really sorry for your loss and for the trauma you have suffered but I think it is now very important that we do some urgent tests to ensure that no physical problems have resulted.’

  Annie told her that she actually had been briefly examined by medical staff at the Indonesian jail, but submitted to Dr Joshi’s prodding and poking. After nearly an hour, the doctor smiled and told her that she had not been able to find any obvious damage to body tissue, organs or bones. ‘There were also no obvious signs of infection or disease but we’ll have to wait for a day or two until the test results come back before we can give you a clean bill of health.’

  Feeling relieved, Annie went back to Stroud and bought some lunch in the area just off the High Street quaintly named The Shambles. Sounds just like me, she thought wryly – a right bloody shambles! The next day, she was in her bedroom reading Jonno’s book for the third time when the house phone rang. Her mother answered and shouted up to Annie that it was the surgery. She heard a click as a receptionist transferred her to Dr Joshi.

  The Indian doctor had some shocking news. ‘Mrs Greenwood, I must tell you that you are pregnant.’

  80

  IT WAS a rat that shopped him and a rat that saved him, BangBang thought later when he had caught his breath. He was asleep on the floor on his thin mattress when the SWAT team from the Brimob Polri, Police Mobile Brigade, kicked down the door to his hovel. A moment earlier a rodent, probably startled by the cops outside, had run over his slumbering body. He awoke instantly, his right hand instinctively reaching for his parang despite the darkness. Shame about the gun I lost at the pier, he thought.

  The flashlight on the first cop’s helmet through the door provided an easy target and BangBang hit him reflexively, the sharp blade chopping down on the man’s exposed neck. He grabbed the victim’s gun. The second cop crouched down behind the cop’s prone body, firing single shots from his assault rifle. But BangBang was already gone, scrambling through the small square he had cut out of the rickety wall months before as a precaution against just such a raid. It was second nature to him; as a boy he had been used to planning escape routes to avoid the filthy attentions of his uncle.

  As he ran through and out the back of the next-door ‘residence’ that belonged to a Malaysian meth dealer, his mind raced. How? Who? Why would the cops come? It must have been that dogfuck headman. No one else knew that I was there. He wanted the reward! I’ll fucking kill that rat and all his stinking family. But he parked that vengeful thought for later as he raced randomly along the labyrinth of narrow, claustrophobic alleys that crisscrossed the slum like splashes of pigment on an abstract painting. He could still hear gunfire behind him as the cops kept on shooting randomly.

  After nearly ten minutes of scampering through the muck and debris underfoot, he stopped briefly to catch his breath, his thick chest heaving. He leaned against a stationary gerobak. Fuck those clove smokes, they’re killing me, he thought. But better them than the dirty, black-clad cops who tried to kill me a short time ago. He tightened his grip on the pistol. I won’t be taken, he vowed. I would rather die than go back to prison. And now I’ve probably killed a cop. Those bastards will have a hard-on for me now. If they catch me, they’ll make my life back in jail an absolute hell before turning a blind eye while the syndicate has me killed. Not that it has been a bowl of cherries in the Jembatan Besi slum, he mused. Three months of shit stink, crap food and lousy water. And the noise. It was bedlam every hour of the day and night. The muezzin called for prayers from the mosque minaret five times a day. Scores of jet planes flew overhead every hour. Then there were the screeching ojeks – the motorcycle taxis and scooters. The constant blare of radios and old television sets. And the people: the sheer teeming mass of human flotsam and jetsam who spent their days outside hovels that had no space and no ventilation; their constant talking, shouting, joking, arguing, singing. Enough, BangBang said to himself. Enough of going to the local warungs to buy basic food items. Enough of buying clean water for drinking and cooking either from the vendors transporting water in jugs or from the local mosque. I’m done with all of that shit.

  It’s time I had another go at that bangsat bastard Jonno Bligh. The name curdled in his mouth. He had almost had him that time at the dock. He still did not know what had happened. One moment he was exultant – about to blow the white devil’s brains out and pick up that bag, no doubt full of his earnings – the next somebody had come from nowhere and bundled him into the water.

  He’d swallowed a gallon of the scummy water and thought he was going to drown. Somehow he had managed to grab one of the wooden pillars holding up the piers, steady himself and get his breath back. In the confusion that followed, he had made his escape. He still dreamt of his gun on Bligh’s upturned face – the confusion and fear he saw there. Yep, time to pay the motherfucker another visit.

