Inside the Tiger

by Hayley Lawrence

  He sails his next dart through the air. Another bullseye.

  ‘Sounds great, Dad.’

  His phone rings. He squints at the screen.

  ‘Oh, it’s Jacqui. I’d better take this. First mandatory sentence handed down tomorrow … Hi,’ he says into the phone, his voice rising as he walks out of the room. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m just at home with Annabelle …’

  His voice grows muffled as he makes his way upstairs.

  I brush the feathers on the end of my dart. The mention of Thailand has rekindled a thousand different emotions and they threaten to spill into the room. I walk around the bar and top up my drink.

  As I lift the bottle back to its place in the line-up, my hand knocks something hard and a small tin falls to the floor.

  I pick it up. On the lid, is a painting of ripe oranges and lemons with drooping green leaves cascading from a fruit basket. I touch the tin with my fingertips. A perfect oblong, except for the dent it’s now wearing from its fall.

  I wedge open the lid. Nothing but a few scraps of paper and an old post-it note.

  I’m about to shut it again when something catches my eye. Written in a rounded, unfamiliar hand on a scrap of notebook paper are the words, Feeding her while you’re at work.

  A chill runs down my spine. I pull out the note to read the rest of it.

  Oh, she’s just perfect, isn’t she? I know people say newborns are ugly, but she never was. She’s so beautiful. She already has your temperament, you know. This is a girl who knows what she wants.

  My entire body is covered in goose bumps. There is only one her this person can be talking about. I study the writing up close. Big, friendly letters. A relaxed pace. So different to my dark, dug-in grooves.

  I pull out another piece of scrap paper. The same writing.

  She is the epitome of hope, don’t you think? She reminds me of Margaret Olley’s still life. Full of optimism. Full of colour. When Margaret was asked what colour she thought her soul was, she answered green, without hesitation. The colour of rebirth. I think my soul is the same colour. I feel I have been reborn in our little Annabelle.

  With shaky hands, I lift the tin. There, at the bottom left, in small dark print, are the words, Basket of Oranges, Lemons and Jug by Margaret Olley.

  There are two more items. I snatch them out greedily. The first is a post-it note.

  In case you get home before me, I’ve just ducked to the bank with Annabelle. Back soon! Love you xx

  I don’t need to flip it over to check for a date. The hairs along my neckline prickle. These were the last words she ever wrote. Scrawled carelessly across a post-it note.

  The final piece of paper is a list of names.

  Grace Annabelle

  Annabella Charlotte

  Annabelle meaning: Grace and beauty. Perfect.

  My eyes grow hot. That’s all there is in the tin. Nothing else. My chest begins to heave. It’s such a little, little amount, and yet for the first time my mother has spoken to me.

  It’s not enough. Why can’t there be more? Why couldn’t she have written me a letter when I was born? Dear Bel, in case I don’t make it, here are some pieces of wisdom to arm yourself against the big, bad world. Life lessons #101.

  Why are there only scraps of an existence in notes? Little, insignificant pieces.

  And why are they hidden?

  When Dad walks back down the stairs, I’m still clutching the tin.

  ‘Why did you keep her from me?’ I ask calmly.

  Silence as he takes in the tin.

  ‘I wasn’t hiding her, sweetheart,’ Dad says apologetically. He clears his throat. ‘I’ve been meaning to give that to you. It’s not much, but I was saving it till you were old enough.’

  ‘Dad, I’m eighteen. How old did I need to be?’

  ‘They’re just scraps, sweetheart.’

  He’s right, that’s all they are. But these scraps are more than I’ve ever had before. They are the voice of my mother, full of optimism, full of colour.

  ‘They’re more than that.’ I touch the notebook paper gingerly, but it’s a blur through my tears.

  He shakes his head. ‘They’re all I have left.’

  ‘All?’ I say, my voice small. ‘You have me.’

  I go to him, bury my face in his shirt and he holds me while I cling to his side.

