Inside the Tiger

by Hayley Lawrence

  Whoops.

  ‘It was no big deal,’ I say. Tash and Eli think I don’t see them exchange a glance over my head. ‘Anyway, so long as the trip to Thailand is for a good cause and I’m in a group, my shitty Christmas might actually earn me a plane ticket.’

  That’s optimistic Bel. Pessimistic Bel says: In your dreams he’ll let you go.

  ‘So that just leaves you, Tash, and getting past your mum’s CFA worry radar.’

  ‘Am I meant to know what CFA is?’ Eli says.

  ‘Control Freaks Anonymous,’ Tash and I chant together.

  He laughs. ‘Right. Is this part of the Thailand deal – synchronised vocals?’

  Tash laughs nervously. ‘I can’t tell her about you, Eli. No offence.’ She grimaces. ‘A trip with a boy would definitely rule me out.’

  ‘That’s cool,’ he says.

  ‘Tash, did you get any Christmas money?’ I ask. ‘Dad gave me some, but it’s not enough so I’m saving up my allowance. I’ll live on prison rations if I have to.’

  Tash widens her eyes at me, but Eli doesn’t blink.

  ‘You’re gung-ho about this trip now, huh?’ he says. There’s that hint of reservation in his tone again.

  Tash rolls her eyes. ‘Once she makes up her mind about something …’

  ‘There’s plenty of time, though,’ Eli says. ‘Why rush?’

  Tash is silent. I know what she’s thinking. My connection with Micah is nothing more than a fantasy I’ve built in my head. But she’s wrong. And now I’m worried that something isn’t right with Micah. He wouldn’t stop writing, just like that.

  ‘How do you know there’s plenty of time?’ I say. ‘Do you really know you’re going to be here this time next year? Do any of us? People are plucked off the earth every day, ready or not. People die –’

  Eli holds up his hands in surrender. ‘You name the day. We’ll go.’

  And as he utters the words, I die inside a little bit. Because he thinks I’m talking about my mother.

  Two days have passed since Tash left and the silence of my room is suffocating.

  Micah said he was sending me something. Why hasn’t it come? St Margaret’s would forward any mail, but surely it wouldn’t take more than a day. And I gave him Dad’s address. I’ve been straining so hard to hear the postman, I should have burst an eardrum by now. Micah could be pissed at me … but what if it’s something darker? What if he’s not okay?

  Stuff it, patience was never among my virtues.

  3rd January

  Dear Micah,

  Did you receive my last letter and parcel for Christmas? It’s weird for you to go this long between letters so I hope you’re okay.

  Maybe it’s because of the clothes or the music, or the money I slipped in the magazine pages. Is it better if I stick to toiletries and food from now on?

  What’s been happening over there? Did any of you get a visitor for Christmas? Dad and I went out for lunch. Cooking at home is an effort for two people, and Marcella was with her real family.

  Anyway, just wanted to check in. Please write back. I’d love to hear from you.

  Night,

  Bel

  I’m starting down the cobblestoned drive on my way to the post office the next morning, when I hear a throaty roar. The postman’s bike. My heart flips. I run the rest of the way down to meet him and almost run into his bike.

  ‘Woah,’ the postman says, raising his eyebrows. ‘That’s what I call an eager greeting.’

  He extends a bundle of envelopes towards me. Then fishes in his bag and pulls out a long cardboard cylinder. Dusty and sealed in sticky tape a million times over. When he revs off to the neighbours’, I turn the tube in my hand. It’s ablaze with green stamps from Thailand.

  26/12

  Hey Bel,

  Sorry I couldn’t write. I got a stint in solitary. It’s not so solitary when you’ve got thirty odd guys stacked on top of you in the dark but. Worse than the cells, and they’re crowded enough. At least in the cells you’ve got a light.

  This one Cambodian was lying next to me. I don’t know what he did – probably just took up too much space – but he pissed off the Thai guy next to him and wound up dead.

