Bahhhzzing.
In slow moh-shahn.
Hip-no-tah-zing-meee, yeah.
Lyrics. Mental note.
Noted.
I meet Kimi in the corridor by her locker. She’s sitting against the wall, legs spread, with her schoolbag between her knees. She’s the only one in here, but she raises her hand to get my attention as if amongst a large crowd.
“Hey.” I lean my back against the wall and slide my body down into a sitting position with a thud.
“You alright?” Kimi has one eye closed.
I nod and rub my forehead. “I guess.” I’m getting a bit of a headache.
Kimi lifts her T-shirt and points to her scar. All dramatic-like.
“ This is why we’ve gotta screw this guy over.”
And she’s just showing me now? I don’t get it. This whole strategic let-things-out-one-bit-at-a-time is getting on my nerves. What’s the point? She fishing me out? I shuffle my arse backwards a bit to get a better view. Seeing the scar up close, I can tell that the wound must have been pretty deep.
“Shit. That looks painful,” I say.
“It was. And I couldn’t go to hospital because I—look, that doesn’t matter. It’s not important. Anyway, I survived. But now he’s gotta pay. And that’s where you come in. Okay?”
I frown and inspect my nails, thinking that what Kimi just said sounded way practiced and melodramatic. I want to know where this shit is going. What kind of person does she think I am? I’m not gonna go and stab some dude because he stabbed her. But I guess I shouldn’t push it until I’m clear about what she wants. And what’s with the acting all of a sudden? I used to think first impressions counted. Obviously not. Kimi is not the reserved “mysterious” cool chick I always thought she was. She’s … well, I don’t know what she is yet. I suppose that does make her mysterious. But, you know, not in an intriguing way. Much. I’m sorta getting the feeling that she’s as desperate for a friend as I am. So I’m game. I’ll let this ride out and see what happens.
“Are you gonna tell me who the guy is?” I say. I tilt my head to the side and notice another scar behind Kimi’s ear running along her hairline. It’s long and thin and clean.
Cosmetic? Corrective?
“Can’t,” she says, stretching her arms to her toes, and doing some sort of yoga position.
“How come?”
Kimi sits upright and glares at me as if I’m asking the most ridiculous question ever.
“I think I have the right to know who I’m gonna screw over.” I don’t mean to snap. It just comes out that way.
“You will,” Kimi snaps back. “Eventually. But right now we should just focus on getting you in shape.”
The comment stings. What? Is she my personal trainer now?
“Why can’t you do this on your own?”
“Are you kidding?” Kimi shrieks, then resorts to a half-whisper. “The guy would kill me. He’s too strong.”
“What exactly do you need me to do? Why can’t you just be honest with me?”
Kimi tsks. “I told you I’d tell you soon. I’ve just gotta figure out a few things. And I need to know you’re on my side first. I can’t do this on my own. And I can’t afford for you to turn on me. Is that honest enough?”
I hardly know you, I think. Kimi stares at me, expectant, eyes like an owl.
“Well? Are you on my side?”
This is all too weird. Here we are, sitting in a typical high school corridor, in a typical Melbourne town, living our typical inner-city suburban lives, and all of a sudden we’re characters in Underbelly? I mean, come on. Get real!
I grit my teeth in frustration. She found my soft spot and pounced. Typical of me to think she was just trying to help. Everyone has an agenda, I guess. Why I thought she was an exception is beyond me. And why did she choose the fat girl? There has to be a reason other than the fact we’re both outcasts, doesn’t there?
I guess I’ve been fooled now, and none of that matters anymore. What’s important is to take advantage of the free speed and lose weight. If Mum sees me like this, there’s no telling what fitness regime she is going to force on me this time. It was hard enough getting over the last one. She had me doing cardio for four hours a day, and I ended up in hospital with heart palpitations. At sixteen, man!
Let’s face it. There’s nothing stopping me from pulling out of Kimi’s plan once I’ve got my weight under control. Right? And I don’t even need to lose it all. Just enough for me to convince my mother that I don’t need any help. And if Kimi wants to use me, then I’m gonna use her.