  ‘You’ll always have me,’ I whisper.

  Dad squeezes me so tight, my ribs creak.

  ‘Sometimes I feel like you’re so consumed by how she died, you’ve forgotten to tell me how she lived.’

  I listen to his heart thundering in his chest. It doesn’t sound broken.

  ‘What was she like?’ I pull away to look at him.

  Dad smiles wistfully. ‘Well, she had terrible taste in music. She was a country-music girl with an awful singing voice, but she didn’t care and she belted out Bruce Springsteen anyway. She was vegan too, couldn’t bring herself to eat animal products. Ridiculous at restaurants, because they always got her meal wrong. Quay Lime was the only place that nailed it.’

  I laugh into his shirt. ‘You don’t have to tell me everything at once. We have years.’

  But he doesn’t seem to hear me and the words spill out.

  ‘Your mother still catches me when I’m least expecting it. The smell of her perfume on another woman, that lopsided way you smile. And when we’re at Quay Lime and I look across the table at you, I see her. She was twenty-six years old, for Christ’s sake. Twenty-six. You look so much like her now …’ He holds me at arm’s length and studies my face. ‘But you’re too much like me to ever turn into her. Sorry about that.’

  I laugh and wipe away a tear. ‘You mean we’re both hell-bent and stubborn?’ I joke.

  ‘God help us,’ he says. ‘And God help the people who love us even more.’

  Upstairs, my room is dark, the curtains closed. I grab a hoodie off the back of my chair and shudder at the roses on my desk. They’re skeletal and colourless, the water putrid.

  Enough.

  I slide the curtains back, wedge my window open as far as it can go and pull in the flyscreen. Grab the vase and let it drop. Watch it sail to its death.

  It doesn’t make a sound when it hits the ground. No satisfying crunch of glass as it buries itself in the foliage at the foot of the house. A silent end to its silent decay.

  When I look up, Eli’s at his closed window. He thumbs his phone and a moment later, mine buzzes.

  Death to the vase?

  I hate flowers. I type. Can I come over?

  Course. This mean you’re back from the dead?

  I hesitate. Nobody comes back from there.

  His face falls. Sorry. Bad word choice.

  No, I’m sorry, I type. Sorry for how I’ve been.

  What, I like zombies Now get your arse over here.

  I’m in my PJs. I write

  That makes two of us.

  I yank my curtains shut and head next door.

  Eli plonks down on his bed.

  There’s silence for a while, and he scrolls through his playlist absently.

  ‘It’s been five months,’ I say eventually. ‘Since I’ve heard from Micah. He was right, though. It wasn’t a good thing. I wouldn’t have written back to me either.’

  ‘I would.’ He says it without a second’s hesitation. ‘You didn’t deserve that. No matter what.’

  ‘But you’re Eli.’ I sink down on his bed beside him. ‘Noble, remember?’

  He picks up my hand. Looks at it like he’s trying to solve some riddle.

  ‘You looked scary sick over winter, you didn’t even see me when I waved to you. I was worried about you, about what he did to you … I want you to know I wouldn’t do that. Like, ever.’

  ‘I know.’ I look down at his hand holding mine. Honest and strong.

  ‘You can’t put all your energy into the bad shit going on in the world, Bel. One girl can only carry so much. There’s good stuff everywhere. You don’t seem to see it, but there
are people who love you here …’ He studies my hand again. ‘I want to fix everything. I would if I could. Make it all better.’

  He brushes the hair from my eyes and looks at me as though I’m not a total shipwreck. The different yearnings that overcome me are mixed up in a way I can’t untangle. The months of loneliness, the pangs for Eli and for Micah. I want Micah to be okay, but I need Eli to love me always.

  ‘Why are you so good to me?’

  He laughs softly. ‘Cause I’ve always loved you, Bel. Even if I haven’t always wanted to.’

  I touch his face with my hand, and he lets me. So then I kiss him, slowly, and he kisses me back.

