Into My Arms

by Kylie Ladd

  Zia leaned over the washing basket while he blinked back the tears that stung his eyes. It wouldn’t do for his father or Farid to come out and see him crying. Farid would only cry too, and his father would be angry. We need to look forward, not back, he was always exhorting his wife. This is our country now. But his mother didn’t believe it, Zia could tell. How could she, when Iman and Habib were still living somewhere on the other side of the world?

  Or at least she hoped they were. They all did. Zia knew the story now; knew it as well as that fairytale about the pomegranates and the three sons. The family had had to leave Iran quickly. Why, he wasn’t sure, but it was something to do with some papers and religion and his father. There had been frantic conversations that stopped as soon as Zia came into the room; there had been his mother’s tears and the worried line etched between his uncle’s eyes. One night, still sharp in his memory, there had been such a loud knock at their door that it had woken him from his sleep. Zia had leapt out of bed and peered into the hallway, but was promptly ordered by his parents to return to his room and not come out again. He had lain in bed much as his mother did now, eyes open in the darkness, the staccato tread of unfamiliar footsteps echoing throughout the house. Later, when they had gone, his father came into his room and told him not to worry, that it had all been a mistake. Yet the next afternoon when he returned from school, his mother had placed a plate of figs and cheese in front of him and announced that they were moving to Australia.

  Over dinner he found out more. That they would leave within the week, as soon as they could and apply for refugee status on arrival. Iman and Habib would remain behind, but only temporarily. It was too expensive, Zia’s father explained, for all six of them to fly so far at once. Iman and Habib would live with Zia’s uncle and his family. Iman had already left school, and Habib would do so shortly. They could defer their university studies and find work, which would ease the burden on their uncle’s household; maybe they could even help fund their own airfares once the rest of the family had settled in Australia. It would just be for a short time.

  Only it wasn’t. That had been almost three years ago, and there was still no sign of Iman or Habib. They had written faithfully for the first year, as had Zia’s uncle. Then the letters had petered out, finally stopping altogether. Months went by with no news, until one day a card had arrived from another member of the family, asking someone to ring him. Zia’s father took the number to their caseworker, a young girl fresh from a social work degree, who arranged a phone card and guided him through the international codes. They hadn’t seen her much lately, Zia reflected, reaching for the litter of socks at the bottom of the washing basket. She had helped them with their application for a visa, but had warned it would be a long wait. He supposed there wasn’t much else she could do until it either came through or was refused.

  With the girl’s assistance, Zia’s father had made the call back to Iran, but the distant cousin that he spoke with was curt, guarded. Zia’s uncle had been harassed, he reported. There had been more visits in the middle of the night; there had been veiled threats. Zia did not know if his older brothers had been told why their father had had to leave the country, but no doubt feeling responsible for this fresh danger and wishing to protect their uncle and his family they had in turn fled themselves. No one knew that they were planning to leave, or where they had gone. The cousin said that Zia’s uncle was too afraid to make contact with his brother in case it was somehow traced, but that he would find a way to let him know when and if he received any news of his sons.

  More months of silence, then another terse postcard. This time Zia’s father managed to dial the numbers himself, clutching the phone to his ear as he waited for someone half a world away to pick up. Zia and Farid had been banished to their bedroom for the duration of the call, but they knew what was going on. Zia did, at least. Farid, who was four years younger, lay on his stomach and pushed two battered Matchbox cars through the matted carpet, occasionally crashing them violently into one another. Zia wondered if Farid even remembered Iman and Habib, or had come to believe that their abridged family was complete, whole in the form it held now.

  It was Zia’s mother who had come to gather them onto her lap after his father had hung up. Iman and Habib had travelled to Turkey, she told them. They had followed the usual routes through the mountains to cross the border, then surrendered themselves to the UN authorities and asked for refugee status. ‘They probably hoped that that way they would eventually be sent to Australia,’ she explained to her two younger sons, though Farid, who didn’t understand, was fidgeting for his cars. But their request for asylum had been denied, and for some reason the pair had split up. Habib, who had sent word, was headed for Syria, which was known to accept refugees. Nobody knew where Iman was.

