Luck in the Greater West

by Damian McDonald

  —What? What do you mean? Of course we love each other. I love you, Patrick. I definitely love you.

  —Maybe we’re just obsessed. You know, the sex and everything.

  —Patrick. What do you mean? I thought it was good. No. I thought it was great. I love you. Don’t you love me?

  —I don’t know. Yes, I love you but — you’re young. I don’t know. Don’t you ever think I’m sick? I was thinking about it today. You know. Us being together. Me, living — having sex with — a schoolgirl.

  —Oh.

  —I mean — look, I’m sorry. I just had a shit day. I’m sorry, Patrick sighed, and held Sonja.

  They didn’t make love that night. The first time since she’d moved in. Patrick woke sometime before dawn and moulded himself into the contours of Sonja’s body. It would be hard if they split up. The hardest thing he’d ever done, really. Because he realised that he’d never been paranoid about a girl. The dynamics of his relationships had never really bothered him one way or the other. But this one made him think. He did love Sonja. Why else would he feel this way? And despite all his questioning of the relationship, he didn’t want to be without her.

  Whitey got ready for work, pulled two cones, and brushed his teeth. It was the first time he’d smoked before work, but it seemed like a perfect time to start. Although, if he was going to make it a habit, he’d have to get some more heads — the bottom of the bowl was definitely showing. He’d kept some for himself when he’d moved the rest of his saleable stash to Ronnie’s place. Lately he’d been indulging at night, after Sonja had fallen asleep.

  He clocked on and went to make a coffee. Seven dollars a week was deducted from his wage to use the generic brand tea and coffee in the staffroom, so it was stupid not to indulge, even if it tasted like shit. For once he wanted to start work straightaway. Being stoned was making him keen. He went down into the back dock and pulled out a pallet from the immediate-fill bay and wheeled it into the shop. It was a different world here today. Being stoned made it something new. And it was always much better in the mornings before the shop opened to the public, and all the managers got in. He positioned the pallet in the feminine hygiene aisle and ripped off the shrink-wrap. He noticed the shop’s lighting for the first time. It was harsh, but the products were all easy to see. He noticed that you could hear the staff — still relatively happy before their day of serving — joking and talking loudly. And he became aware that he’d been just standing in the aisle, not doing any work.

  Whitey put the maternity pads to the front of the shelf and began on the mini tampons. He got halfway through the box and had to stop. He was thinking of Sonja. He’d planted a thought in her last night. It just hit him. Letting her know that he had doubts would make her doubt. He was sure of it. They’d become so close that their moods had begun to mimic each other. Patrick White nearly panicked. He nearly dropped the pack of tampons and walked out of the shop. He didn’t want to split up with her. But he didn’t want to get much closer either. He’d never been with a girl this long — not living together, that was for sure. And if it was already starting to freak him out, maybe it would become something he couldn’t deal with. She’d be getting pressure from her parents too. Maybe he’d get home this afternoon and she’d be gone. His heart pumped strong waves of blood through his neck. He ran out into the back dock, pulled out his mobile and dialled her number. It rang. And rang. And got diverted to her message bank, which wasn’t set up. Shit.

  Such good pressure. One of the things she could remember about Russia was that the plumbing had no pressure. But here, even in public housing, you could get good pressure. And hot, hot water. She loved a long shower. It was hard to have one while living with her mother and father, as her mother would bang on the bathroom door after a couple of minutes — the electricity bill, she’d say. But since living with Patrick it was bliss. He was quick in the shower. Didn’t seem to care for using it until the water ran out. She loved it. Loved that he let her do it. She loved to have the flat to herself too. She’d put the radio on, on Patrick’s stereo. He liked that heavy metal stuff. She didn’t mind it. Most of it was good. Very emotional. But you couldn’t really dance to it. Sonja turned off the water: it was changing from lukewarm to cold. She got out of the recess and thought she heard her mobile phone. She froze, concentrated on everything beyond earshot of the leaking shower-rose. So many things sound like a mobile ring when you only hear a sliver of sound. No mobile ring.

