You gotta stop caring so much about me. Doesn’t matter how much we want it. This is not a good thing.
Go live your life, Bel, and let me live mine.
Micah
The letter shakes in my hands. If I could rewind the days, the months … If I’d never written to Micah …
I told Eli this was the kind of war where nobody dies. But the words on the paper won’t go away. Dutchy’s not coming back.
I take a shaky breath, fold up the letter and press it to my lips. See Dutchy waving goodbye to me at the prison. Squeeze my eyes shut to block out the world.
I climb off the bed, kneel, and do something I haven’t done in a long time. Pressing the letter between my palms, I lower my head and make the sign of the cross.
‘Our Father,’ I whisper, inhaling a jagged breath. ‘Who art in heaven …’
I can’t remember the next line. It’s the only prayer I know, and I can’t damn well remember it.
‘Our Father who art in heaven …’ I say again.
My mind is blank as panic gallops wildly through my heart.
I press my head into my bed. ‘Our Father who art in heaven …’
Dutchy’s shy smile runs through my mind, his white hair. Pretty face. And the things I can’t unsee. The sea-green gurney, the sterile room, and Dutchy alone, terrified, thrashing as they strap him down and jab a cannula into his veins. Eyes closing until he’s gone. Irreversibly gone.
‘Our Father who art in heaven …’ I push the words out through clenched teeth as Tash bustles in from the shower, trailing steam.
‘We’re running late for assemb–’
‘Our Father who art in heaven …’
She tightens the towel around her chest. ‘Bel?’
‘Our Father who art in heaven …’
I’m numb, robotic. Her hand is light on my shoulder as she kneels beside me, examines my face. Sees the letter pressed between my palms.
‘Oh no,’ she says, ‘Oh, Bel,’ she whispers, kissing my shoulder. ‘Oh, Bel, no … When? When did they do it?’
‘It’s not Micah,’ I say, my voice dead.
She straightens up, pushes the hair gently from my eyes, tucking it behind my ear. ‘What then? What’s happened?’
‘They’re making me pay.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘For my protest. Dutchy’s dead.’
She gasps, her fingers reaching for her lips, where they stay and tremble.
‘They killed him.’
The colour leaves her cheeks. Her curls drip haphazardly around her shoulders.
‘It’s because of me.’ I look right at her, my breathing ragged. ‘They used Dutchy to make a point. It’s politics, Tash. Exactly like Dad warned me. The Thai government is taking a stance. I’m the one who forced them into a corner. I got a scholarship for that protest. But my protest didn’t save any lives. It cost one.’ My body quakes uncontrollably. ‘I got someone killed.’
She draws a sharp breath. ‘Don’t you dare say that.’
Tash takes my shaky fingers in hers, clasps them and presses them to her lips. She bows her head, her hair dripping all over us like tears.
I started a war. I simply forgot that all wars have casualties.
The girls tromp past our dorm and down the hall to class. Laughter, muffled voices, jokes. I’m holed up in isolation behind our door. I told Tash to go to class. I need to be alone.
Dad is coming to collect me. It’s only happened once before – when I was twelve and had an ear infection. When taking me home for rest and antibiotics was the cure. But that can’t fix me now. Can’t fix Dutchy. Can’t help Micah or Boxer.
There is no medicine that will make this all right. And I can’t rest. I’m scared to close my eyes.
I don’t know how much time has passed. It could have been one minute, could have been five hours. My skin is numb, my brain numb too. I’m not sure I work anymore. But at some point, footsteps sound along the corridor.
Watchkins opens my door. I look up. Dad comes in behind her. Helps me off the bed. Holds me. Watchkins says something to him about time off, special consideration, exams.
I haven’t cried. There are no tears for Dutchy, just like there were none for my mother. My heart is a stone. This scares me more than anything. Tash cried for Dutchy. She never met him, didn’t kill him.
I am a robot. I was right, something deep inside me is broken. I don’t think I know how to feel.