  Now Zia hoisted the empty basket onto his hip and began to climb the stairs leading from the courtyard. That had been nine months ago, and since then there had been no further information, or even a postcard. Though his mother had originally tried hard to adapt to Australia, she now appeared to have given up. The smattering of English she had learned faded from her speech, and she no longer socialised with the other Iranian women in their housing commission block. Missing, Zia thought. Strange how in this new and unwieldy language the word meant two things. Iman and Habib were missing; his mother was missing them. At least, he imagined that was why she spent so much time in bed. He wondered if she slept at night with all that lying down during the day.

  Back inside, the flat was dark and cold. Zia turned on some lights and looked at the clock. There wasn’t enough time to start his homework before cooking dinner. Maybe he could do it afterwards, he told himself, though he doubted it once he had cleaned up the kitchen and helped his father get Farid ready for bed it would be too late. He was supposed to hear Farid’s reading too, or the boy would end up having to repeat a class, as Zia had done. The thought of all the tasks ahead exhausted him. Zia was always tired these days. It was either his own homework or Farid’s reader, he thought, and he knew which one he would choose. Mr Cunningham would be disappointed when Zia didn’t hand in his maths sheets tomorrow, but he would rather let down his teacher than his father.

  The kettle was boiling as Zia finished chopping the vegetables and arranging them in the pan. He turned it off, then poured the water into the saucepan waiting on the stove. He didn’t think this was how his mother cooked rice, but as she’d never given him any instructions it would have to do. Next he poured some oil over the vegetables, prodding at them with a wooden spoon so they didn’t stick to the pan, watching the patterns they made as they slid against each other. It reminded him of the art class that morning. Miss Holt had transferred their design for the mosaic from the contour drawing onto some villaboard, and the class had finally begun to lay tiles. She’d told them to begin with the main features, leaving the background until later because it was easier to adjust, and had assigned Zia’s group the trio of birds flying out of the frame. He’d enjoyed the work, though it had been more complicated than he’d expected. First they’d selected the shades, at least three for each colour, then started fitting the tiles together within the design. Zia had thought they would just glue them on as they were, but Miss Holt had said no, that they needed to find a way to make each vibrant square align with its neighbours in order to minimise the spaces between them, to create the impression of something unified and whole.

  The results had been striking, though somewhat lumpy. Miss Holt had told them not to worry, that that would improve once the grouting was done, but Zia wasn’t convinced. In the pictures of the mosque in Shiraz the tiles nestled up against each other seamlessly, their surface as smooth and glossy as water. How had they done that? He put the spoon in the pot, turned the heat down under the vegetables and went out into the lounge to study the photograph. The colours and patterns astonished him anew. Turquoise, cyan, the bloodstain of vermillion. He wished he could remember seeing it. He wished his family had never left Shiraz.
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  There was a loud hiss from the kitchen, and Zia ran back to find the rice boiling over. Instantly he panicked. If the rice was ruined he would have to start again, and then dinner would be late, his evening obligations even further extended. Without thinking, he grabbed the handle of the pot, meaning to lift it off the hob, but it was too hot, too heavy, and he dropped it instead, splashing boiling water down his arms. Even as he began to scream he wondered if the sound would be enough to bring his mother from her bed.

  10

  She never said his name anymore. That was it, Hamish thought as he stood at the central switchboard, turning off the gym lights. That was what was bothering him. Not at work, not when they were together at his flat or walking Jess, not even in bed. He stopped what he was doing, trying to think of examples to prove himself wrong. The bed part particularly worried him. Skye had never been given to restraint, and the first few times they’d slept together he’d almost been tempted to put his hand across her mouth to mute her. His previous girlfriends had sighed and murmured; Skye moaned and occasionally screamed. It had been disconcerting to begin with, but he’d grown to enjoy it. What man wouldn’t? Her gasps against his neck, the way she told him what she liked and what she wanted, that final thrilling yelp—HamishHamishHamish—as her body writhed and bucked beneath his.

