He rifled on the floor, located a file, then scratched some writing on a page.
‘Here.’ He folded the sheet and handed it to me. ‘This is the name of the social worker and where to find her. See her tomorrow, you understand? I don’t have time for you. You’re her problem.’
It was almost dusk when I came out onto the street. I walked through the crowds waiting to catch their buses and trams back to their suburban houses and families. I walked past the turnoff to my own house, right to the end of the long street then turned and walked all the way back again. The footpaths were emptier now. I continued to walk, aimlessly, and found myself across the street from the milk bar frequented by the deaf and dumb people who had helped me celebrate my birthday just a few weeks earlier. Some of them were already at the tables, silently joking and laughing amongst themselves. I watched them through the window from across the street for a long time, then turned to go back to the boarding house.
I walked down roads and lanes I hadn’t noticed before, always in the general direction of home. In an otherwise closed street, one door stood open, cracked a little, with light spilling out. A wooden sign screwed to the building told me it was a church, a Catholic church. I stood outside considering whether I could find help in there. The wind had blown up and I was very cold.
I slipped in through the door. A priest was in the front of the church, gathering up books and stacking them in a pile on one of the pews. I didn’t really notice his face, only his black cassock.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked when he noticed me standing in the back. ‘Do you want something?’
‘Father,’ I answered, but I didn’t know how to go further. He walked towards me and I thought he looked unfriendly, but he was a man of God and I was a despairing person.
‘Father, I was attacked. I was beaten up by men and raped. I don’t know what to do.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want? Money?’
‘No, Father.’ I was shocked by his response.
‘Well, get out of here and come back when you’re ready to tell the truth! Come back when you’re ready to confess.’ He put his hands in the slits of his cassock and shook the long black garment at me, shooing me away as one might shoo a dog. I turned on my heels and left.
When I got home I lay down on my bed in the dark, fully dressed and still wearing my jacket, and stared up at the ceiling. When my room-mate came in, she turned on the light and was startled to see me there.
I changed and put on my pyjamas, to make her feel more comfortable, and when we’d turned out the lights I lay there again staring up into the darkness. When she woke next morning I was still staring, and she asked me if I had been asleep. I said yes, but that I wasn’t feeling well and was taking the day off work. She dressed and left.
Apart from the few new scratches I’d received from falling on the stairs at work, all the swelling, abrasions and bruising had slowly disappeared from my body, leaving just a few scars. When I touched the bridge of my nose with my finger and thumb, I could hear a crunching sound, but I preferred to ignore it and pretend it wasn’t there. I had also experienced an increasing burning sensation around my private area, which I’d also decided to ignore.
Overnight, a plan had somehow hatched in my mind. The world and the problems I now faced seemed so huge and without any possibility of resolution, and my life so worthless, that any person, any lout on the street, any priest in his church, any doctor in his office, could see and judge my worthlessness and treat me accordingly. If this was my reality, I didn’t want to deal with it. I wanted to go to sleep and never have to wake up. That became my plan.
With everyone at work, the boarding house was quiet and peaceful. I took out my pen and writing pad and wrote a letter to Mum which ran to several pages. In it I sketched what had happened to me, implied rather than stated what I intended to do, and told her not to blame herself for anything that had or was about to happen. Writing the letter took a long time because I kept being overwhelmed with tears of grief, but I remained resolute.
Then, for the first time since I’d been in that house, I took a bath instead of a shower. Sitting in the warm water was an irritation to me, causing my private region to burn very fiercely, and for the first time also I decided to inspect myself there to discover the cause of this pain. I was appalled, disgusted and horrified to find small, almost clear, lice burrowing into my skin to get away from the soap and water. Crabs! I had heard of them in some revolting joke which Leila had told me years ago, but I’d never seen them, never heard anyone else mention them, and probably hadn’t really believed something so disgusting could exist. I crawled out of the bath and over to the toilet to dry retch.
I returned to my room to get the razor I used to shave my legs, then completely shaved off all my pubic hair. It wasn’t enough, the creatures clung to my bare skin, burrowing away into my pores. I found a bottle of kerosene under the sink in the kitchen and poured a little on myself to see if that killed them. It didn’t. I put two more pennies into the gas meter which supplied hot water in the bathroom, and turned the water to a dribble so that it would be boiling when it came out of the tap. I seared my pubic area with the steaming water, letting it run on me until I passed out.
I dressed loosely and walked painfully to the nearest stores, looking for a chemist shop. On the way, I posted the letter to Mum. The assistant in the chemist shop became suspicious of me, she seemed to think I was shop-lifting, as I picked up various bottles to read their poison content. When I’d selected something, she took the money from me sourly. From the little knowledge I had gained about pharmaceuticals while working in the hospital, I knew I was unlikely to be able to purchase any over-the-counter medication that would do the job. Instead, I’d have to ingest a large quantity of a range of products, and it wouldn’t be wise to try to buy them all at the one time or at the one shop.
I decided to take home the bottle I’d bought before going to another chemist, in case I was suspected of shop-lifting there too, and searched. The walk home was again painful. I looked at myself when I arrived and saw that large blisters had formed over the scalded area.
