‘Thought a change of scenery would do you good. Been pretty rotten weather in Adelaide,’ Sean is saying.
She turns back to face him. ‘Yes, it’s September and still so cold.’
‘We’ll just have to brace ourselves when we get back.’
Back in the hotel room, Sean has a shower before bed. Laila lies down and watches the late night news on Channel 9. Fresh and fragrant, Sean slides in beside her and places an arm around her waist. His breathing evens out after some time. Laila flicks off the TV and the table lamp. She lowers herself, pulls up the covers and cuddles in to Sean.
‘Thanks for bringing me here, Sean. I’m having a wonderful time.’
‘That’s okay, darling. My pleasure.’ His voice is almost a whisper, trailing off. Laila gives him a peck on the lips before he falls asleep.
The skin throbs. She runs her fingers over the welt, dabs it with tissue, then covers it with a piece of gauze and a bandaid. She brushes her hair carefully and brings a strand to the side of her face to cover the wound on her forehead—but the bandaid is still visible. Only a fringe would hide it. She’s not going to be able to cover it with her hair.
She rummages through her cupboard and pulls out a cap. Worn low, the cap hides most of the wound. Putting on a jacket, she leaves the house. She shuts the door hurriedly and rushes to the phone booth. She’s not using the phone at home. The bills list all calls made and Sean could trace the number.
Since returning from the Gold Coast a month ago, she’s been trying doubly hard not to do anything to annoy Sean. The holiday seemed to have put their relationship back on track. The first week back, Sean bought her a white leather handbag, kissed her goodbye in the mornings in the way she loved, hand on the back of her head, tilting her face at a slight angle. But then things quickly spiralled back down to how they were before the holiday.
With trembling fingers, Laila dials the caravan park number. She leaves a message for Marietta. She stands in a side lane to wait. When pedestrians walk past, she retreats into the shadows, head low. Time stands still. She looks at her watch every five minutes, her head continuing to throb. She waits.
After nearly an hour, she strides away. A few steps on, she hears the phone ring. Turning on her heel, she dashes back to the phone booth. Her voice is croaky from anxiety when she picks up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Laila, it’s me. Just got your message.’
‘Oh I’m so glad you rang. I’ve been waiting here on the street.’
‘Oh no, sorry, I was in town. Are you okay, sweetie?’
‘Marietta, it was so horrible…’
‘What? What happened?’
‘I was so sure after he took me to the Gold Coast, it wouldn’t happen again.’
‘Oh sweetie…’
‘Marietta, I can’t bear it anymore. Last night…There was blood.’
‘Where?’
‘On my forehead.’
‘Oh my God.’ A gasp. ‘Go to the police.’
‘No, I can’t. I told him I was going to do it last time. He said in a sarcastic way that he wouldn’t think about it if he was me. He had such a mean look in his eyes.’
‘What was the cause?’
‘Oh, something ridiculous. We had an argument about what I had cooked. He criticised me, and I said something about us not going out to dinner anymore. Then he went crazy, called me a bitch and told me not to nag. We started shouting and then he hit me, over and over.’
The memory of Sean’s voice bellowing through the house. The flaring of his nostrils. Jumping up from his seat and banging the kitchen cupboards with his fists, then the wall. And his blows. Terror pulsing through her veins. Then running into the bedroom. Him racing after her, hitting her, punching her. The pain. The blood.
‘What about the neighbours?’ Marietta asks.
‘We never mix. The houses near us are all big mansions. Nobody ever comes out. I’m scared, Marietta.’ She weeps. ‘Oh God, what have I done with my life?’
‘Laila, I want you to listen to me carefully, okay?’ Marietta’s voice sounds serious.
‘Okay.’
‘I’ve done some homework. There’s a phone number you can ring. It’s a shelter. They help women who have partners like Sean.’
‘Oh no.’
‘Listen to me. You have to leave the house. It’s for your safety.’
Laila bursts into tears.