  That guy must of scratched a big rusty nail along the boards day and night till it was sharp. Then when the dark was so black I couldn’t see my hands, there was wild crazy thumping. A hundred times and hard enough it shook the floor. Then a wet rush, like someone pissed themselves. Except there was this gargling, choking noise, and the Cambodian guy next to me wasn’t moving. That’s when I figured out I was sitting in his blood.

  Everyone jumped outta the way of the crazy guy. But there was no space so we made one big squish on the side of the room. The screws were banging on the door to shut us up. That didn’t work so they turned on the lights to blind us.

  They took the dead guy, but no one knows where. And they took the Thai guy too. Can’t really blame him for being crazy – it’s what the solitary does to you. When there’s no day and it’s all night and you can’t even mark the time with scratches and don’t know how long you’re in for anyway, you break. I might’ve too. Except I was thinking about you. Wondering what you’ve been doing while I’ve been locked up. Hoping you were happy swimming at your beach. You even crept into my dreams, hey.

  I’m sorry I couldn’t send you something for Christmas. Had it all planned, but like most things it didn’t work out. In woodwork class, they let us make all kinda things. Then they sell them in the prison shop, even at the markets. So I was going to make you a jewellery box, but then I ended up in solitary.

  I was playing poker – got in a fight over the money. They weren’t playing fair, Bel, cause I swear I won the game clear. And if you let guys push you around in here once, they’ll keep doing it. So I told them I won. And before I knew it, I got a crack across the jaw, so hard I couldn’t see straight. Boxer had my back but. He took them on. Next thing there was all out brawling. Then a pack of screws came running with bats, belting into us and dragging us away to the solitary to join a bunch of guys who’ve been there for weeks.

  When I came out and saw I’d missed Christmas that hit harder than the punch in the face, hey. And now I’m thinking about you at Christmas with no letter or present. I’m sorry, Bel. I couldn’t help it.

  So I had another idea instead. It’s not as fancy, but you might like it nearly as much. I swapped some of my things with this English guy for the postage.

  Did you send any letters? I asked first thing when I got out, but the screws say nothing came for me. Can’t always trust them but, so thought I’d ask.

  Write to me when you can. And if you could send some food, we’d be grateful. Dutchy’s gone all quiet and pale after solitary. Takes a couple of years off your life every time, I swear.

  Peace out,

  Micah

  He’s alive. That’s my first thought. He’s not pissed at me is my second, but that’s only because he didn’t get my letter.

  He got nothing for Christmas. No prison feast, no new shirts or hat or music. The money is gone, too. Acid burns in my stomach, but there’s not a damn thing I can do. Nobody I can report it to.

  But worse than the presents and the money, much worse, is the killing Micah described. It chills me, the way he wrote it. So casually. Does it happen often? Does he have enemies? I’m sure there are lots of ways to make a weapon in prison. I’ve been so worried about the Thai government executing Micah, but maybe he’s more likely to die at the hands of another prisoner. I remember what I read about Bang Kwang Prison – rife with disease, infection, aggression. I shudder.

  Yet in spite of all this, Micah feels bad about not sending me a present? Me, who has everything. Who, in spite of already having everything, cannot wait to unwrap it. And here I was wallowing about my shitty Christmas.

  When did I become such an entitled little princess?

  I listen at the doorway in case Marcella is coming, but she’s singing downstairs, so I ease my d
oor shut, flicking the latch. Then I attack the sticky tape on the cylinder. It’s taped right over the cap so I resort to breaking it with my teeth.

  I peer down the tube at the thick, rolled-up paper inside. Then I slide it out. As I unfurl the paper, goosebumps run the length of my arm.

  It’s a drawing.

  Of me.

  My eyes stare hauntingly from the sketch. Sunlight slants across my face, highlighting the angle of my cheekbones. Each strand of hair is etched so intricately, swept off my shoulders by the breeze down at Turrimetta Beach. Shaded in black and white, it’s like looking at myself in another world. No. My breath catches in my throat. It’s like looking at her.