Dad wraps an arm around my shoulder, walks me to the car. He says things, but I absorb none of it. He shouldn’t have wasted all those years on me. I don’t feel anything for him or my mother.
I click on my seatbelt automatically, then feel guilty about it. I’m protecting my little life in case of an accident. Like it’s worth protecting.
As we’re reversing out of the school carpark, Dad says, ‘Sweetheart, I need to warn you that the story broke in the media this morning.’
I look at him.
‘Amnesty reported the execution straight away, but it took the media a while to connect that Dutch boy with your protest. Jacqui called this morning to let me know, and I got straight on a plane.’
I stare straight ahead. I can’t feel anything about that, either.
‘This isn’t your fault, Annabelle. This is what happens when governments challenge each other.’
‘What, they kill people?’ I say numbly.
‘Don’t forget Tye Roberts – that was before your protest.’ Dad’s teeth are gritted. ‘I don’t want you blaming yourself. This isn’t about you.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Sweetheart –’
‘Don’t protect me, Dad. My protest sparked it. You warned me. Dutchy got caught in the middle.’
‘He was on Death Row. He was always going to die, Annabelle. You’re not responsible for that. You are not going to carry this, do you hear me? You are not.’
But when I scan through my phone, it’s blatantly obvious that I am going to carry this. Every last bit of it.
The media is all over it.
‘Thailand Executes Prisoner After Local Protest.’
‘Breaking News: Justice Minister to Front Press Conference.’
‘Justice Minister’s Daughter Stages Rally That Ends in Death.’
The media are rubbing their hands together. Matching my protest with Dutchy’s death like the perfect puzzle that it is.
When we pull into the driveway, the circus is waiting for us, blocking the entrance. They’re a black swarm. Flash, flash, flash! I hold up one hand to shield my face, but the circular lenses are pressed right up against the glass of Dad’s car.
‘I’ll mow them all down in a second,’ Dad mutters, inching forward through the mash of bodies.
Our tyres clear the electric gate, and Dad buzzes it shut behind us. The journos back away like the gate has been surface sprayed.
I shudder as the garage door closes us in. Every muscle in my body aches. Dad opens the internal door to the house, and I stumble in behind him, catching my foot on the step.
Marcella fusses, offers me coffee, but I shake my head. Instead, I drag the weight of my body upstairs to do what needs to be done.
I haven’t dared to read Micah’s letter again. The words are too sharp. Each one a knife. And as soon as he gets my letter, he’ll know what I did. Or maybe he already knows. Maybe it’s being streamed straight into his cell via the TV.
I’ve killed Dutchy and lost Micah. Both in the one day.
I pull his letter from my pocket and force myself to read the words again. Make myself visualise Dutchy being dragged from his cell, screaming down the hall.
I deserve to relive it.
There’s no kiss at the end of Micah’s letter. No ‘Peace out’. He says what we have is killing him. He’s cutting me off like he did to his mum.
This is not a good thing. Go live your life, Bel, and let me live mine.
How can I live my life when Dutchy no longer has his?
Micah
might hate me now, but I still love him. I can’t imagine weeks and months without him. He doesn’t want me anymore, but I need him now more than ever.
25th March
Dear Micah,
I’m so sorry about Dutchy. I feel like my heart’s been ripped out. The shock of his death has numbed me. I can’t even imagine what it’s done to you. No words can make it better.
All I have is sorry. I am so, so sorry.
How are you doing? How’s Boxer?
Micah, I know you’re suffering, and you think what we have isn’t a good thing, but you’re wrong. We need each other, or at least I need you.
You said this isn’t real, but I don’t believe you. And I don’t think you do either. Remember when we met in our dreams? Remember the kiss?
You told me to go live my life. But, Micah, I can’t pretend I don’t care about you. I can’t cut you out and carry on without you. I don’t know how to do that.
I’m so worried about you. Please write. Let me know how you are. I love you, Micah, and I can’t stop.
Love Bel xxx
P.S. I’ve sent you food, together with some money that I taped under the label on the can of tomato soup. I can send more.
