‘Oh, getting sensitive now, eh?’
She faces him again. ‘You were. There was no need to give them all those details.’
‘Since when do you get to vet my conversations?’
‘You wouldn’t like it if I did that to you.’
‘Cut the crap, Laila. I haven’t got the inclination to put up with overly sensitive girls.’
He drinks some more.
‘Now come over here and let’s have some fun. Life’s too short.’
When Laila doesn’t respond, he rolls to her side and gropes. His hand finds her breast and starts kneading. She tries to get into it, fearing what might happen if she doesn’t, but repulsion brews in her. Sean is now climbing on top of her. His breath is heavy and hot on her skin, his moans become louder. He fondles her everywhere, pulling at her pyjamas, impatiently undoing buttons. With all her strength, she pushes him away.
Sean recoils, holds his head back. ‘So, you want to play games.’
He starts to touch her again. She pushes his hands away but he shoves her arms aside. He grabs her jaw, turns her face towards him and covers her mouth with his. His tongue is forceful and ruthless. Laila moves her face from side to side to avoid his kisses.
‘Stay still, I say.’
‘No, please.’
He ignores her and drags down her pyjama pants. She pulls them up again.
‘No, Sean, please.’
He pins her body down and starts to grind his pelvic area against hers. She tries to struggle free.
‘No!’
Sean sits up and glares at her. ‘Nobody says no to me, do—you—hear?’ He articulates the words menacingly.
She flinches. She stares at him, at the anger burning in his eyes. With his legs still straddling her, he anchors her by lowering his body onto her hips. He rams his knees close to her sides to lock her in position. She struggles, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. Then the blows begin, on her upper arms, her thighs. His hands strike her with force. Slaps boom in the air. She feels the sting, sharp and acute.
‘Bitch! That’ll teach you.’
Sean lifts his leg over her, gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom.
Laila rolls to her side, curls her legs up to her chest and pulls the covers up again. She rubs her arms, nurses the pain. The bruises throb, growing larger and larger as her mind tries to make sense of what has just happened. When she hears his footsteps approaching the bed, she stuffs the sheet into her mouth to stifle her sobs.
30
THE FIRST SENSATION HE feels is a whopping pain. Jim opens his eyes, and finds himself cloaked in darkness, his head wedged between the steering wheel and the window. He sits up and feels queasy. He tries to gather his bearings, but can’t make out much detail except for the outline of the dashboard. In the dimness, he feels for the overhead light and flicks it on. Dull light bathes the interior of the car. His hand goes to his hair and he feels a sticky wetness dripping down his temple. Blood on his fingertips. He angles the rear-view mirror and catches a reflection of himself. There is a tear in the skin at the top of his forehead. He moves his face towards to the mirror to take a closer look, relieved to find no other wounds.
Squinting, he peers out the window to check out his surroundings. He grabs the torch from the glove compartment and shines it outside. Tree trunk against the side of the car, and the front of the vehicle caught in a cluster of branches and leaves at the side of the tree. He gets out to size up the damage. The beam from his torch illuminates the crushed bumper, dislocated and poking out from the car. He examines the rest of the exterior. Other than the bumper, not too much damage.
His mouth feels parched, his lips dry and flaky. He flashes his torch quickly around. He is in the middle of bushland, dotted with black masses and blurry forms of what look like shrubs and trees—the car, thank goodness, is not too far from the road. He shines the torch on the ground, traces the skid marks back to the edge of the road.
Then he gets into the driver’s seat again, checks the time. Twelve thirty-five. He starts the engine. After a few coughs and splutters, the car starts. Reversing, he hears metal buckling, surfaces scraping against each other. The car jerks and coughs again. Just as he’s about to swing it back onto the road, flashing lights appear in the rear-view mirror. He focuses. A car is coming towards him. He looks closer and his heart sinks.
A police car signals left and pulls up in front of him. Wheels screech to a halt.
Jim lets out a breath.
The police officer, a youngish-looking man, approaches, face tinged red from the vehicle lights. He’s wearing a luminescent vest with wide orange and grey stripes.