Yeah.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I’m on your side.”
Chapter 21
Mick: Over me dead fuckin’ body.
“You fucking sold ’em yet, shit-fer-brains?”
I barely twitch me head to the right as the cunt in the fluoro-green cap and thin greying goatee holds a fuckin’ switchblade to me neck. His breath smells like vomit and cat food.
“No? Was that a fucking no?”
I whisper “yes” through me gritted teeth, tryin’ not to move me jaw so the knife don’t poke into me skin.
“You’ve got a month. He said if you haven’t exchanged ’em for the coke in a month, there are no second chances. But you know what I can’t fucking believe, mate?”
I shake me head, take quick breaths through the corner of me mouth, and let ’em out me nose. He’s got me locked in his arms, holding me from behind. I can feel his gun stickin’ in the crack in me arse, and it makes me want to spit phelgm in his fuckin’ face for making me picture the sick cunt butt-fuckin’ me in the alley.
“I can’t for the life of me,” he says, drawing out the word life, as if tryin’ to point out that he has one and I don’t, “figure out why he’s given you such a long grace period. But I swear, if you do take longer than a month, you know whaddit means, don’t you, faggot-shit?”
I close me eyes. I nod. But I swear to fuckin’ God, if he lays a fuckin’ piss-stinkin’ finger on ’er, I won’t fuckin’ hold back. I’ll kill ’im meself. That’s a fuckin’ promise.
Bile rises in me throat when he spins me round ’n’ breathes straight into me face. I wanna dry-retch, but I force it down. I can’t let this scum-wanker-cunt think he’s got a hold over me emotions. I can’t let him know I’m actually shittin’ big black motherfuckin’ bricks right now. Me own dad. Me dad is doing this shit to me. Because he knows how much I love me mum. How much I would do anything to save ’er.
The guy cackles and shows his pointy white teeth with two or three gold ones stuck in there. It sounds like he’s runnin’ his tonsils over a cheese grater.
“Good,” he says, and pushes me backwards. I lose me balance and fall on me arse, whack me head, and pierce me right hand on a rusty nail that’s pokin’ through a concrete crack. He laughs again, steps a bit further back, and points the switchblade at me from a distance, as if it were a part of his finger.
“One month. I’m not fucking kidding you.”
I nod, over and over, gasping for breath through me effort not to cry.
I watch as the guy turns left out of the laneway, only two blocks from me house. He must be bullshittin’ me. It’s gotta be a test or somethin’.
There’s no way me dad would whack me mum. Why now? After all the chances he had of doing it, and gettin’ away clean.
I sit up and run me fingers along me neck, to make sure there’s no blood. Me heartbeat slows down to somethin’ a bit more normal.
Me neck’s not cut.
But if I’m not careful, Mum’s’ll be.
Chapter 22
Sonia: Somewhere over the rainbow.
It is seven a.m. and everyone’s mailboxes are decorated with dew. When I was a child, I liked to think the dew meant fairies had been out to play during the night. Especially when the sun shone through dispersive prisms of condensation, creating a field of colour across my front lawn. It was the rainbow that first got me interested in mathematics and physics, and its ever-elusiv
e pot of gold. It didn’t take long for me to rationalize that the pot of gold was simply the bait to enrich my knowledge.
I hold my ear against my front door, whispering for it to be kind to me today. I am short on time to get ready for school, as I overslept at Nash’s house.
A sparrow chirps from the window ledge, as if to tell me the coast is clear, and flutters away.
Quiet. Thank God.
As I twist the key in the front door, I realize Mick forgot to lock it again.
For fuck’s sake! I swallow, take a deep breath, and remind myself to stop saying that word. Even when it is only inside my head.
Last time Mick forgot to lock the door, our entire entertainment system was stolen. Along with my iMac, which I had just bought the same week. Since then I have resorted to using my old PC, and failing to collect Mick’s weekly monetary contribution for a new computer like he promised. I didn’t really expect him to pay me. But the possibility sustained my sanity. He needs focus—some constituent of responsibility. Because God knows his father never taught him more than “be faithful to your brothers.”