  I force my eyes to the wall alongside my bed. A different picture of my mother hangs there now. She’s sitting cross-legged at the beach, honey hair sweeping her shoulders, her chin jutting out slightly, defying the world to crush her. Slowly, I extend Leo’s drawing to arm’s length. Squint as my eyes travel from my face to hers, but there’s no need to squint. I am her.

  3rd January

  Dear Micah,

  I’m so glad you’re okay. You have no idea how worried I’ve been!

  I can’t believe a guy was murdered right in front of you. Solitary sounds horrific. That guy could have been you. The way you wrote about it makes me think maybe you’ve seen this sort of thing before. Does it happen often?

  Micah, I’m worried about you. If anything bad happened to you, would I even find out? I feel so helpless over here.

  When you took so long to reply, I got really scared. I’m sorry to hit you with all this heavy stuff, but I’m so relieved you were in the solitary rather than … well, gone.

  Thank you for your present. You didn’t have to get me anything. I totally understand what happened. But you absolutely nailed it. It actually took me a moment to breathe when I opened it. Leo is an amazing artist, and I’m now the proud owner of a genuine piece of art.

  I wasn’t sure whether to tell you this, but I sent a letter and parcel while you were in solitary. Just a few clothes and things, and some money hidden in the pages of a magazine, but I’m guessing the guards treated themselves to an early Christmas. It pisses me off that you’re so powerless in there.

  Micah, is this real to you – what we do? Because I write, and wait weeks for your next letter. Sometimes I feel I’m going crazy with worry. What if one day you don’t write back? I check the box twice a day. The postman knows me by name, and Tash says I’m getting myself in too deep. Says you’re going to leave a big black smudge in my heart. Maybe she’s right, but I can’t stop writing, because even if I do, you’re still there struggling.

  Love Bel

  P.S. I’m hatching a plan of my own, but I won’t tell you until the details are finalised.

  P.P.S. Have included a list of food I’ve sent. No clothes, no money, just standard stuff. Please tell me if you get it.

  P.P.P.S. When’s your birthday? I want to put together another parcel for you.

  I bite my lip as I look down at the ‘Love Bel’ part of my letter. This time, I’m not consulting Tash – the word love is staying. When I think of Micah, I want to share all my secrets and hold all of his before the sand in his timer runs out.

  I fall asleep with his photo in my hand.

  Marcella has noticed my morning runs. She hasn’t noticed the way they sync with the postman’s arrival. The letters from Thailand hardly blend in with the rest of the mail. It would only take one letter for the questions to begin. One letter for her to say something to Dad. One letter to doom the trip to Thailand.

  It’s not a risk I can take.

  So I run religiously. Every morning as Marcella arrives, I’m running out the door. And every morning as the postman idles up our street, I’m waiting for him at the bottom of the drive. Even on the days I’m not expecting a letter, I wait. Like today.

  There he is. The rumble of the bike revving up and down as he goes from house to house like a bee pollinating flowers. The postman gives me that crinkly, familiar smile when he reaches our driveway.

  ‘It’s gotta be a boyfriend,’ he says.

  ‘Pardon?’ Blood rushes my cheeks.

  ‘Always waiting, aren’t you?’ He digs through his satchel. ‘And by the look of it, you’re not gonna be disappointed, Miss Bel.’

  He extends an envelope, stamped green as a Christmas tree, before handing over the rest of the boring white mail in a clump.

  ‘I hope he’s worth it.’ He winks, revving his bike as he drives off to pollinate Eli’s house.

  A letter, so soon. And on completely the wrong day. I want to smuggle it upstairs, shut the door and slide under the sheets to sink myself in Micah’s words. But Marcella will be brewing coffee now and Dad is showered and dressed in his finest to play Sydney University Ambassador. The university will be gleaming for Open Day today, looking for new recruits – people who matter, who stand for things, who seek greatness. Dad wants me to be one of them.

  I sigh. The letter will have to wait. There’s a scholarship application waiting for me at a university filled with people who know where they’re heading.

  10/01

  Hey Bel,

  Don’t worry about the parcel – it happens. Shit goes missing. I asked the screws again, but they said nothing came for me, and I’m not going to risk solitary again by kicking up a fuss.