Marcella had pink lilies waiting in a vase on my bedside table. Every day, they brown a little more, their edges laced with decay. I hate flowers. All they do is wilt and die. I have never understood why Dad leaves them at my mother’s headstone. As if we need the reminder of decay. As if the absence isn’t enough.
It’s been nine days and eight hours since the letter left my hand at the post office. The holidays tick by, each day a new stroke of agony. The same rituals. Sitting at my desk, books sprawled uselessly, mapping out a study plan I’ll never finish. Notes for Modern History, a practice essay for Titus Andronicus. But everything I read is hangings and murder, and bloody destruction. My brain is a monstrous, scrambled mess.
I’ve become more of a hermit than Eli used to be.
And I’ve turned my phone off. There were too many messages. Reporters got hold of my number and were texting and calling me incessantly for interviews.
60 Minutes offered Dad a six-figure sum for an interview. As if the scholarship for the protest wasn’t enough. As if I’m looking to profit more from Dutchy’s death.
Tash told me I should do the interview. It might help Micah and Boxer.
I said, ‘Yeah, help get them killed. They don’t need any more help with that.’
My bedroom door creaks open, and there’s a waft of breath mints as Dad enters. I’m sitting at my desk, eyes fused to the photo pinned on my wall. My only photo of Micah and the boys.
‘The principal called,’ Dad says gently, sitting down on the edge of my bed behind me. ‘She said the Board of Studies have approved you for special consideration in your final exams.’
When I don’t respond, he says, ‘I think you should accept it.’
‘What’s the point?’ I say quietly.
‘Well, there’s the scholarship, sweetheart. And we’re worried, all of us, that your final results could impact on the offer …’
From my peripheral vision, I notice he’s studying the photo too. We’re both silent for a minute. I can’t peel my eyes away from Dutchy. Like somehow, by looking at him, I can bring him back. Will I be like Dad now, moving that photo around so I always see him?
‘Bel?’
‘I don’t care about the scholarship.’
‘I know … I know you feel that way now. But that’s why we think you should accept the special consideration.’
‘Those exams. What do they mean? Really, what?’ My voice cracks, and I inhale deeply. ‘You write a bunch of stuff down, and someone getting overtime reads your scrawl through tired eyes and stamps a mark across it. What the hell for? To see if I’m good enough for a prestigious university while guys like Micah are surviving on fish-bone soup, waiting for their number to come up. It’s … it’s not right Dad. It’s so unfair. It’s so …’
‘First world?’ he says gently.
‘Yes. My life is so privileged. And sanitised. Nobody gets to choose what family they’re born into. Whether they have money and opportunities … Will I feel guilty all my life for what I have? For what I did?’
Dad considers this a moment. ‘Annabelle, let me tell you something.’
I look at him.
‘You and me, we’re survivors.’
I frown. ‘How? We’ve never been in danger. We didn’t cling to a shipwreck for days or flee a war-torn country.’
‘No, but your mother didn’t get to see thirty and I did. God willing, you will too. Your mother didn’t get to watch you grow up. I did.’ His eyes get watery. ‘Your mother won’t be there when you turn eighteen in a few months. She didn’t see you take your first steps, and she never heard you say Mumma.’
‘Did I ever say that?’ I ask.
‘You said it to Marcella … until you figured out it wasn’t quite true.’ He looks away. ‘Do you think I don’t feel guilty every day that I wasn’t there to save her? Or take that bullet for her?’
I baulk. ‘That wasn’t your fault –’
He holds up a hand to stop me. ‘It doesn’t matter. That’s the thing about survivor guilt. You blame yourself for everything you did or didn’t do. And you feel guilty for everything you get that they don’t …’
He takes a deep breath, and his chest rises with it. ‘In my dreams, she’s still twenty-six and in love with me. Then I wake to another day without her. It’s what the living do, we make a cup of coffee and get on with it. The fact is, fantasising about what you could have done differently changes nothing. It only drives you mad.’
I tear my eyes from Dutchy’s face, and turn my chair around to face him.