  She dried herself and regarded herself in the mirror. She had no idea what Patrick saw in her. But he seemed to like the way she looked, no matter what. But, Jesus. Maybe not. He doubts something about me. But there’s no ambivalence in his touch. In the way he feels. The way he presses against me. Every night we’re part of each other.

  But not last night.

  This was something she had to think about. The pill. She’d had two months’ worth when she’d moved in with Patrick, but there were only two pills left. The doctor had prescribed it to help with her period pain. Killer pain.

  She left the flat and went to pick up her sister. Her father was on the outside steps smoking a rolled cigarette.

  —Hi, Dad, she said. How are you feeling today?

  —Sonja. I am good today. I am going to the hospital this afternoon.

  Her father was still an outpatient. And quite a dutiful one, it seemed. He’d found something in Australia to respect, her mother had told her. The healthcare professionals here were true public servants, her mother agreed.

  —That’s good, Dad. Polly and me will come to the hospital with you after school if you like. Is she ready?

  —Go inside and see. This is still your home, Sonja.

  She went in, unsure of whether her father expected a response. Polly was eating a triangle of barely browned toast.

  —Ready, Poll?

  Polly rolled her eyes. She liked school, Sonja thought, but was getting to the age when the world outside school begins to reveal itself as an infinitely more interesting place. Even a day off at home could be a secretly novel experience.

  —Well, we’re running late, Poll, let’s go.

  Her little sister stuffed the toast into her mouth and slung her schoolbag over one shoulder. Walking to school together was something Sonja had missed when she’d first moved in with Patrick. It was probably the main thing that had kept her going to school now. It made it more comfortable. Going straight to school from her lover’s bed felt strange, awkward. Walking with Polly was a buffer between woman and schoolgirl.

  —Bye, Dad, she said.

  —Have you thought about it seriously, Sonja? her father asked.

  —What do you mean? she replied, but knew.

  —Coming home.

  —Dad. Yes, I’ve thought about it. I’m still thinking about it.

  —Seriously?

  —Dad, I’ve got to go to school.

  Sonja felt the side pocket of her schoolbag. It was something she did whenever she thought of Patrick. Because that was where she kept her mobile phone. She’d left it back at the flat. Shit. She didn’t have time to go back for it. Patrick rarely rang since he’d started the job anyway.

  They walked hand in hand through the streets that wound up towards their respective schools, Polly swinging their arms to a rhythm that Sonja easily adapted to. Her flat, her parents’ flat, had felt different this morning. It had felt like a home. A family home. There was no tension. When she’d moved to Patrick’s she had wanted to get out of there so badly. And she’d thought she’d never want to go back. Her mother was just a stress-head and impossible to live with when her father was drinking, and then in hospital. But things had changed since she’d been gone. They seemed calm. It was the way a family home should be. And she missed her brother and sister so much. She missed being their big sister. Sure, she was still their big sister now, but maybe too big a sister — living out of home with a boyfriend. She wanted to be there for them. And when she compared her two homes, one had gotten better, while th
e other — the one she was living in — had not really developed any further. And in fact, had just gotten a bit tense. These thoughts had been fighting to come to the surface for a while now, she realised, and it seemed they’d broken through.

  As Sonja walked through the school gates, she could sense someone looking at her. She looked sideways, quickly, to try and avoid any direct eye contact. But failed. The boy waved at her. It was Brett, Raz’s friend. She waved back, and half-smiled. She’d thought she’d seen him waving at her once before, but had decided that he must have been directing the gesture at someone else; or just being a smart arse.

  —Hi, Sonja, he said.

  —Hi.

  —How are you today? he continued, now walking beside her.

  —I’m not too bad.

  —You look good.

