After morning tea he was going to go home sick. Fuck those two Aussie dickheads; they can handle the rest of the day.
His mum was hassling him. He hadn’t been eating much lately and she was convinced that it was the reason he’d come home sick.
—I’ll make you some eggs, she said. The third time now.
—No, Ma. I’m orright. Done worry about it.
—I’ll make you some. You probably caught something off those swine-eaters you work with.
—Ma.
He shut his bedroom door and sat on his bed. He picked up her phone. He’d tried to ban himself from thinking about her. He’d started to love her name. And it filled him with a hot, thick, sick feeling that he couldn’t identify whenever it snuck into his head. He didn’t even know her name when he’d — been on top of her; Abdullah had told him later. Tennille. But maybe it was okay. It didn’t feel as bad as usual. Because he was going to talk to her. He had to.
He’d scrolled through the phone’s address book a hundred times. There were some names in there that fuckin’ cut him. Brad, Davo, John, Mick, Scott. Aussies. All Aussie guys. She could be fucking one of them. All of them. He hated that she knew so many guys. But there was also a number that held promise. Work. It must be her work.
He brought it up and pressed dial.
—This service has been cancelled. Please call Telecomonopoly inquiries on 13 13 —
Of course, he sighed. She would’ve cancelled her phone. He brought up the details of Work to get the number.
—Ma. Bring the phone will ya!
His mother brought him the phone and told him not to be long. She said the same thing every time anyone used the phone. He doubted she even knew what it meant anymore.
He dialled the number.
—Hollywest Cinemas, the voice said.
Fadi waited in case it was a recorded message.
—Hi. Is Tennille there?
—Can you tell me what section she works in, please?
—Ah — nuh.
—Okay. Tennille is it? Tennille who, sir?
—I dunno her last name.
—Please hold.
He waited and scratched his back. He was doing it. He was ringing her.
—Hello.
—Hi, he said. He wasn’t sure if it was the same chick he’d just been talking to.
—Who’s this?
—Who’s this? he said.
—Tennille. Who’s this?
—It’s Fadi.
—Fadi? Fadi who?
—We — we met a few weeks ago.
—When? Where?
—I came to the park. You were at the park with my mates. Remember?
—Who is this?
—Fadi.
—How did you get my work number?
—I’ve got your phone.
—You what? You’ve got my phone. You arsehole. I — I want it back.
—Okay — okay. I want to give it back.
—Take it to the police station.
—I’ll bring it to you.
—No. Take it to the police station.
—You work at Hollywest?
She was silent but he could hear noises in the background.
—I’ll bring it to your work, he repeated.
—Jesus! Take it to the police. Don’t come here.
—I’ll be there soon. I’ll just give it to you. I want you to have it back.
Fadi’s mother came in with the eggs.
Tennille had gone pale, but her cheeks began to colour with stress-borne hives. This fucker had the gall to ring her. She looked over at the tense-barriers that they used to herd patrons into the cinemas. Could she use one of the posts to wrap around his head if it came to it? Jesus. He was about to turn up here. She couldn’t face him. This was just too unfair. Why does it just keep getting worse? Why can’t this shit end?
Tennille had gone back to work, gone back to uni after two weeks. No one except Melissa, who’d flown to London with her mother a week after the rape, and Greer, one of her workmates — who seemed to sense that something heavy had happened to her, so she’d told her — knew about what she’d been through. So she could try and get on with her life, her parents had said. Get on with it? How the hell do you get on with it? Everything is changed. Getting on with it meant dragging it everywhere she went, and through everything she did. What those animals had done to her coloured every aspect of her life now. There were moments when it would slip out of her mind, and she felt like a carefree, happy young woman, but then it would flood back in, and for a moment feel like it was something outside her existence, but then the feeling of dread would quickly set in, and be back, filling her up. The knowledge that she was sharing the world with people — no, things — that had violated her in that way.
The counsellor had told her it was up to her how much she wanted to talk about it. It was up to her to go forward with the charges if they caught these pricks. Up to her if she wanted to go back to work and school. But she didn’t trust her own decisions. They’d caused her to get raped. And got her best friend raped. She’d decided to go with those arseholes, not Melissa; those arseholes who had made her take them in her mouth, and then pulled out a gun and made her lie down and have two of them thrust and grunt and groan and hurt her and put their stink all over her. The pig with the gun hadn’t managed to enter her, but he’d pushed and pinned her down with his whole weight and then suddenly got off her. The other fucker had gotten himself inside her though. She’d turned into a corpse when the pain translated into what was actually happening. Her fear had actually allowed her to mentally escape what she was experiencing — it had sent her mind into a confusing collision of thoughts; until that disgusting thing had broken into her. She felt all her organs freeze, like they were giving up. And her body went into atrophy. She hadn’t really been revived yet. She had no idea how long that second one was on top of her and inside her. She could still feel him now. The sensation would come and smack her. Like that first fucker’s hand against her neck, but with a far deeper pain. But, like a zombie, she’d gone back to work and uni. It would help her get her life back, she was told. It seemed logical. But she didn’t think the plan was working. She was strong — people had always said so. But how strong do you have to be?