  Hamish felt himself growing hard as he stood in the gloom, remembering her cries, but when was the last time he’d heard them? They were still having sex—plenty of it, actually, almost all initiated by her—but lately, it seemed, she’d gone quiet. Oh, she sighed and arched her back, she responded when he touched her, but she didn’t cry out his name. Two nights ago, when they’d last made love, she’d opened her eyes afterwards and momentarily seemed surprised to see him there. That was the other thing, Hamish thought. She never used to close her eyes.

  ‘Hey,’ said Skye, emerging from the change rooms with Vanessa. ‘Almost finished? Is there anything you want us to do?’

  ‘No, thanks, as long as you’ve packed your equipment away,’ he replied.

  ‘Of course we have,’ Skye said. ‘Why do you always ask?’

  Hamish shrugged. Both women were experienced teachers and knew what was expected of them, but closing the gym was his responsibility. It never hurt to check.

  ‘I’ve just got to get my bag from behind the front desk,’ Vanessa said, glancing at Skye. ‘Can you give me a minute?’

  ‘Sure. Take your time.’ Skye turned back to Hamish as Vanessa left. ‘I said I’d give her a lift home tonight. Her car’s in for a service.’

  ‘But you’ll come over afterwards, right?’

  She pushed one hand through her hair, slightly damp from the class she’d just taught. ‘Maybe not. I’m pretty tired, and I’d kill for a bath.’

  ‘You can have a shower at the flat, like you always do. And I bought dinner, because I thought you were coming over. It’s Monday night. You always come over on Monday night.’ Hamish knew he sounded petulant, but he couldn’t help it. That was their routine. Monday night, Skye’s late class, dinner at his place.

  She sighed, staring off into the empty weights room. The equipment hunkered in the darkness as if recovering from all it had been put through that day. ‘I just feel like a bath, OK?’ she snapped, then immediately apologised. ‘Sorry. I’m really tired. And look, you should study. You’ve got your final exams in a few weeks. You don’t need me distracting you.’

  ‘I like you distracting me,’ he said, lowering his voice as Vanessa returned. ‘And the study’s under control. I’m due a night off, anyway.’

  ‘I’ll call you later,’ said Skye, ending the conversation. She leaned across and kissed him briefly, then bent to pat Jess, seated at his feet. ‘Bye, girl. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Jess won’t mind. I’ll give her your dinner,’ Hamish retorted. Vanessa glanced back and forth between them.

  ‘Look, keep the dinner. I’ll come round tomorrow night,’ said Skye, a look of exasperation on her face. She kissed him again, as if to stop him responding, then turned and left with Vanessa. Hamish stared after them, frustrated. ‘Make it Wednesday,’ he called out. He had uni on Tuesday nights. She knew that. She used to know that.

  11

  It wasn’t anything Hamish had done, Skye thought as she sat in her car on Wednesday night, still too shaky to drive. It would be easier if he had—if he’d hit her or belittled her, or simply been lousy in bed. But from the moment they met, Hamish had seemed perfect. He was fit, he was active, he respected her opinion and cooked her dinner, he made her laugh and made sure she came. He was almost too good to be true. Maybe that was it, she told herself, casting around for something to hang her decision on. Maybe she needed someone more flawed, more like herself. Maybe he intimidated her.

  She sighed and put the key in the ignition, then sat back again. That was nonsense. Hamish didn’t intimidate her. None of this made sense—what she’d just done, or the stupid ways she was trying to explain it to herself. The truth was that she just didn’t want to be with him anymore. Two and a bit years they’d had together, happy years, but then this, out of nowhere. Sure, Hamish was far more conservative than her, he was older, a little stuck in his ways, and sometimes he irritated her. But everyone got irritated, didn’t they? It was par for the course. It was to be expected. The bottom line was that he was a good man, and he was good for her, or so Nell had said. She hadn’t disagreed. She loved him, and she’d planned to say yes if he proposed.