  —Thank you, Brett.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Charlie Testafiglia hated girls. He hated looking at them. And couldn’t talk to them at all anymore. Even Sophia in his English class, whom he hadn’t been able to stop looking at, thinking about, wondering about a month or so ago, now disgusted him. She was a completely different being now. Girls had flaws. He’d never imagined they would. Not the type he’d discovered anyway. Even his sister, who had turned into something perfect at age twelve, was a totally flawed being. She let someone like Abdullah — like him — do things to her. That girl, in the back of Abdullah’s car, had made him come. She hadn’t wanted to do it. He could tell by her expression. But her face had made him come. She knew what to do. He didn’t even mean to come. He wished he hadn’t. He hated that he had. And girls, all girls, reminded him of his weakness, his vulnerability.

  The hatred had dawned gradually. In fact, it felt like it was still building. It wasn’t a violent hate though. It just made him want to avoid females altogether. He was going to avoid Abdullah too. There was no way he was going to do that again. Abdullah had called Charlie though. There were probably fifty unanswered calls from him on Charlie’s mobile. He wouldn’t be able to avoid him for much longer. But he couldn’t tell his dad — the one thing that would stop Abdullah — because it would kill him. Mia had already nearly killed him. The whole thing made him sick, and he hated it. And everything that was associated with it.

  He was sweating, and didn’t know what was going on in his class. People were moving, getting up, but it wasn’t the end of the period. It’d only just begun.

  —Charlie, Mrs Standish said, have you got a partner?

  —No, I —

  —Well, you pair up with Sophia, seeing as she’s decided to finish her conversation with Theresa and Vicky rather than find a partner.

  —Jeez, Miss, Sophia moaned.

  —It’s Mrs, Miss, Mrs Standish said. Now you two go out into the study room so Sophia won’t be tempted to start another conversation.

  —I’ll be all right by myself, Charlie said, but Mrs Standish had turned away and was organising another pair.

  Sophia left the classroom without looking at Charlie.

  —Come on, Charles, she said in a mock posh tone.

  He would have found it so sexy a couple of months ago, but now he felt all the blood drain from his body and into his stomach. He got up on shaky legs.

  The study room was exceedingly hot. The air was thick, and moving it through his chest was like inhaling jelly. Sophia was talking, but the words sounded like the front gate at home that clanged through the side passage when it slammed. He hated that sound. It was so hot. The air was turning into heat. His neck muscles went slack. He thought he was going to vomit the hotness. Then his leg muscles turned to water. The desk came up and was about to hit his face. But nothing. It was cool. And he was unaware of his breathing.

  The voice had lost its tinny ring. He could detect foreignness, but also a comforting timbre. It was a woman’s voice. Not Sophia’s.

  —Charlie. Hi, I’m Dr Keshvardoust. Not feeling so good, hey?

  —No.

  —I can imagine. Well, it looks like you passed out, mate. You should start to feel yourself again within a couple of hours. We’ve given you something to keep you relaxed, but it might make you a little drowsy.

  —I don’t know what happened.

  —It’s okay. Have you been sick lately? Or stressed about something?

  —No. Not sick. I don’t know about — stressed.

  —Okay. Well, your father is on his way. We’ll all have a talk when he gets here.

  Charlie lifted himself up in the bed. He was still hot, but the heat didn’t have that escalating feeling. He looked at the doctor. She was a woman, not a girl; but she did have something girlish about her. Her hair, or maybe her eyes. He didn’t hate her. In fact, he liked her. There was no sickening feeling like the one Sophia provoked in him. Oh, Jesus. Sophia. What the hell happened?

  The doctor was talking to a family. A father, or maybe grandfather, and two girls. One of the girls was young, the other maybe his age. He liked the look of her too. She made him feel comfortable, not sick at all. In fact, the only thing left of that horrible feeling was the detaching memory of it. Charlie moved himself onto his side, and looked back at the girl. She was beautiful. She was with her family. Family. He wanted his father. It was the first time he’d wanted his father to be with him since — he couldn’t remember the last time.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Sergeant Rosales checked the office for the third time for the return of his superior. The door was ajar. He was back. He could have rung the Senior Sergeant on his mobile, but thought it better to tell him in person. It was more bad news, or at least unsettling news. Now Sergeant Rosales wished he had called Testafiglia on his mobile. Despite the uncomfortable, sometimes even allergic, relationship he thought he had with his boss, Sergeant Rosales respected him. He didn’t need this news; not now.