‘I wish I could take the pain away from you, Annabelle, but I can’t. It’s yours now. Pain cripples you with her left hand and fuels you with her right. And if you allow it, the pain might just push you to bigger things.’ He smiles softly. ‘Do you know what I’m calling the new legislation if it gets through?’
I shake my head.
‘Rachel’s law.’
I smile. It feels right. So many people have been immortalised in art or literature, but Dad’s going to wrap my mother up in a law.
His voice is thick. ‘Don’t stop fighting for justice just because you got burnt. That pain you feel right now?’ He jabs at his chest. ‘It’s a feeling I’m more familiar with than I’d like to admit.’
His big hand reaches for mine, and I clasp it.
Marcella knocks on my open door tentatively. She glances at the clock on her way in.
‘You will miss your flight,’ she says to Dad.
Dad clears his throat. ‘I know. I’d better go. Jacqui and I are fronting a press conference this afternoon.’ He kisses me on the hair, then whispers in my ear. ‘It was the system that killed him. It wasn’t you.’
I live stream Dad’s press conference from my laptop. The one he made no big deal about, even though it’s to defend me.
I know I shouldn’t watch it. That it will be nasty.
If I turn my phone on, Tash will have sent me a warning. Don’t watch the news tonight. Eli might have sent me something too. But that’s just another reason to keep my phone off. They think they can protect me. They can’t.
The news crew crosses live to Canberra, and there he is. Dad moves into the frame alongside Jacqui. He doesn’t look his usual self. He keeps glancing down at some papers in his hand. Jacqui isn’t brandishing her big smile.
‘I have had confirmation from the Thai Ministry of Justice,’ Jacqui begins, looking directly at the camera, ‘that a young man by the name of Luke Jansen, from the Netherlands, was executed two weeks ago in Bang Kwang Central Prison in Thailand.’ She pauses, looking briefly at her notes.
‘This young man is not an Australian citizen, however there have been suggestions that the actions of the Australian government are indirectly responsible for this execution. I’d like to take a moment t
o clarify our position on this point.’ Jacqui straightens herself against the lectern. ‘The Australian government has neither sought to excuse these prisoners from their crimes nor undermine the Thai justice system. Thai authorities deny that this execution was in retaliation to increasing pressure by various international governments.’
The questions come thick and fast, only none of them are directed at Jacqui.
‘Mr Anderson, what role do you believe your daughter’s recent protest had in igniting this issue?’
‘Does your daughter feel remorse for what was a very naïve political campaign?’
‘Has Annabelle offered her condolences to the family of Luke Jansen? Will she be attending the funeral?’
The family. The funeral.
Because of me a family will grieve.
Because of me, there will be a funeral.
It’s an attack, live-streamed into my bedroom.
My throat is burning and something wet drips down my face. A tear. First one, then another and another. Years and years of them, choking me, drowning me from the inside out.
My heart no longer feels like a stone, but, oh, I wish it was. Because suddenly, I can feel it all, and it’s too much. The wound is so deep, I’m bleeding inside.
I turn and stumble down the blurry stairs, out the back door, into the night.
I keel over at the top of the sandy staircase. Rest one hand against the handrail. My chest heaves as the tears cascade down my face.
I can’t talk, can’t think, can’t breathe. I need it to stop.
I’m one of the lucky ones. Not starving, or homeless, imprisoned or dying. There are so many worse off than me. I have no right to be crying. But how do I stop? The tears run unheeded down my face, like they have every right to be there.
I want Mum. The thought comes without consciousness. I want her.
It’s fiercer than anything I’ve needed before. I’m consumed with the need for her. Not just any mother, but my own. Here, right now. With big, soft arms to wrap me in love, and the wisdom to shine a torch through this darkness. To shush me like the mum who shushed her baby on the plane to Thailand. To touch my face and check that I’m all right, like Eli’s mum when we got back. To tell me I’m always hers, regardless of what I’ve done, like Micah’s mum.
Inside the Tiger Page 23