—Jesus, Tennille. What’s up? You don’t look so hot, Greer said.
—One of those … Tennille looked at her feet. One of those guys is coming here.
—What guys? Greer asked, and then: Oh.
—The ones I told you about. The ones who raped Melissa and me.
—What? Here?
—He’s bringing my phone.
—Call the cops.
—Yeah. I’ll wait to see if he turns up first. It could be someone being a dickhead, fucking with me.
—No one would be so cruel, surely. I’m going to call them.
—Will you get the phone off him? If he comes?
—You bet I’ll get your phone off him. And I’ll give him a kick in the nuts.
—Don’t. Don’t — You know, provoke him. Just in case.
—I won’t. I’m sorry. It’s just — I can’t believe he’d fucking call you, Tennille. What is he thinking? That he’ll have another go? Look, if he comes, I’ll go down and keep him here until the police come. What do you think?
Tennille and Greer waited up on the mezzanine level where they could see the approach of everyone entering the cinema complex. Every guy with black, cropped hair panicked her. Tennille was praying that the police would arrive, but each minute seemed to eat away at her hope that they would even show up. Then she began to realise that she couldn’t remember what any of the guys looked like. Not really. She could recall their smell. And that awful, awful feeling of their fingers. And their cocks — like sick, alien reptiles. But the visual had been mostly erased. Almost immediately. She’d looked at the rego of the car when she’d got out at the mall, but couldn’t remember one number or letter when she’d had to repeat it to the cops.
—That’s him, she said to Greer, and pointed at him. It.
—God, Greer said with a shudder.
He didn’t look like a monster. He looked like a try-hard. A boy who thought he was a man. A follower. The exact same haircut as all his friends, Greer suspected. And a fucking idiot. The cops hadn’t arrived yet. She’d have to talk with this creature.
—Have you got Tennille’s phone?
—Huh?
—Have you got Tenni —
—Who are you?
—Her friend.
—Where’s she? I wanna talk to her.
—Well, she definitely doesn’t want to talk to you. What do you think you’re doing turning up here and asking for her?
—Hey, I’m just tryin’ ta be nice, he whined, and put his hand in his pocket.
—Have you got her phone?
—I’ll only give it to her.
—I’ll give it to her.
—I wanna see her. I wanna apologise.
Greer looked at this boy. He thought he could make it better. He thought he was doing something good here. He thought there was a possibility of redemption. With a phone.
—If you give the phone to me, it’ll make her happy. I’ll make sure she gets it. And anything you want to tell her, I’ll tell her.
—Will ya get her ta call me?
—If she wants to.
The boy produced the phone. He looked at it. Greer could tell his plan, whatever it was, was disintegrating. He did still have the phone, though.
—I’ll tell her you’re sorry. And ask her to call you, she said.
He handed over the phone.
—I just wanna tell her that — he said, and looked over Greer’s shoulder.
She thought, and felt her head nearly turn, that he’d spotted Tennille.
He turned and walked quickly to the escalators, and ran up them towards the street exit. Greer then saw the royal-blue-and-white chequered band on the cops’ hats that had given away their approach.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was his first warning. You got three, before instant dismissal, he’d been informed. And even one could damage your chances of keeping your job if it came within your three months of probation. In a way it was worse than getting busted by the cops. At least with the cops he knew that he was doing something wrong. He was well aware that selling drugs was illegal. But here, in Greedos World of Grocery Bargains, he didn’t know what the fuck he’d done. He was just informed by the assistant manager that, due to misconduct, he was to receive counselling.
—I have to see a counsellor? Whitey’d asked.
—No. You have to get a formal caution.
Whitey knocked on Tom Hardy’s office door.
—Patrick. Come in. Close the door.
Whitey walked into the small makeshift office and shut the door. He stood still and felt very stupid.
—Patrick. Okay, mate. You’ve read the Shelf Replenisher’s Handbook haven’t you?
—The what? No — I don’t think so.
—No? And why not?
—I don’t know what that book is, Whitey replied, and looked at Tom Hardy for the first time since he’d come into the office.
—Well, all shelf replenishers must read it. It’s your bible here.
—I don’t have one. I wasn’t given one.
—Well, you should have asked for one, Tom Hardy said, and picked up his pen — his fifteen years’ service pen — and clicked three times.
—But I’ve never heard of this book, Whitey protested, and shifted; suddenly he needed to piss.
—Well, that’s a problem. But it isn’t mine, is it? My problem is that you’ve failed in your duties.
—Oh.
—Yes, oh. When we’re filling the bottom shelves, do we sit slouched on the bottom of a stepladder, or do we squat neatly close to the shelf? Mr Hardy asked.