‘You must, Laila. Got a pen handy?’
Laila shoves her hand into her handbag, gropes for her notebook and pen. She writes down the phone number and address.
‘Ask for a lady called Helen. I’ve spoken to her and she’ll know who you are.’
‘Oh no, Marietta.’
‘You must. It never gets better. He’ll sweet talk you into believing he’ll never hit you again. But it’s never the case. That’s what Helen said.’
Laila sighs. ‘I can’t understand. He says he loves me, then why does he hit me?’
‘Shows you. It’s not love, is it?’
Laila chokes on her cries, clutches her stomach.
‘Oh Laila, I wish I was there to give you a hug.’
Laila hears Marietta’s breathing.
‘And—oh, very important—Peter’s just bought a mobile phone. He takes it with him everywhere, Laila, he can make calls and take calls anywhere.’
‘Oh.’
Marietta gives Laila the number.
‘You can call this number anytime.’
‘Marietta, I’m scared.’
‘Laila, just call Helen.’
‘How will I get there?’
‘Taxi. You’ve got money?’
‘Yes.’
‘Always keep some notes handy which you can just grab and run.’
Laila looks at her watch. The digits click to four-forty. Sean will be home at about six. She’ll need an hour’s grace to settle down and put on her best behaviour.
‘I have to go.’
‘Big hug from me. I’ll pray for you.’
After Laila hangs up, she cradles the phone, blinking back her tears. The sound of traffic hums through the glass. She pictures the shelter, occupied by scores of other battered women. Battered. Such a terrible word. She’s read articles about it, in magazines, the papers. There was a movie she saw on TV about a woman who couldn’t leave her violent husband. Farah Fawcett Majors played the role of the wife. Laila had cried throughout the movie.
The first time Sean hit her, she couldn’t see herself as a victim. It felt like a one-off incident. Something she could brush off as being a nasty fight. All couples fight, she knew that too well from her marriage. No, it would surely not happen again. How can one inflict such pain on another, a person whom they love?
That was four months ago. Six incidents ago.
It is ten past five when she reaches the front door. She creeps in and to her relief, the house is empty. She races upstairs, grabs an overnight bag and starts to throw things in: tops, jeans, skirts, a jacket, underwear, towel, toiletries.
On the bedside table is a framed photo of Sean and her, taken at a charity dinner. They were at the Hyatt Ballroom. Sean’s handsome face blazes across the room. She was wearing a red halter-dress he’d bought her from David Jones, and a diamanté choker, also a gift from him. The photographer had taken the photo early in the evening, during the entrée, and produced the cardboard-framed photo by the end of the night. Laila looks at the picture and feels her heart being shredded into pieces.
While she’s zipping up the bag, the phone rings. She sits on the bed, picks it up.
‘Laila, it’s me.’ Sean’s voice sounds light.
‘Hi.’
‘Had a good day?’
‘It’s okay.’
‘Folks here have been talking about a new Korean restaurant that’s just opened in Unley. Put on something nice. We’re going there for dinner.’
She says nothing. She fingers the swelling on her forehead.
‘Laila? You there?’
She pauses. After a few seconds, she says, ‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘I’ve already taken meat out to defrost.’
‘Stuff the meat. Just put it in the fridge. It’ll keep for a day.’
‘My forehead.’
‘Look, darling, I’m really sorry.’
Laila weeps silently.
‘Can you cover it with some foundation?’
Pause. She looks out the window.
‘Laila?’
‘Yes?’
‘Foundation?’
Another pause.
‘Okay.’
‘Great. I’ll pick you up in about an hour, okay?’
‘Okay.’
Click.
36
SUNDAY MORNING. THERE’S A loud knock at the door. Jim staggers out of bed, rubs his eyes. He peers through the window. Peter is standing outside. He opens the door.
‘Hey, sorry to wake you up.’
‘That’s okay. What’s up?’
‘Listen.’ Peter fishes in his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. ‘Chap who owns a few houseboats. He’s looking for someone to clean them.’