Jim winds down his window, widening his eyes to alert his senses.
‘Good evening,’ the officer says.
‘Hi, how’re you going?’
The officer peers at Jim’s right temple, then shines his torch right onto the wound. Trust his luck to be injured on the right temple instead of the left! Then the policeman takes a few steps back, directing the light of his torch to the whole car. When he sees the front section of the ute, he approaches it and examines the damage. He returns to Jim, pulls out a notebook and pen from his back trouser pocket.
‘Had a bit of a crash, I see,’ he says
‘Nah, nothing major,’ Jim says.
‘What happened?’
‘Oh, scraped a tree, no big deal.’
The officer looks at the nearby tree. He goes towards it, looks at the tree from different angles, runs his hand over the area of impact, then strolls back to the car. Jim’s eyes follow his movements.
‘When did this happen?’
‘Dunno, an hour ago…something like that.’
‘You passed out?’ The officer starts scribbling in his book.
‘Yeah.’
‘Your driver’s licence, please.’
Jim hands it to him.
The officer scans it. ‘Coming from Adelaide?’
‘Yep.’
‘Heading for?’
‘Renmark.’
More scribbles.
‘I’ll have to get you to step out of the car, sir.’
The officer goes to his car and returns with something in his hand. When he gets closer, Jim sees immediately that it is a breathalyser.
‘I’m going to get you to face me and breathe into this.’
Jim does as he is told.
‘Just breathe once, hard.’
The minute Jim lets out the breath, he knows he’s fucked. The officer shines the torch at the breathalyser, takes the reading, writes something in his notebook. Then he goes back to his car to take out a folder. He pulls out a pad, scribbles some notes on it for what seems like minutes. Jim’s heart beats wildly. Finally the officer tears the sheet from the pad and walks back to Jim. His shoes scuff the gravel, his face is devoid of any expression.
‘I’m afraid you’re over the limit, sir. Point o-nine. This means your driver’s licence will be suspended immediately for a period of six months.’ He looks at Jim. ‘If you’d like to challenge the accuracy of the breathalyser reading, I can provide you with a blood kit, but you’ll need to make your own way to a doctor and have the blood tested at your own expense.’
Jim leans back against his ute and huffs.
‘So, would you like the blood kit?’ the officer asks.
‘No, thanks.’ Jim stares at the ground.
He hands Jim his licence and the piece of paper. ‘Here’s the notice. Would you like me to organise a taxi to take you back to, what was it, Renmark, right? And of course, a tow truck for your vehicle?’
The walls close in on Jim. In his mind, he does a quick calculation of the taxi fare and the tow truck charges. Images of what it will be like to be without a car for six months flash through his head. He feels as if his whole life is compressed into this moment—and all of a sudden, the wheels have fallen off.
‘Well?’ the officer says.
Jim stares at the blinking lights of the police car. ‘Yeah, ye
ah, okay.’
The officer presses a button on his walkie-talkie. As he speaks, Jim gets back into his ute. The officer’s voice drones on. In the car, the darkness balloons, swallows him.
The officer bends down and faces Jim. ‘All arranged. They should be here fairly soon.’ The officer rubs his own temple. ‘And I’d get that treated quick if I were you. Close shave.’
31
LIGHT DAZZLES IN UNDER her eyelids. She opens her eyes, squints. Then she peers at the alarm clock. Nine-fifty. She turns to Sean’s side of the bed. It is empty. Since she moved in, this is the first time she’s slept in. She looks towards the door, strains to listen for sounds of his presence. It is silent, he’s gone to work.
She drags herself out of bed. Her head throbs with every movement. In the bathroom mirror, she checks her reflection. Angles her arm towards the mirror. The bruises are a light bluey-black. Pressure from her fingers intensifies the pain. She pulls down her pyjama pants and checks her legs. No bruises, only a dull ache where he’d hit her, on the thigh, just above the knee. She takes two painkillers from the vanity and swallows them.