—Um, dunno.
—Dunno! Dunno! No, you don’t know. Because you don’t know your job, do you? You need to read your handbook.
—Okay. Sorry — so where do I get one?
—Look, Patrick, I’m giving you a second chance, don’t get smart. You’ll soon see the wrong side of me.
—Okay, Patrick said, and wondered if he should go now.
—So, Tom Hardy said, and clicked the pen again. Have you got a partner at home?
—Partner? A girlfriend you mean?
—Or boyfriend.
—Yeah, I’ve got a girlfriend, Whitey answered, and really wanted to go now.
He liked to keep any thoughts of Sonja completely to himself. His feelings about her were so personal — they got him through the day here — it felt wrong to discuss her with this guy.
—Girlfriend, hey? I thought you might be from the same side of the fence as myself, Tom Hardy said, and winked. No matter, he continued. You can get back to the cake-mix aisle now.
Jesus, Whitey mused as he opened a third box of Carboboosta cake mix. He thought I might be gay. He’s gay. The manager’s gay. I don’t think I’ve ever been taken for gay before. Then his memory brought to the fore an old chestnut from not too long ago. Some of his sexual exploits while inside. Jesus. Maybe I’m giving off that vibe now. Maybe what I did inside shows on the outside — to those who know what to look for.
Whitey didn’t have anything against gays. Didn’t really know any. But he didn’t want to be known as one. Or thought of as one. He wasn’t one, was he? He’d done stuff with a guy. But he’d felt like shit afterwards. He thought about what he liked. Nah. He was more — if he was to be totally honest — tending towards being a paedophile. A heterosexual paedophile. Jesus. But, nuh. Before Sonja, he hadn’t really thought about girls that much younger than himself. School uniforms never really did it for him before Sonja’s. Jesus. He was gettin’ too — what do ya call it? — self-analytical since he’d taken this job. Too much time to think about shit, without the distraction of drugs and sex with a teenager. Jesus, shut up.
—Patrick White to the back dock, grocery bulk-truck delivery, announced the PA speakers in the ceiling.
Thank fuck, Whitey sighed with relief. A distraction, of sorts. Although there’s most likely a handbook on truck unloading that I’m unaware of.
He clocked himself off at the pay-office window at the end of his shift and, for the first time that week, headed straight for home. The deal here, at Greedos, was that if they still wanted you to do something right on knock-off time, you had to clock-off, and then come back and do the job. Overtime had to be pre-approved, but it never was, so the work was done pro bono, apparently.
He didn’t mind the work. It was just all the rules. Even he, who’d had sparse experience in retail — in the workforce in general — could see that if he was able to do things his own way, he could get the job done just as well, if not better. Like filling the bottom shelves. By sitting on the bottom step of the stepladder with the boxes in front of him he could fill three times as fast as crouching down and having to twist the fuck out of his back to get the stuff from the box to the shelf. And if he was allowed to piss when he needed to instead of only on smoko breaks, he’d be able to keep his mind focused on the job instead of having to concentrate on ignoring the pressure pushing back up into his kidneys. Apparently he was lucky not to get a warning for pissing outside of break times.
He climbed the three steps to his flat and began looking for his keys. He had to get into a routine. One day he’d find his keys in his backpack, the next in his pants pocket, and on the third day they’d be in his jacket pocket. Today they were nowhere. It was only a matter of time. Sonja opened the door.
—You’re home, he said.
—Yes, baby. How are you?
—Had a Barry Crocker.
—A — what?
—Shocker. A shocking day today.
—Why? What happened? Sonja asked, grabbing his hand and pulling him gently through the door.
—Nothin’. Don’t worry.
—Oh.
—So, no library today? Whitey asked.
—No. Listen, Patrick. I’ve been going to see my family after school.
—Oh, he said. How are they?
—They’re okay. Are you okay, I mean, with me seeing them?
—They’re your family. Of course I’m okay with it. I’m just not sure why you thought I’d mind.
—So are you upset? A bit? she asked, and sat down.
—No. I mean — I’m upset about other shit. But no, not that. If you want to see them, like I said, they’re your family. One thing though, Whitey said, and looked in the fridge.
—What, baby?
—What do they say about us? About me?
—They — they’re a little concerned. But maybe a little less each time I’ve seen them.
—Oh.
—Can my brother and sister come here to visit? she asked.
—Yeah, of course they can. It’s your place too, Sonja.
Whitey opened the last beer and took a long slug. He looked at Sonja. She was so cute. Innocent, yet intelligent. She had a lot of energy too, but could focus it. She would clean, read, do homework, and make love. She made him feel pretty slothish. She noticed him looking at her, and smiled. He smiled back, and drained off the beer. She glanced up at him again. He was still looking at her but not smiling.
—What’s wrong, Patrick?
—Do we really love each other? he asked, and put the beer can down.
Luck in the Greater West Page 13