Jim takes the note. ‘David Mansfield. What does the work involve?’
‘Dunno. Basic cleaning, I guess—vacuuming, toilets.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘Marietta met his wife at the hairdressers. Interested?’
‘Yeah, could give it a shot, I guess.’ Jim rubs his eyes. ‘Wait, hang on.’ He makes a quick count with his fingers—‘August, September, October—what’s today, twenty-first, right…yeah, cool, I should get my licence back in a week.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yep, I’ll need to re-apply for my licence, and they’ll put me on probation, shit like that, but yeah, should be fine.’
‘Great. Call him. He’ll have the details.’
‘Appreciate it, Peter. And say thanks to Marietta.’
‘No worries.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Can’t. Gotta run. My uncle’s here, and we’re meeting for breakfast.’
‘Yeah, heard you mention him the other day. You’re seeing a lot of him these days.’
‘Yeah, looks like we might strike out together. The business could just work.’
‘Oh yeah? What kind?’
‘Can’t say right now. Still early days. But you’ll be one of the first to know, once it gets off the ground.’
‘Sounds good. At the blocks tomorrow?’
‘Yep, early start. Want a ride?’
‘That’d be great, Peter. Not long now. Will get my licence back soon and I’ll be out of your hair.’
‘No worries, mate. Sevenish?’
‘Sure thing. Cheers, owe you one.’
After Peter leaves, Jim thinks about Peter’s business deal with his uncle, wondering what they’re up to. It is right up Peter’s alley to toy around with all kinds of ways of making a living: shearing, fruit-picking, driving trucks. At one time, years back, he remembers, Peter was even doing a bit of building work. Peter’s range extends beyond the blocks. Jim tries to stretch his imagination to see himself doing other things besides fruit-picking. He shrugs his shoulders. Possible. Once he gets his licence back and he’s mobile again, he could give it more serious thought and set his sights on something more adventurous. For now, his immediate goal is whipping up some over-easy fried eggs and bacon. His mouth waters.
37
‘DON’T PUSH MY BUTTONS, I SAID.’
The evil in his eyes. Laila turns her face away, grabs the pillow, the sheets, anything within reach. She crawls towards the end of the king-size bed. Sean pulls her by the legs and pins them down. Her dress rides up her thighs. She struggles against his brute strength.
‘He was just telling a joke,’ she says with her head pinned against the mattress.
‘Oh yeah? A joke. Just a joke, hey? But enough for you to make eyes at him.’
‘I wasn’t making eyes at him.’
‘Sure. And what about that laugh, cackling away like a chicken. Jesus, I heard it a mile away. At one point I even saw you touching his arm.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Bet you were dying to check out the size of his dick too, weren’t you?’ He digs his knees into her buttocks. ‘Weren’t you?’
She says nothing. She knows it’s pointless. When Sean gets into his rages, it’s like a typhoon, destroying everything in its wake.
At the cocktail party, she and Tony were simply chatting. A colleague of Sean’s, he was the only person she’d spoken to, after standing around on her own for about half an hour feeling like a lost puppy. Sean had been mingling with a group of important-looking men in suits from the moment they got there.
Laila starts to sob, knowing what’s to come. She buries her head in the bedcover to stifle her cries.
‘Now, don’t start on me.’ He grabs her hands and pins them behind her back. ‘Poor little me!’ He imitates her crying. ‘Those tears, they could move mountains.’
Suddenly he breaks into laughter. Loud thundering laughs. Laila flinches.
‘Just behave like a good girl and there won’t be any trouble.’
He releases her hands to undo his belt and fly. He starts to pull down his trousers and in doing so releases the pressure on her legs. Laila wriggles out of his grasp, jumps off the bed and heads for the door. Sean leaps out of bed and runs after her. At the landing, he reaches out and grabs her by the hair.
‘Ouch!’
‘Trying to escape, are we?’
