by E. M. Reapy
His teeth are straight except for a tiny gap between his bottom ones. He’s really handsome in a rugged way.
You don’t know what to do. You don’t want to be attracted to him.
You try to take another drink but your hand fumbles and you spill the beer all over yourself, the glass falling and crashing to the floor. The bar goes silent again. You’re wet and confused and you don’t know what to do and you look at him and you look at the others and say in a loud and bitchy voice, ‘So what exactly is it you want from me?’ and Tommo’s eyes widen and the Dublin couple draw closer to each other and the locals are still watching.
‘I – nothing? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,’ the Aussie says. ‘Do you need a cloth?’ He points at your beer soaked lap.
‘Fuck yourself,’ you say.
He looks hurt and you push away from the table, the chair screeching against the floor. You hurry out of the bar into the evening sunlight.
You go back to the campervan and you don’t have the keys so you crouch down in front of it, the wetness from the alcohol turning to stickiness on your top and shorts. You put your head into your hands. The sky glows above the flat plains.
A few minutes later, Tommo comes over and sits beside you on the ground. He puts his arm around you gently.
‘Are you okay, Fiona?’
You don’t respond.
‘Fiona?’
‘Of course I’m okay, why does everyone think I’m not?’
He takes his arm off you, joins his hands.
‘Should I…–?’ he asks. ‘I don’t know what to say to you, buddy. Do you want me to stay here? Do you want me to go?’
You look at him. At his freckly skin, the softness in him. He’s not trying to hurt you. You try and resist but can’t, the tears come thick and hot.
‘I’m sorry, Tommo. I didn’t mean to go for you.’
‘No worries.’
‘Just so – I’m just so fucked up, Tommo. I think there’s something wrong with me. There is something really wrong with me.’
He leaves a silence. You blub and then suck back your breath, wipe your face.
‘I’m afraid. Every day, I’m so afraid. Of the past. Of Ireland and here. Of men. Of sleeping. Of what happens next. Of myself. I’m afraid of myself.’
Tommo scratches his head.
He lets you cry.
Then he says, ‘Everyone has their crosses, Fiona. It’s just human. But,’ he pauses and turns his palms out, ‘you own them – your problems. Can you see the beauty in that?’
‘D’ya remember you said working in the factory made your confidence low?’
He nods.
‘D’ya think that affected the way you decided to do things? That, like, it made you more self-destructive?’
Tommo looks at you for a second and spreads his left hand in front of his face.
You laugh. He winks.
‘Come on, we better go inside before the mosquitos feast on us,’ Tommo says.
★
You sit in the campervan. Tommo pours some Bundy into flask lids. You tell him what happened back at Antonio’s. At Fletchers’. You tell him about Malley. It’s the first time you’ve told anyone properly about any of these things.
You switch the lantern on when it becomes too dark and place it on the table. Tommo becomes clearer, his brown hair and shadow beard.
‘Ah, that lad in Ireland’s a cowardly wanker. No wonder you’re – you’re – delicate. Should have said something to me, in the factory,’ he says. His voice rises, ‘and I’m fucking raging I wasn’t around when those perverts were in. I’d leather them for yis. Do you think they have a new girl now?’
You are still. It reminds you of what Dorothy said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone else?’
You think about the Fletchers’ house, Antonio dropping a girl off. A girl who has no money and thinks she has no options. Her filled with doom as she walks towards the front door. You take a big swig of Bundy. Your throat and tongue sizzle with heat when you swallow.
You nod at Tommo and sigh deeply. ‘They might have.’
The scene shows you something else though. Something you hadn’t thought about. She thinks she has no power but she does. They’ve taken it. She’s given it to them. Like you did.
‘Would you not talk to the police, Fiona?’
‘What is it with everyone and the police?’ you snap. ‘What could they do for me? If I talk to them, that’s it, I’m done for. People will know I’m a—’
‘You’re not anything,’ he interrupts firmly. He takes a breath. ‘I don’t mean you’re nothing but you’re the one putting the label on yourself.’