‘Well,’ I thought, ‘Mum will be terribly embarrassed if they find me like this and have it in the report when she has to bury me.’ At least the crabs had gone. I put Vaseline on myself to hasten the healing, and decided there was no rush to complete the task as my problems would still be there the next day, and the next, and even the day after that. Nothing was going to change for the better, things could only get worse.
Once I’d come up with the solution and my resolve was firmly fixed in my mind, I felt better. I was able to go out into the kitchen in my dressing gown when the other girls came home from work, heat myself some baked beans and put them on toast, and even eat them as if nothing was wrong apart from a mild passing flu.
The next day I called at two other chemist shops, and added my pill purchases to my store. I also returned a book I’d promised to bring back to the book exchange, and washed out my clothes so that nothing would be left for anyone to have to clean once I’d gone.
That evening, my room-mate was excited, she had a date for the following night, and would be late home or, if things worked out, she might not be home at all. Perfect, I thought, as I had been worried about the timing. I had only one more day, Friday, during which I’d collect more pills, and sit around until she’d left. I was pleased at how smoothly the plan had come together, how easily it had been to assemble and prepare everything, and now an opportunity had been tossed right into my lap.
I was also pleased that by the next morning the most severe signs of the scalding had subsided. The day was pleasant and I even sat in the sun in the park for a while. It was to be my last day, and in a perverse way, I wanted to enjoy it. Things, I thought, can only get worse from now on, so for me, this is as good as it’s going to ever be.
That night I had a light supper, sitting in the kitchen with a few of the other girls while my room-mate bathed, dresse
d and perfumed herself for her date. Then she came into the kitchen to be admired and to sit with us until a knock came at the front door. I took a jug of water and a glass and, saying I was going to read, retired to our room.
I could only take a little sip with each round of pills. I didn’t want to make myself sick by overloading my stomach with water. I mixed the pills up so I was taking one of each with every drink. When I’d got through what I thought was enough, I dressed and lay down on my bed and closed my eyes to wait.
Through a fog I thought I heard someone tapping on the door. Then strange people were standing around me. Later, a strong hand kept my head turned sideways and for a moment I thought I was in a car.
I woke up in a hospital bed but refused to open my eyes. I knew I was awake because I could hear voices, and I knew I was in a hospital because of the feel of the bed and the antiseptic smell. I’d spent so much time in hospitals already during my life that I could identify them even with my eyes closed.
I felt myself beginning to weep. I was crying because I’d been unsuccessful, and the sorry tale of Leila’s many suicide attempts flooded into my mind. I hadn’t wanted to be like her, and now I was. A nurse held my hand. I slept.
When I woke up again I was alone in the room, which was some sort of surgery. My clothes were over the back of a chair beside the bunk and I jumped up, took off the white hospital gown and put them on. I walked out and saw no one in the corridor, no one in the foyer, and so I just kept walking until I was out in the street. I walked back to the boarding house.
There was an immediate hush when I came in. The other girls stared at me, but were afraid to ask me anything. I walked around and put the kettle on to make myself a cup of tea as if nothing had happened. The more normal I acted, the more normal they became. One of them told me the manager had gone away for the weekend and wouldn’t be back before Monday. I took my tea back into the room.
My room-mate came in and began to cry. She had come back to borrow a coat I had which she thought looked good and which I’d said she could wear whenever she wanted. When she saw me on my bed, she’d roused the other girls, and one of them had called an ambulance. I didn’t tell her what had transpired at the hospital, she just thought I’d been discharged. It pleased me to have her and the other girls believe that. I said I wouldn’t do it again, that I’d accidentally taken a few too many pills for my flu. She knew better from the wide assortment of bottles she’d found in my bag, but she wasn’t game to challenge me. I could see the edge of her fear in her eyes.
Well, what to do next? My problems haven’t been solved by that episode, I thought when she had gone, but I’ll have to proceed slowly now in order not to draw any more attention to myself, or people will start watching me too closely.
My lack of success and the awesome weight of my problems plunged me into depression, and I spent the next day focussed completely on not crying, not allowing a single thing I was feeling to break through on my surface. This enabled me to answer when I was spoken to, and to sit with my nose in a book even though no one, I hoped, realised I rarely turned the pages.
I spent Monday dodging the manager of the boarding house. It was the day she changed the sheets and generally inspected the rooms. I told her I was in the process of finding a new job, was going to the employment agency, and, instead, I went and sat in the park. I was waiting for another wave of inspiration to hit me. When I lay in bed at night it was as if someone had switched off a light in my head; I fell into a long and dreamless sleep. The knowledge of the peace I’d experienced while sleeping lured me again towards making it permanent.
On Tuesday I was laying down again in my room when the manager knocked on the door. She said there were police outside and they wanted to see me. I thought it might have had something to do with my ambulance ride and the visit to the hospital on Friday night. Perhaps there was some law against walking out of the hospital before you were discharged.
Instead, they said they wanted to speak to me in their office. I was reluctant to get into the car with them because I didn’t know where I’d end up. They said I could help them with their inquiries. The manager looked distressed and urged me to go.