Downstairs there is a ghostly silence. Laila looks around, just to be sure Sean has left. The family room looks twice as large. Light gushes in through the windows, blinding her. She goes to the kitchen, reaches for the kettle. She’s filling it from the tap when something on the dining table catches her eye. It is a bouquet of white tiger lilies. She turns on the kettle and goes towards the table. The bouquet is huge, green stems visible through the glass vase. A note sits beside it. She picks it up.
I’m sorry, darling. I shouldn’t have done what I did last night. Will you forgive me? Love, Sean.
The kettle hisses, then clicks. She pours hot water into the mug, brings her drink to the table. Steam rises from the liquid. She reads the note again, places it down and looks out the window. A flock of seagulls circles in the sky. They descend to the sea, flap their wings and take off again. Laila drinks her tea. She thinks about the sparrows walking on the corrugated-iron fence of her longhouse.
32
JIM DISCONNECTS THE BATTERY from his ute and throws a tarp over it. He gets around without a car as best he can. When Peter and Danny’s shifts coincide with his, he hitches a ride with them. Other times, Jim walks, huffing and puffing, cursing and complaining.
Three weeks after the accident, he receives another notice in the mail, this time directing him to attend the Central Court at Berri to receive notification about his fine. Berri, fifteen kilometres away. How is he going to get there without a car, for God’s sake? He ends up taking a taxi, too embarrassed to ask his mates for transport.
The magistrate, whom Jim swears wears a toupee (the shade is a tad darker than the light brown hair on the rest of his head), tells Jim he has to pay $600, his solemn eyes peering over gold-framed reading glasses.
‘Not quite the maximum of seven hundred,’ the bald son-of-a-bitch reminds Jim, not once, but twice.
Jim felt the hairs on his neck rise like the hackles of dogs during a fight.
Set back by a total of $1100 (including the $300 for the towing and the $200 taxi fare), Jim becomes desperate for any transport kindness that comes his way.
Occasionally Tom obliges, but after two months things get a bit tricky. Tom comes up with all sorts of excuses why he can’t.
‘Are you mad? I’m up Lyrup way, in the opposite direction. Go take a hike. And I mean literally.’ Tom sneers, then breaks into uncontrollable laughter.
‘Come on, chump. You know I’d do the same for you,’ Jim pleads.
‘Piss off,’ Tom says.
It’s only when Jim offers to pay for petrol that Tom relents.
To reduce the weight of the bundles of food and groceries he has to lug home on foot, Jim does his shopping at Woolworths twice a week instead of weekly. Not being able to drive, however, does not stop him from hitting the pub. He just doesn’t go as frequently.
‘If you try to hit on me again, I’ll get you thrown out,’ Sharon says.
‘Sure, babe,’ Jim says.
It is nine-thirty. Jim has been drinking since two in the afternoon, when he’d called it a day. He has lost count of how many beers he’s had. The room hasn’t started spinning yet so he still has a way to go.
‘I mean it.’ Sharon walks to the till, drops in some money, takes out some change and closes it again.
‘What makes you so sure I’m hitting on you?’
‘Hello? This isn’t the first time. And the more you drink, the more ridiculous you get.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself, woman. Was only talking. The way I’m talking to these people around me.’ He waves his hand in the air and looks around. There’s Tom, about a metre away.
Sharon looks at them. ‘Yeah, like who wants to listen to your drivel.’
‘Who’s going to throw me out anyway? Rodney’s my mate and he won’t do no such thing, will you, Rod?’ He turns his head and talks to air.
‘Oh, don’t you worry, we’ve got people who can take care of business.’ Sharon turns on her heel and walks to the far end of the bar.
‘Yeah, yeah. Bitch.’
Tom, who’s been drinking since five, joins in. ‘Yeah, Sharon, Jim’s only being sociable.’
‘That’s the way, mate. We’re all just talking, aren’t we?’ Jim says.
Tom pulls Jim aside, puts his hand over his mouth and whispers. ‘The problem with Sharon is that each time a man speaks more than three sentences with her, she thinks they want to get into her pants.’
‘With an arse like that, I’d worry too.’