‘If people found out, they’d be labelling me too. They’d say stuff about me. About my character, my sexuality. People would say my family brought me up wrong. That I deserved it.’
‘Fiona, this is what I reckon. Deep down, people don’t care about much more than their own lives, maybe that of their kids or their families or partners, their close circle at a stretch but after that, they’re not really bothered. I don’t want to sound awful but it’s kind of self-centred to assume they do.’ He’s pulling at his plaster and resticking it tighter.
You take another mouthful. This time it makes you gag.
‘I’m not self-centred, Tommo,’ you say and lower your head. ‘I’m ashamed.’
★
Susan and Ollie come home drunk, indiscreetly whispering to Tommo to ask if you’re okay. He says yeah and guides them stumbling towards to their double bed at the upper level of the campervan.
It’s night time but you can’t sleep. Every so often you hear howling outside. Ticking. Hooting.
You think about Malley and tuck yourself underneath your blanket. For a second you’re going to do what you usually do and quash the image of him but instead you let it stay. Instead of him being a ghost in your mind, you go into the image and are the ghost. You watch him. He’s in the zip-up red top he used to wear all the time, the jeans with holes, his worn out Converse. He’s smoking weed. He’s downing beers. He’s watching TV. He looks towards the kitchen, wants a snack but is it worth the effort or not of moving. He takes another pull on his joint, decides it’s not and lays into the couch, his face loses animation, his eyes slit.
It wasn’t love with him. It was something painful and addictive. You wanted to fix him. You wanted to show him there was more to life. You tried to do it by sacrificing everything you had for him, all your time and energy.
But he never asked for it. He didn’t.
And you kept going, a dog with a bone, you kept going until you were spent, you were as helpless as him.
You allow yourself linger on this. You’re embarrassed first then a sadness fuzzes your chest but you go with it until it passes. You feel lighter, feel calmer. His face fades from your thoughts.
Sleep comes.
★
It’s the middle of the night when you jolt awake. Black emptiness is all you can see from your window. The others are snoring.
Another memory comes, you don’t repress it. It’s Jett’s fingers inside you. His tongue on your skin. The soapy smell. His mouth, the bitter taste of it. The way you’d tingled at his touch.
You cover your mouth with your palm and jump out of the bed. You open the sliding door as soundlessly as you can, get outside away from the van. You dry heave onto the ground and wait until the nauseous feeling passes.
★
You walk around in the dark, swatting any nocturnal bugs that buzz by.
You chew at the skin loose at the side of your nails. Talking to Tommo has brought things up but it’s also freed something. You’re able to breathe a bit more. Take more air in. But then when you think about all that’s happened you feel ashamed and get short of breath. You notice it this time though, how your lungs and chest and gut react to the memories.
Why are you holding onto something that’s choking you?
There’s a click in your brain.
You feel a piece fall into place, a pathway cleared so an idea can cruise through. You lift your head upright.
You’re holding onto this feeling. You’re controlling it. Why?
‘Why are you doing this to yourself, Fiona?’ you say aloud.
You’ve blamed everyone for too long. The government, Malley, the drink, your parents, that ginger girl, Antonio, the Fletchers, Dorothy even. But the truth is that it’s no one’s fucking fault. It’s your life.
Your eyes are drooping. You wipe yourself down. Breathe. The night is giving way. Some dawn birds begin their chirps in unseen trees. Kookaburras laugh. Magpies sing. You go back to bed before sunrise.
★
The campervan is in motion when you wake. Tommo is reading a Lydia Davis book in the backseat. It’s relentlessly bright and you squint at him. You’re not sure if it’s the light or the rum or the rough night that’s caused the throb in your head. Maybe it’s the idea of moving on, you joke to yourself, though when you focus on it, you feel a small flutter of hope in your chest.
‘What time is it?’ you ask, stretching.
‘2.30 p.m. We’ll be in Darwin soon. How are you?’