He pins her to the floor, face down. His movements are rough. Her knees graze the carpet.
‘Nobody escapes from Sean. Least of all you. Have you forgotten? I’ve told you many times. Tsk, tsk, tsk.’ He shakes his head. ‘Many times, Laila. You are mine. Mine! And no girl of mine looks at another man.’
She sobs.
He plays with her hair, strokes her cheek, becoming suddenly tender. He smiles. ‘Didn’t I say to behave like a good girl? Hmm? You know how to be a good girl, don’t you, darling?’
Suddenly he grabs a bunch of her hair and pulls her head back. Her neck arches. The pain is excruciating.
‘Please, please.’
‘Please what? Please fuck me so I can imagine it’s Tony’s cock in me?’ He laughs uncontrollably. ‘Or please fuck me so I can show you how sorry I am?’
Laila shuts her eyes. Her body trembles with fear.
‘So which will it be, miss?’
He pulls down his trousers. Then he rips off her underwear.
Terror seizes her. She tries to struggle free, hands flying everywhere.
‘No, no, please.’
‘Yes, yes.’ He strikes her on the shoulder, the arm, then on the buttocks.
Laila yells in agony. He presses his palm on her back to render her immobile. Then he rams his penis into her from behind. His thrusts are hard and brutal. Her body jiggles. She shrieks and screams, loud piercing screams. The pain tears through her. The last five months of terror peak at this moment. His breathing, heavy and punctuated, thumps in her ears. He grunts and his body arches over her back. After he comes, he stands up and walks away. Laila whimpers, curls up on the floor. She wishes she was dead.
38
THE EXTENSION CORD CURLS around the legs of the table. Jim switches off the vacuum cleaner, untangles the cord and turns the machine on again. Grrr, grrrr, grrr. It rumbles and groans across the entire floor of the houseboat, sucking up food crumbs, dirt and small bits of rubbish. Jim points the hose up in the air to make it swallow the larger pieces.
After wiping down all the surfaces, he goes to the bedrooms and removes the sheets and pillow cases. He folds the blankets and returns them to the linen cupboard. Soiled sheets, towels and bathmats go into a garbage bag.
The bathroom is next and is usually his last task. He keeps telling himself he should do it first as it’s the most unpleasant part, but he always ends up doing it last. This
is opposite to his childhood habit of saving the good bits of food, such as the chunkiest part of the pork chop, for last. The next time he cleans, which is the day after tomorrow, he will think of pork chops when he starts his routine. Hopefully that will get him into the swing of his strategy.
Now, he squeezes Jif from the bottle into the toilet bowl and basin and starts running the scourer over the surfaces. He rubs and scrubs the basin, then rinses it with water. He avoids looking at the toilet bowl. Sprays window-cleaner on the mirror instead and begins wiping the surface. When he finishes with that, he takes a deep breath, plunges the brush into the toilet and starts scrubbing. Before long he is putting the cleaning items away and locking up the houseboat.
‘What’s with the long face?’ Rodney asks.
‘Nah, nothing,’ Jim says.
‘Here we go again. Either you tell me or you don’t tell me. It’s so bloody obvious something’s bothering you, so why pretend?’ Rodney dips the glasses into the sink of soapy water and starts washing them. The water swishes. ‘Something’s got up your nose, that’s for sure.’
Jim ignores him, looks sideways. It is early afternoon and there are only a handful of people at the pub. Christmas is just a week away and the whole town has practically wound down. The pub has a quiet, lazy feel about it. Pickers at Rick’s blocks started taking leave from two weeks ago.
Jim gets off his stool, goes to the jukebox, checks out the titles. After putting in some coins, he presses a button. He watches the record sliding onto the turntable before hopping back onto his stool. As ‘You’re so Vain’ drifts into the air, he lights up, curling the smoke and watching it rise to the ceiling. He takes his time, singing along.
‘Some people can be so fussy,’ he says finally.
‘Who?’ Rodney doesn’t look up from the sink.
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