I open the door, and my heart sinks at the scattered papers all over the floor.
God no. Not again.
I put my bag down and close the door behind me, making sure to be as quiet as possible. Just in case Mick’s still here. I cannot bear to face him this morning. Every expression, every wince, every … smile, reminds me of Ibrahim. There’s no escaping him no matter how much I try. I look around for something other than my stashed pistol to use as a weapon. Nothing. Not even a nail file. The curtain in the lounge room waves about in the breeze.
He’s been gone all night? Excellent. Thieves are going to think we’re inviting them in!
I sigh and roll my shoulders to try to relax, and notice there is a huge puddle of water on the floor below the windowsill.
I close the window and curtains, drop my belongings on the couch, strip to my underwear as I walk back into the hall, throw my dirty clothes through my bedroom door on the way by, and yank the tea towel with the Periodic Table on it off the kitchen door handle. And … what? The kitchen is clean?
I stare at the shiny sink, polished floor, empty dishwasher, while holding the tea towel in the air. A shiver travels down my spine, and I sneeze. It echoes through the whole house, followed by uncertain calm. Goose bumps form all over my naked limbs.
I blink. I must be imagining this. This is not the work of Mick. It cannot be. If it is, is it a sign of progress?
I swivel around on my heel and head back to the lounge room to mop up the water. I kneel on the floor. My knobbly knees dig into the floorboards like chicken bones. I am reminded of scrubbing at the bloodstain on the back porch and the satisfaction I had felt at that moment.
Once I’ve mopped up all the water, I collect the papers that have flown about the house. Some are supermarket receipts; some are empty envelopes, sealed envelopes, bills, junk mail from Safeway and David Jones. Another blank postcard from Ibrahim. This time from Istanbul. My husband’s way of letting me know he’s still alive. I feel sick to the stomach every time I receive one. Not because I worry about him. Because he knows I still care. He knows his postcards remind me of our past. He thinks this will bring me back to him. It will not. I have promised myself—and my son—to ignore the temptation.
I single out Mick’s offshore bank statement. He blackmailed some banker into opening it for him. Mick apparently had saved him from being busted by the police after handing cash to a hooker. It is who you know, is it not? And of course, there is the whole “be faithful to your brothers.” And we know many “brothers.”
I stare at the envelope. Thumb already lodged under its corner, ready to rip it open.
Should I?
I do. And I am not at all surprised at the amount of money he has. I was hoping to be surprised at him not having any money.
Thirty thousand dollars. At seventeen. With no job. And terrible at maths.
The time has come to call him out on it. It is the only way I am going to fix our relationship. If he knows I know what he is doing, maybe he will have more respect for me. And if I confront him about it, he’ll admit it. Because he cannot lie. He can only hide. He is absolutely fine as long as no one asks him about anything. So I will insist that he promise to come clean, return the money to whomever it came from, or I turn him in to the police. Risky, but worth a shot—as long as Ibrahim has nothing to do with it.
Mick’s bedroom door is closed. I knock, hold my breath. Just in case. No answer. I twist the silver skull-handle and open the door. A whiff of stale vodka and weed engulf me. I sniff. Cheap sex. And teeny-bopper perfume. My stomach and throat constrict.
Dirty clothes are sprawled all over the floor and bed. Racy panties hang from the light fixture and picture frame hooks. Empty coke bottles, a smashed white saucer, bongs, threads of tobacco on the windowpane that look like furry caterpillars.
I haven’t stepped foot in this room for two years. But I cannot play the ignorant and naive mother any longer. Even if I have been doing it for only a short amount of time. If I continue in this fashion, Mick will end up in prison, or worse—following in his father’s footsteps.
Mick’s wardrobe is open. One side of it is completely empty, bar the one hundred or so manipulated wire coat hangers he has drilled into the wood to create something that looks like a torture chamber. A seccade, his Muslim prayer mat, is rolled up in the corner. Does he pray for forgiveness? Did Ibrahim teach him that, too, after I asked him specifically to leave our religion out of his upbringing? My stomach sinks. This is our son. And we made him like this.