You yawn. ‘I’m – I’m good, I think. Better.’
He smiles.
You get out of bed and fold it up and away, fix it as a seat again. You get a bottle of water from the cooler.
‘Tommo, I’ll be stopping off in Darwin. I won’t be joining any further.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s time,’ you say and nod.
‘Time?’
You nod again. It feels right. You’d resisted against thinking this way because of what it would mean for you. Exposure. Admitting your flaws. Your mistakes.
‘You’re not going back are you? To the farm? To catch them?’ Tommo asks. He blinks rapidly.
‘No. God I hope not. But I’m going to find out what I have to do. It’s time.’
★
You spend the evening in Darwin chatting to Tommo. You lay on white plastic sun loungers and talk it through, what steps you’re going to take. A black kite soars overhead. Some backpackers splash around in the pool. First, you’re going to ring Dorothy.
You’re procrastinating.
‘What if she tells me to fuck off?’
‘She won’t.’
‘What if she does though?’
He puts his palms out, spreading his fingers wide. ‘If she tells you to fuck off, she tells you to fuck off. You move on. You’re worrying about something that hasn’t even happened. Waste of energy, Fiona.’
‘Okay, I’ll make the call.’
Tommo nods to urge you on.
‘I’ll make it.’ You take a deep breath. ‘But what if—?’
‘Fiona, make the bleeding call.’
You nod, go downstairs and through the front door to find a quiet place outside the building.
★
The phone rings and rings and just when you’re about to hang up, Geoff answers breathlessly.
‘G’day?’
‘Hello, Geoff,’ you say. ‘Is Dorothy there?’
‘Fiona? Is that you?’
‘Yeah,’ you say and chew the bottom of your lip.
‘Aw, Fiona, love, how ya goin’?’ The warmth in his voice makes you smile.
‘Good, Geoff, better anyway. Thanks,’ you say. ‘Is she in?’
‘She’s in the garden, we’re weeding but I’ll get her. It’s great to hear from you. Okay, give me a moment,’ he says.
He shouts Dorothy to come inside. You hear nothing until light footsteps draw closer and the scramble of picking the phone up and putting it the right way round.
‘Hello,’ Dorothy says.
‘Dorothy, it’s me,’ you say.
‘I know.’
Your mind goes blank. You look around, see murals of rainbow-skinned people and travel quotes on the hostel wall. But no matter, the road is life – Jack Kerouac, Not all those who wander are lost – J.R.R. Tolkien, Wherever you go, go with all your heart – Confucius.
‘Dorothy, I – I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you the way I did.’
She’s quiet.
‘It’s not been easy, trying to come to terms with everything.’
You hope she’s nodding the other side. You hope she’s accepting your apology.
‘So,’ you say to break the silence. ‘What happened when you spoke to the police?’
She clears her throat and is hesitant. ‘The inspector told me they’d had a few complaints about that flaming creep.’
‘Who?’
‘Antonio. The hostel. Sporadic complaints from travellers. They were suspicious of him. Some young boat girls who wouldn’t say too much.’
‘Boat girls?’
‘The mob who come here on boats, illegal migrants from the islands. They wouldn’t talk much. Cultural reasons or language reasons or whatever. Visa reasons, probably. Too scared.’
‘Fuck. Antonio’s been doing this for a while?’
Dorothy sucks her teeth. ‘He’s been doing it for quite some time, I reckon.’
‘Do you think there are other farmers?’
‘It’s entirely possible. A dealer finds those who want his product, he makes money selling it to them. Antonio is doing that with vulnerable people.’
You turn your head around and look in a window, seeing your blue shirt dress, your high ponytail, your ghostlike outline reflected back at you. You feel shaky. Chilly.
‘I was so poor there, in that place. I couldn’t see past it. I was so fucking stupid. Small-minded. How did I do what I did?’
‘You didn’t know at the time,’ Dorothy says.
‘I didn’t know what?’
‘That you didn’t have to do it.’