  —Boss. How’s the young bloke? Rosales asked.

  —He’s okay now. He’s been under some stress, apparently.

  —Oh. But it’s all okay?

  —Yes. How’s everything here?

  —Well, there’s something you need to have a look at, Sergeant Rosales said, and produced the file from behind his back.

  —What is it, Sergeant? Does it need my attention now?

  Rosales put the fingerprint report on his boss’s desk and slid it across to him.

  Salvatore opened the report.

  —Which case is this?

  —One of the young rape victims. She called triple-oh yesterday saying that one of the attackers had contacted her and was on his way to her workplace. A patrol was sent but they were unable to locate him. He’d come to hand over a mobile phone to the victim — it had been stolen from her during the attack. We just got the report back from forensics. There’s a partial print on it. Abdullah Najib. We’ll have to get her in to ID him, but it looks like he’s one of them.

  —This is the same boy, isn’t it? The little prick who broke my front window. Unbelievable. Oh, Jesus, Sergeant. Mia. My daughter.

  —We’ll pick him up, boss.

  —Hang on. We’ve only got a partial print, right? This little arsehole won’t agree to an ID parade, so we’ll have to get the victims to look at some photos. We don’t have to get all the girls down here at once — but as soon as one of them makes an ID we’ll pick him up. Oh, and make sure that, ah — Patrick White — is in the photo array for all the girls other than the one who knows him.

  —Done and done, Rosales replied, moving towards the door.

  —Actually, this victim, the one who had the phone stolen, she said she’d gone with the boys to use an illegal substance, didn’t she? Sergeant, get that White down here for more questioning. I believe he’s still on probation, so we can bring him in. He admitted to knowing one of the other victims; see if he has any connection with this one. And if he’s still dealing drugs he certainly won’t be after this. Jose, I’ve had it up to here with this. Rapes, drugs. This is the suburbs — where families are trying to make a living and have a bloody home.

 
Tennille Baxter looked at the photos. They lacked the colour of real people. They wore expressions that could not be identified.

  —That guy’s eyes — maybe, she said tentatively, and rubbed her own eyes.

  —You recognise this guy? Rosales prompted.

  —I dunno.

  —Take your time. It’s okay.

  Tennille had decided that she would go ahead with the charge if they caught them. But she wished the cops would just arrest the bastards. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to have to look at photos, and especially not here, in this police station. The last time she was here was the night of the rape.

  —Are these guys suspects? They don’t even look like they’re, you know, police photos.

  —Well, Miss, we can’t show you photos that suggest that the people in them have been under arrest. But we wouldn’t show you any photos unless we needed to.

  Tennille looked at them again. Several of the suspects were ethnic, and a few Anglo-Aussies. She pushed these aside. Then she noticed the slight smile on one of the remaining photos. It was the smile of the first guy.

  —This guy, she said, he’s not the one who had my phone, but he was one of them.

  —This one?

  —Yes. Well, I thin—

  —Thank you, Miss Baxter.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  —Abdullah Najib, you’ve been detained here at Western Plateau Local Patrol for the purpose of an interview. You can decline to answer our questions if you wish. You are not under arrest. My name is Sergeant Rosales. This interview will be videotaped. Do you understand?

  —What’s decline mean?

  —It means it’s up to you if you wish to answer our questions.

  —Depends on what the questions are.

  —Do you agree to the interview?

  —I’ll tell ya when I won’t answer ya questions.

  —Okay, Abdullah, can you tell me what you were doing on the twenty-sixth of May this year?