  She’d imagined it once or twice, the proposal. It wouldn’t be outlandish—no skywriting or hot air balloons for Hamish—but he would have done it well. A good restaurant, an expensive solitaire; he might even have sought Charlie’s blessing first, had her father still been alive. Skye shook her head. Why was she picturing such things? No point imagining how Hamish might have asked her to marry him when she’d just left him in tears after breaking it off.

  The light snapped on over Hamish’s porch. Skye started and reached again for her keys, scared he was coming out after her. Hamish wasn’t a violent man, but she’d never seen him as angry as he’d been with her tonight. It was her fault. Her fault for not getting straight to the point. Her fault for going along with dinner and a walk as if nothing was wrong, then finally, at the time they would normally have started getting ready for bed, blurting out that she was leaving. At first he’d assumed she meant leaving his house, returning to Nell’s, and even that had upset him. When she’d explained that she meant leaving for good, leaving him, leaving them, tears had sprung to his eyes and he asked Why? Why?, over and over. The worst part was not being able to give him a reason.

  She hadn’t expected him to cry. Men rarely did. Arran had remained dry-eyed through Charlie’s death and funeral; was stoic to the point of mutism even when Mark had dumped him just a month or so after that. Or so Skye had thought, but then she hadn’t seen the dumping, had she? Maybe Arran had broken down just like Hamish had; maybe he’d begged and pleaded and wept. Maybe Mark had turned and fled just as she’d done, horrified by the damage she’d wrought but with no desire to fix it. Her heart contracted in sympathy—for Arran, though, not Hamish. Everything she felt for him had been numbed. Turned off, somehow. Extinguished.

  He stood on the porch, not moving, looking at her car. In the gloom she was unable to see his face, and doubted that he could see hers. For a few minutes they remained like that, blindly staring at each other, until Skye turned the key in the ignition and pulled out from the kerb. Just then she noticed Jess amble from the house and sit beside Hamish, who automatically reached down to fondle her ears. Jess, she thought, suddenly panicky. She hadn’t considered Jess. She hadn’t considered anything really, just acted on instinct and some bizarre basal want. But it was too late now to think about Jess.

  Ben’s unit was dark, and there was no answer when Skye knocked on the door. She looked at her watch, squinting to read it in the glow of a streetlight. It was almost midnight. Damn. He was probably asleep, or maybe even out. She knew
she should go home, think about this properly in the morning. For a moment she hesitated, imagined going to bed or talking it through with Nell, then raised her hand again and began pounding at the door. She didn’t want to think about it. She needed this sorted out now. The cheap timber shuddered beneath her fists, and lights came on in adjoining flats. Skye didn’t care. She kept on hammering until there was a voice behind the wood, telling her to hold on, and the satisfying click of a deadlock.

  Ben opened the door, saw who it was and started to close it again. ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ he muttered. ‘Go away, Skye. Go home.’

  ‘Wait!’ she cried, pushing herself into the gap. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘No you don’t. You need to go home,’ he repeated.

  ‘I’ve left Hamish. I want you.’

  He stared at her. ‘When?’

  ‘Just now. I’ve come straight over. You can ring him if you don’t believe me.’

  Ben shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’m not going to ring him. What on earth would I say? “Hello, Hamish, I have your fiancée on my doorstep”?’

  ‘Not fiancée,’ Skye corrected him. ‘Girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend now.’ He looked tired, she thought, tired and drawn, as if he’d hardly slept in the two weeks since he last threw her out of his flat. ‘Sorry,’ she added belatedly. ‘Did I wake you up?’

  ‘Me and most of my neighbours,’ said Ben. ‘Couldn’t this have waited?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘You’ve been avoiding me at school.

  He shrugged, not denying it. ‘What was the point?’

  ‘But you wanted to talk to me, didn’t you?’ she persisted. ‘You wanted to see me.’ Her heart was beating so furiously she was scared it would escape her chest, leap somehow into the space between them.