Tom peers over at Sharon, checks out her body. Then he downs his beer and waves his hand, palm down. ‘Hmm, so-so. Not my type. Too old, besides.’
‘She ain’t bad, to me.’
‘What’s with you, Jim? Noodle boxing ain’t happening at home, huh?’ Tom slaps his hands on the bar and cackles.
Jim feels a stinging sharp pain inside his belly. He takes a swig of his beer. ‘Cut it out.’
‘Or maybe you’re getting withdrawals from lamb chops? Or was it meatballs?’
It’s obvious Tom has not heard of the separation. Or maybe he has and is just being a shit-head.
‘It’s not funny, Tom.’ Jim feels the booze coursing through his veins.
‘Mate, since when was it supposed to be funny? I’m talking about something really serious here—’ He hiccups.
Jim walks away and looks for Rodney, who is at the other end of the bar serving customers. Tom trails him.
‘…so serious, Jim, you wouldn’t want to miss any fucking minute of it.’ Tom continues laughing.
‘What the hell are you on about?’
‘Come on, don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’
‘Shut your face, Tom. I don’t want to hear another bloody word from you.’
‘Guess what? Chap down at the Parade Mart, he tells me he can line up some Asian babes. That’s what I’m fucking talking about.’
‘You’re feral. Get lost.’
Tom is so drunk he’s starting to slur. ‘Aww, I w…was hoping I’d be able to get some t…tips from you.’
Jim faces the bar and gestures to Rodney. ‘Hey, Rod, get me another, will yer?’
Tom continues. ‘Like, mate, is it true—’ he hiccups—‘that they give good head?’
Jim feels anger racing through him. His head is starting to pulsate.
‘I mean reeaal good head,’ Tom says.
Jim remains silent.
‘And they moan real funny when they come, like so—’
Tom starts to curl his mouth in an exaggerated manner and is about to imitate the sounds when Jim feels something popping in his head. Fury.
He pulls back his hand, balls it into a fist and punches Tom in the gut.
Tom winces, doubles over and lands on the bar. Nearby glasses go flying and shatter on the floor.
Jim stares at him, the impact of his own movement making his head spin.
‘Fuck you! What did you do that for?’ Tom strangles out.
He straightens up and swings a fist in Jim’s direction, but misses. Quickly he gathers himself and throws another punch, this time landing it at Jim’s eyebrow, near the wound from the car accident. The area swells up immediately, the old wound throbs. Jim brings both arms up to shield himself, but Tom lands another punch, this time in the stomach, followed by another, to his eyebrow again. This one draws blood. Jim is infuriated. All he wants to do is beat the crap out of Tom for saying what he did.
‘Someone, get Bruce to come fix him up.’ It’s a female voice, possibly Sharon’s.
Jim ignores it, charges towards Tom—
But suddenly, two pairs of arms hold him back.
He struggles, but is pinned down. His vision is now blurred, he can’t make out who they are. He only feels the pressure of their hands on him. He tries to kick but there is resistance. Now he can’t even bring his knees back.
What about Tom? Why don’t they get him too? Dickheads.
The bar is spinning madly. Faces he recognises—Rodney, Sharon, Tom, Alex, the guy three caravans from him—peer down at him, then spin away. Huge commotion, voices buzzing, feet shuffling, oohs and aahs. The smell of alcohol. The start of the stench of sick.
Jim feels himself being lifted. There’s swift movement. His legs are being dragged across the floor. Cool air brushes past. Doors open. He’s past the doors and he feels his body being thrown.
He lands on his elbows with a thud. Skin grazes on pavement. He rolls over, clutching his stomach. Then he lies still, head throbbing, blood oozing from his eyebrow.
There are voices above him. Murmurs—a woman’s voice, then a man’s. Someone is shaking his shoulder.
‘Jim, Jim, are you okay?’
Jim brings his hands to his eyes, rubs them, then squints to get a better look.
It is Marietta. She’s crouched beside him, touching his cheek. He lifts his head.
‘Hey…’ He struggles up to say, then drops his head again.
‘You passed out. Thank God Peter and I spotted you. Are you okay?’
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