I take a deep breath. I am in here now, and might as well start looking for something. But is there even anything to find? If his father taught him well, probably not. To be honest, the easiest thing to assume right now would be that he is dealing drugs. But that is stereotypical, and if there is anything I am more certain of, it is that Mick cannot stand stereotypical. He has always got to go against the grain. How do I know? I have seen the way he looks at Mia. In the quiet moments in class, when no one is watching. He has a soft spot for her. I know it. I recognize that look. It is straight from Ibrahim’s face when we were in high school. It must be in our family’s blood. We are attracted to different.
I notice an open cardboard box squeezed between his dresser and the wall. On top is the dark-blue jumper my mother knitted for him when he started high school. I smile, lift it out of the box, and hold it in front of me. The grey light from the window shines through the fabric. I bring the jumper to my nose and sniff.
I miss you.
I imagine it still smells like my mother.
Anise.
I decide to keep it. A token of my son’s innocence, a memory of my mother. I close my eyes and whisper, “May Allah bless her soul and make her grave a garden of paradise,” out of respect to my parents.
I look at the box again and notice that the whole thing is full of Mick’s woollen jumpers. Is he giving them to the Salvation Army? Is he finally getting rid of all his excess junk?
I rummage through the box, to see what he is getting rid of, but as I push some fabric to the side, I hear a heavy muffled thud. So I pull out a couple more jumpers and there are more thuds. They get louder and louder the more jumpers I pull from the box.
I toss the pile of jumpers onto the bed, and reach into the box to pick up one of a dozen or so T-shaped black leather cases. Its weight is quite soothing in my hand, like a stress ball.
I unclip the press stud at the center of the T, hands trembling, heart pulsing in my ears, and slip it from its case. I am pretty sure I know what it is. But I am hoping I’m wrong.
But I’m not. Push daggers. And they are all engraved with a capital I.
I smile … until I realize I shouldn’t.
Chapter 23
Mia: Maybe he isn’t a dickhead after all.
I’m supposed to be in Theatre Studies. But I so can’t see myself performing that stupid Joan
of Arc scenario when I feel so rat shit. I lean against the newly decorated mosaic wall of the auditorium and smoke a ciggie, breathing in slow, long, and hard, the velvety smoke caressing the inside of my throat like a tongue.
I stare across the empty football field at the cluster of old red brick buildings—the English wing—and wonder why Psychology and Advanced Sciences get the new building when English is a compulsory subject. Everybody’s got an agenda. Even the people that aren’t meant to.
The waist of my jeans digs into my stomach as I bend down to pick up a smooth black oval rock; my dry lips crack as I wince, and my feet burn as gravel scratches the soles of my black baby doll flats.
I slip the rock into my schoolbag. I’ll keep it. Maybe I can do something with it in Metalwork. A pendant for Dad maybe. It would be a nice gesture. And I should butter him up a bit anyway, prevent him from finding out about the pills.
The pills. ThePills.
I’ve never done drugs before. What if I get hooked? Caught? What if I lose heaps of weight, but then keep losing it and turn into a freaky anorexic? Ugh. I’ve seen what that shitty disease does to people. They look like zombies.
Man. Even grosser.
I take another heavy drag of my ciggie, suck my cheeks in as much as possible, and imagine gorgeous cheekbones appearing. But I breathe in too deep and gag and spit yellow foam onto the concrete. As it splatters onto my shoe, someone around the corner of the building kicks something, and yells, “Cunt! Fuckin’ stupid fuckin’ cunt!”
I drop my cigarette on the ground and with a quick press, twist, and jerk of my heel, I butt it out and lob it under a bench.
There’s more swearing, more kicking, more groaning, and I creep to the corner of the building to see what’s going on.
It’s Mick. Having a tantrum. As usual.
Dickhead.
I roll my eyes and spin around to grab my bag to leave. I can’t deal with his shit again. He’s a freaking psycho. But just as I hook my arm into a strap, Mick grabs it and yanks me around to face him.
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