  81

  ANNIE SAT on her bed for a long time. Of course, you idiot! The strangeness of her body in recent weeks. Her period, or lack of it. The extra pounds. Tender breasts. How could she have not realised? How bloody stupid can you be? she asked herself. She lay down and closed her eyes, her mind racing in circles like a little ball bouncing and clattering, searching for a pocket on a roulette wheel. My God! she thought, her hand covering her mouth. ‘A baby?’ she whispered. Her heart beat faster. She had dreamt of having a child. She s
miled and opened her eyes. But then a shadow clouded her mind.

  I know it can’t be Martin’s, she thought. We didn’t have sex once while we were on the boat, despite my best intentions. He was too drunk most of the time and too focused on Dani. So then . . . Jonno? The pirates? Dr Joshi had told Annie that because she had undergone such mental and physical trauma, it was difficult to pinpoint the exact moment of conception without further tests. Meanwhile, the timeframe was jumbled up in her head. She could not work it out. But if I’m honest, she thought with dread, it could be either.

  Oh please, please God let it be Jonno’s, she prayed. The thought of the disgusting pirates was too much to bear. There was a tap on the bedroom door. Her mother.

  ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, just a slight migraine.’ There was no way she wanted her mother to know about the baby. She was not ready to discuss it with her yet. Not by a long chalk. She desperately needed to talk to Maddy.

  If Dr McCabe was surprised by the latest dramatic turn of events, she did not show it. Annie sat across from her, her bare feet tucked under her legs on the plush armchair. A Chopin nocturne tinkled in the background. Dr McCabe pushed a box of tissues over the coffee table towards Annie. ‘How does your pregnancy make you feel?’ she said.

  Annie looked up, her eyes puffy. ‘I didn’t think you were one for clichés.’ She smiled grimly.

  ‘Sorry, default position. From what you say, the father of the baby could either be one of your attackers or this man Jonno Bligh. You told me you have always wanted a child, so the question is: would you keep it even if you knew who the father was? I know you’re not ready for this yet, but you can get a paternity test while you’re pregnant and that might help you in your decision.’

  ‘I keep changing my mind. On one hand I really, really want a baby, but on the other, I’m scared to death. What if I hate it when it comes? I mean, it’s not the child’s fault, is it? But what if it looks like one of those pirates, will that continually remind me of the terrible things that happened? Will I then blame the baby?’

  ‘I won’t lie to you, Annie,’ Dr McCabe said. ‘Many will advise you to have an abortion. Family, friends, even health care professionals. People will have strong opinions. To many women in particular, the thought of carrying their rapist’s baby would be unimaginable. But no one really knows how she will react in these circumstances. Ultimately only you can make the decision on whether to keep it or not.’

  ‘Right now I’m not capable of making any decision. I feel too traumatised. I need more time to sort out my true feelings.’

  ‘Of course, Annie, that’s to be expected. On top of everything else that you have suffered, this is another confronting issue. First Martin. What you went through on that island. Now this. You are bound to feel a range of emotions, from fear to confusion and numbness.’

  ‘Whatever happens,’ Annie said, ‘if I do decide to have the baby I will not get rid of it afterwards. I’d do everything in my power to give it a healthy and loving upbringing. However hard that will be.’ Annie was nodding her head fiercely.

  ‘There, you are already making decisions,’ Dr McCabe said. ‘You are such a strong person. You will make the right choice in the end.’

  ‘I keep thinking – what if it’s Jonno’s baby? I simply could not bear the idea of getting rid of his child.’ A snowy mountain of wet tissues was forming on the coffee table between them.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be supportive if it is his? After all, he says he loves you.’

  ‘Yes, I think so. No, I’m totally certain of it. But I could not begin to know how he will feel if, God forbid, it is someone else’s.’

  82

  THE NEW book – working title Dire Strait – was nearly finished. I was proud of my productivity. Working night and day, I had averaged 14,000 words a week. I was proud too of the quality. Given that I had lived through the whole nightmare, they were vivid, searing words that exposed the piracy problem in the Malacca Strait. The ‘factional’ story unfolded through the eyes of a journalist hero (guess who?) and his attractive offsider as we escaped the clutches of evil, bloodthirsty pirates on the high seas.

  Unfortunately I had not been able to speak to the real heroine since she had left me behind at the cathedral. But I had managed to get an email address thanks to my new best friend Richard Hennessy, and I had resolved to send her a note every day until I met her again. My emails were short, simple and upbeat. I talked about how my book was going, my continued sobriety and my hope that we would get together some day. She had replied just twice with brief, guarded comments. Once to tell me that she was staying with her parents and was seeing a therapist, the other to urge me to give Wagga a big hug from her.