At the station, we went up to a room on the second floor. I sat in a chair, one of them stood and the other perched on the edge of a table. The room was empty, but for the table and a couple of plain wooden chairs. I noticed that the policemen were both fairly young. One carried a folder, and after he’d told me their names again, he pulled out—Oh, dear heavens—the letter I had written to my mother. I’d completely forgotten either writing or posting it, such was the state of my distress.
I was deeply unhappy about having to tell them the details of that terrible night. I had pushed it away, pressed it down until it had disappeared altogether, but it seemed that, first the doctor and now the police were trying to force the whole incident back into my mind.
They looked at me politely and attentively, and took notes while I spoke. They asked me to describe this and that, elaborate on one point or another, and after perhaps an hour they said they would take me home. When they left they said I would hear from them again. The manager came out to meet me, and from the look on her face I could tell that they had spoken to her earlier and that somehow she had picked up the gist of what was going down.
Over the next two days she kept assuring me that it wouldn’t matter if I fell behind in my rent. I received a letter from Mum, too, in which she said she had sent my letter, marked urgent, to the Chief of Police in the state. She enclosed a few pounds with which I was able to pay my rent, but the manager only took it under protest.
Three days later, two more detectives came to the house, and they also took me away to talk. We went to a different room this time. I told them the same things as I’d told the others. They had different questions, went over different points.
The next day, another detective came, alone. He was older than the previous four, middle aged, and instead of going to the police station, we drove around for a bit. Then he parked and we talked in his car. He had either read the reports of my earlier discussions or perhaps he had listened in somehow, because although I hadn’t spoken to him before, he was able to tell me a great deal of what had been said.
His questions were very precise, he knew exactly what he wanted to learn and this was no fishing expedition for him. At the end of the questions he said, ‘I want you to know I believe you. The other chaps you spoke to, they didn’t. But there’s something about what you’re saying that keeps ringing up ‘true’ on my buttons. I’ve been a detective longer than they’ve been in the force. To me, you ring true. I’d like you to trust me. I want to get some justice for you here.’
He also said that he’d be in touch with my mother, and asked me how I was faring for money. I told him that I’d been working at Firth’s, but that I hadn’t been back. He said he’d speak to them during the following week, and then take me around there to pick up my wages. It felt good to have someone else doing the thinking for me, because I was so exhausted from carrying everything all on my own.
The relief I felt at being believed at last was enormous. At the same time, I couldn’t summon up any trust to give him, because emotionally I had nothing left to give anyone. I resented anything and anyone with any part at all to play in this reality. I badly wanted him and everything else connected to this time just to disappear so that I could wake up and find my earlier life restored.
10
My relief at being believed was short lived. Instead of this feeling being positive, it gave the awful events which preceded it a reality in my mind that they did not have before. I’d been able to block everything out, find a new place to live, new job, and even sit in the sunshine with nothing to think about but luxuriating in the warmth of the winter days.
Now even the sun became my enemy. I hated to go out in daylight and I feared to go out at night. Mum wrote to me constantly, but she used her letters as a means to sermonise. I began just taking out t
he pound notes she included and stacking the letters, unread, in my suitcase. My own emotional load was too heavy, I couldn’t carry her grief and frustration as well, nor her attempts to direct the police inquiry from Townsville.
She wrote to the police asking them to send me home. The detective came around and discussed this with me. By now I was sleeping both day and night. Occasionally, when roused by sounds from the other lodgers, I would wake up and go out to get a hamburger or tins of baked beans and spaghetti. Whenever there was mail or anyone called, I had to be woken.
As he’d promised, the detective escorted me to Firth’s factory. He’d already spoken to the manager, and when we arrived the manager and many of the staff gave me looks of great pity. They’d drawn up my pay, with holidays and anything else they could think of to give me, and the manager said that if I felt I could handle the work, I’d be welcome to stay on for a while. I was already having trouble distinguishing night from day, so the very idea that I’d be able to arrive anywhere at a set time was a responsibility I couldn’t possibly have shouldered. I thanked him for his kindness and he asked the detective if he could be kept informed about my welfare. I didn’t hear the reply but suspected that it was ‘Sorry but no’. I was glad. Even the thought of people’s pity being spent on me was repulsive.
The peaceful blackout sleep I’d been enjoying changed. Although I spent long periods asleep without any thoughts in my mind, I began to have flashbacks and to be overcome by fits of fear and terror from which I’d wake suddenly, shaking and sweating. Then I’d sit for hours watching the shadows in the room, in case anything emerged from them.
The detective seemed to make it his business to visit regularly, and he often brought me food. Sometimes he had another policeman with him, but generally he came alone. He advised me that I should stay in Brisbane as they would need my identification of the suspects when they were caught. I didn’t believe they’d be caught, so it was no effort for me to agree. Besides, the energy required to contemplate the simple acts of packing or riding in the train was beyond me. I felt I was melting away, becoming smaller and smaller, draining into the earth. The few chores which I was still capable of, such as showering and changing my clothes, were all that were required of me until I, along with my insignificance, somehow disappeared completely.
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