  Anyway, I got the food you sent this time. Thank you.

  Bel, I don’t want you worrying about me in here, okay? The boys have got my back. I told Boxer if anything happens to me but, he’s gotta write you a letter. He said he will.

  The only trouble I’ve gotta worry about is the execution. They don’t make a fuss about killings in Thailand like they do other places, don’t tell the families or give last goodbyes. They wouldn’t even tell me till my number was up.

  It’s probably better that way, quick and quiet. No taking photos, no protests, nothing. The boys say that they’ll just take a guy from his cell in the early hours of the morning, and we won’t see him again. At least not till we see him on the news, cause they film the last part.

  After they kill him, they call up his family to collect his body through the ghost door. That’s what everyone calls it, that small red door the bodies come out of. The families wait on the other side of it, so they can take the body home. It’s not something I like thinking about. I’ll have no one waiting when it’s my turn. The lawyer told me the government will pay to send me home but. My body. So that’s something.

  Lately, they’ve been cramming more people in here than they can feed. It’s got us all a bit edgy, cause there’s only two ways they can make more room and one of them isn’t nice. I don’t mean to scare you but, Bel. They haven’t killed a guy here in years.

  You asked if this letter writing thing’s real to me. Shit, Bel, you’ve got no idea how real it is. I know it’s a lousy way to get to know each other, but you’re all I’ve got outside these walls. And I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I go to sleep with your picture under my pillow. Gives me good dreams. The other night, I had a dream that followed me all day. I’ve tried to get back to it every night since, but no luck. Do you think it’s possible to meet up in dreams, or is that a load of shit?

  Anyway, I’ve got no idea what you’re plotting, but I was born the 8th of March. And, Bel, I like how you signed your last letter. You don’t hear that word much in here.

  Peace out,

  Micah

  P.S. Don’t let it spook you, what Tash says about me. I guess it’s what most people think. That’s why you’re special.

  Darkness has settled its lazy cloak over the rooftops when I fold up his letter.

  With every letter, that door between us inches a bit wider, and I have to resist the urge to push it all the way open. I want to know what he did, but what haunts me more are his words.

  He said there are only two ways they can make more room.

  He said they don’t make a fuss about the executions there.


  How do they execute them?

  I know there are lots of possible ways. Gassing, hanging, electrocution, stoning, beheading, lethal injection, firing squad. I shiver.

  I pull over my laptop from my desk. Look up Death Row Execution Methods.

  An article pops up on Indonesia and I see the names Chan and Sukumaran. They sound familiar so I click on the article.

  The screen is filled with a line of white-garbed prisoners, each man tied to a post. Lined up in a grassy, flood-lit field, a big red cross on the middle of their chests. At the other end of the field is a black swarm of men armed with rifles.

  The field looks too ordinary to hold such horror. How can the grass be so green, so lush?

  I read the article.

  It’s from the time two Australians were executed in Indonesia for drug trafficking. Andrew Chan and Myuran Sukumaran. I suddenly remember their faces. How they were all over the news at the time – some people holding prayer vigils for them, others saying they deserved what they got. I remember one group claimed the executions were politically motivated.

  The article says Andrew and Myuran got to choose two things about their deaths: whether to stand or kneel on their post. And whether to be blindfolded. Every prisoner in this photo is facing his firing squad without a blindfold. They all chose that. To look fear in the face.

  Then I read about the shooters. Twelve to every prisoner. But only three of them have live ammunition, the other nine are shooting blanks. Nobody knows whose shots hit their targets. Everyone gets to sleep at night. Except for the people who are shot, of course.

  Sometimes, though, a prisoner takes too long to die. In that case, the squad commander aims a mercy shot at their head. A mercy shot. They actually use that term. Like there’s anything merciful about any of it. What if it were Micah suffering like that?

  I can’t even think about it. My stomach has turned to stone in my belly, and I feel sick. There’s another image at the bottom of the article, of shiny wooden coffins lined up waiting to receive the bodies of the prisoners.