‘But what if I did know? I did but I wanted a shortcut out of the debt.’ You cower, blush, but nod your head. It’s the truth.
‘The debt was a method of grooming you. If Antonio controls your financial state, he wields a whole lot of power over you.’
You scratch your arms.
Dorothy continues, ‘Even if you consented to going out bush, it doesn’t mean you were in the wrong. It doesn’t matter if you agreed to it or not. If we take all emotion out of this, the problem is, by law, that a man is selling people to other people.’
Your heart is drumming. ‘So, how do I go about reporting what happened to me?’
★
You ask the receptionist of the hostel about extending your stay for another night and for a room where you could make a phone call in private, with no background noise.
‘I’ll be speaking to the police,’ you say.
She gives you a knowing look. ‘This is the extension number for an office past the laundry. Nobody uses it. If you know what time they’ll be calling you, I’ll give you the key for it.’
You thank her and turn to leave.
‘G’day,’ an older man with a bright smile says near the door of the reception area.
‘Hello,’ you say absently. You’re still thinking about the phone call.
‘Enjoying the Northern Territories?’ he asks. ‘Leaving before the build-up?’
You nod and half-shrug.
‘You wouldn’t consider staying put for a few weeks. I know lots of work coming. Would qualify for your visa?’
‘Not right now,’ you say.
‘Strewth. Even the locals can’t take the heat. We got so many bloody mangos for picking and no one around to pluck them from the trees. You Irish?’ he asks and you nod. He continues, ‘Some of you Irish kids I meet seem dead keen on work. Take me card, eh?’
You take the card from him, read it, flip it over to see if anything is written on the back and tuck it into your pocket.
‘Me bro Henk runs a farm near the Kimberley, not so far from here. It’s a good place. An ace place to work.’
You thank him. He whistles a tune cheerfully and then approaches the next backpackers that come into the building. Something about him reminds
you of your father.
★
You go back to the sun loungers and sit under a parasol. Tommo is splashing around in the pool and wets you as you pass. He hops out and asks how it went. You tell him. He gives you a closed-mouthed smile.
‘So you definitely won’t come to Kakadu with us in the morning?’
You shake your head.
It’s his last trip in Australia before he flies to Dublin.
You ask, ‘What’ll you do back home?’
He puts his towel over his shoulders. ‘I might try and use me Masters. Stop making excuses about it. Stop arsing around. Get into shape. But I might get a bar job and go on the slips. Will see what’s going on when I get back. How ‘bout you? Where’ll you go after this?’
‘I don’t know. D’ya see that sign by reception? Mango pickers needed in the Kimberley region? Well there’s a man downstairs talking about it, he gave me a contact.’
Tommo’s mouth drops. ‘You’re not going back into the wilderness?’
‘I think I might. Not just yet obviously but I miss being in nature and keep reading the sign every time I walk by. I feel drawn to it.’
Tommo shakes his head. ‘I said before you were delicate. I was bleeding wrong.’
★
You find it hard to nod off again that night. You look around the dorm room to the doorway, the shaft of light creeping in from the hallway at the threshold. You catch yourself getting angry and stop. Breathe. You give up trying to force sleep and take your blanket to the rooftop, sit out there alone. The sky is a thick black but the moon and stars shine fiercely. The darkness brings its own light.
★
In the morning, you walk Tommo to the campervan. He opens his rucksack before loading it and passes you a brown paper bag.
‘Something small,’ he says.
You unwrap it. A sketchpad.
‘You can do your drawings in it,’ he says. ‘And I want you to have these. Me mam posted them over to me but I never ate them. Hard and all as that is to believe, I’m just more a salt’n’vinegar man.’ He rustles through the rucksack again and pulls out a six pack of cheese and onion crisps.
You squeal. ‘You serious?’
‘Yep. I’m going back to the land of Tayto.’
You give him a hug and your eyes get damp. ‘You know, Tommo, I hated goodbyes so much before now. Thought they meant the end of something. But they kinda make something whole. Complete.’