  I had informed her that the kitten – now reaching cathood – had finally arrived in Sydney on board The Scoop. Both seemed in good shape, considering. The sloop’s engines and electrics were working beautifully and there were no signs of bullet holes in the sails or on the infrastructure. Wagga also seemed free of scars from his experiences. Both looked wonderful, a sight for my sore eyes, reddened from working until late at night.

  Super, the skipper who had saved me in Jakarta, had reported no problems with the voyage. The paperwork at both ends had proved to be relatively straightforward, although he had not ‘declared’ Wagga to the Customs people when arriving here and I felt a little bad about that. But I figured one little kitten did not represent a major biosecurity risk to the nation. I resolved to have him checked over by a vet and given the right shots as soon as I finished my manuscript.

  In the meantime, he and I were happily shacked up together again on the boat in the marina at Rose Bay, with views of the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. The first evening back on board, I stood on the transom with a glass of wine and looked fondly over my lovely boat, remembering the incredible experiences she and I had shared. And everywhere I looked on board I saw the ghost of Annie.

  It had been a relief to finally leave the apartment after so many weeks of comfortable claustrophobia. Life at the marina was intoxicating – the spacious luxury of The Scoop, the fresh air, the sensational sunsets and the seductive sashay of the sloop as she strained against her thick mooring ropes in the soft swell.

  Dru was already busy organising interviews with magazines and TV people as well as future book tours. Despite my admirable output to date, she was chasing me to finish the story.

  ‘You know, darling, this book is going to be bigger than fucking Ben Hur! Certainly bigger than Hard News. A film deal is guaranteed.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘But you can forget about me going to LA.’

  ‘Enough already. Look luvvie, you know you’ll have to go there to write the screenplay. That will be part of the deal. They’ll insist.’

  ‘Forget it, I’ll never return to La La Land,’ I told her firmly. ‘It was nearly the bloody death of me the last time. I’d rather have no deal than go back there again.’

  After I ended the phone call to Dru, I rang another number.

  Initially Cody was reluctant to come to the marina but I finally persuaded him. He had read the stories about my escapades in Indonesia and I suspect he just wanted to hear all the gory details. Anyway, he came. That was all that mattered. Now we were sitting in the cockpit of The Scoop drinking beer together.

  ‘Mate, thanks for coming. It means a lot. I want you to know that I’m totally clean. Have been for some time. I will never use drugs again. Ever.

  ‘I’m sorry. Sorry that I put you at risk. Sorry that I screwed up our friendship. Sorry that I was a complete prick. I realise that it’s a big ask but it would mean a great deal if you would forgive me.’

  Cody didn’t say anything for a few moments while he continued stroking Wagga. There was just the sound of the water slapping against the pontoon pilings and scores of halyards ting-tinging like cowbells on a Swiss hillside. Then he put the cat down, walked over to me and gave me a manly hug.

  ‘So mate,’ he said, ‘wh
en am I going to meet this mix of Joan of Arc, Mother Teresa and Angelina Jolie? What’s her name again? Annie? Why the bloody hell isn’t she here?’

  83

  Hi Jonno,

  Thank you for your messages. Sorry I don’t respond very often but I do enjoy reading them and finding out what you are up to. My treatment is going quite well, although one or two complications have arisen. Dr Maddy (good name for a shrink!) is wonderful. I’m not sure what I would have done without her.

  Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I will be returning to Australia soon. An inquest is being held into Dani’s death and I have been summoned. It will be a formality I expect but I hope it will help her family get some closure.

  I hope to see you. Will send details nearer the time. In the meantime, take care of yourself (and Wagga!).

  Annie x

  Annie was aware of a little warm flush on her face as she pressed send. I wonder how I’ll feel when I see him, she thought. Once again Annie weighed up the pros and cons of having the baby. Or not. Yes, she would love to have a child, particularly if it were Jonno’s, but she still wasn’t sure how she would feel if it were clearly the result of the rape. No, she did not think it was in her to hate it, but yes, it was possible that she might feel repelled. After all, didn’t she still have nightmares about that monster with the gold tooth and the scarred face – BangBang Budiman? She had been shocked by Jonno’s news that the pirate had tracked him down again and tried to kill him. I hope he’s dead, she thought with a surge of bitterness.

  Maddy had been a great sounding board for her concerns. But she had made it clear that ultimately it was Annie’s decision. Annie was also aware that Dr Joshi seemed to assume she would have an abortion. Not in so many words perhaps, but her views were clear nonetheless in the way she talked stiffly about ‘the psychological and emotional difficulties ahead’.