  ‘What we said in Thailand …’ I say, our foreheads touching. ‘I want something real with you, Eli. You’re not just the guy I run to –’

  ‘Shh,’ he says, and he kisses me again.

  I don’t have to say any more. Eli already knows. But I want him to hear it, so I break away.

  ‘You’re everything to me. I love you, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ he says.

  We kiss, and he lays me back on the bed, pressing his body into me. I run my hands through his hair. Grab hold of him, like I never want to let go.

  ‘Can I keep you forever?’ I whisper.

  He answers with another kiss.

  My hands are under his shirt, and the warmth of his skin feels right beneath my fingertips. This is where I belong.

  When I reach his chest, Eli lifts off me for a second and we lock eyes.

  We fit. This is the moment. I think back to what he said on our last night in Chiang Rai. I want to be each other’s first. When it’s right …

  I kissed him first, travelled with him first, shared a bed with him first.

  This is right.

  I nod and he kisses me without abandon. My hands travel his body like a new landscape I want to learn. He pulls me closer and groans low at the back of his throat at my touch. He presses into me, all heat and pure instinct. He’s more confident than he was in Thailand, his hands owning me as they work their way under my hoodie. I kiss him deeper. His body is hot against my cold skin.

  I unbutton his shirt and he shrugs it off.

  Warmth radiates off his skin. I kiss Eli with everything I have, and he kisses me back like nothing will ever be the same again.

  And there, on Eli’s bed, in the house I have spent so many summer nights in, we lose something we will never get back. And make a memory we will never lose.

  I wake in my room to a message on my phone.

  Morning, beautiful.

  I roll onto my stomach and smile, remembering the incredible thing we did last night. His hands in my hair, his mouth on mine, our bodies entwined. I want to be back there, in his room.

  Morning, handsome, I type back.

  How’re you feeling, okay?

  The best, I type.

  Ha, me too!

  Pulling on a pair of track pants and a t-shirt, I pull back the curtains and watch the glimmer of snowflake patterns cast by the lace sheers across the floorboards.

  I can hear the shower going, so before Dad gets out, I slip out the back door and jog across the road. By the time I hit the bottom of the stairs to Turrimetta beach, blood is coursing through my veins in sync with the pounding of my feet on the pitted sand. I run until my chest burns, until I feel utterly alive. Then I jog up the staircase and around to the front of the house to keep my rhythm.

  As I pass the letterbox, my heart flutters. For so many months, it was a source of joy and bitter disappointment. I pause when I see a small bundle of envelopes sticking out from the slot – stand in the middle of the driveway a moment, debating. Then I jog over, lift the flap and slide the mail out. There won’t be a letter.

  Except today there is.

  12th September

  So, Bel,

  It’s been a long time. It was the only way but.

  There are times love isn’t enough. And I gotta survive in here. But I want you to know I haven’t forgotten about you. I never will.

  When they took Dutchy, and we thought we were next, I had to go back to when everything was simple. I didn’t read any of your letters. I couldn’t toss them out but, so they piled up under my pillow.

  Then I got one from my mum. And she came with Sammy for a visit. Told me what you’d done with the tickets, passed on your message too. And when we got back to the cells, I couldn’t hold off. I pulled out your letters and read every last one. Fuck, Bel, I felt like the cruellest bastard alive. I just figured you’d get on with it, cause you’re free. You’d go back to the way things were before.

  There wasn’t much left of me after we lost Dutchy. Even when Mum wrote, she expected something more than I had to give. She wanted her boy back. But I’m different now. Not the kid I was when I left home. It took a few letters before I could tell her everything that’s happened. You were right. I thought I was protecting her, but that was bullshit. She just needed to hear from me.

  Mum’s doing real well for herself, got a new job and Sammy’s doing well at school. She said you should visit her if you’re ever up her way. She’d like that. I reckon you would too.

  Anyway, I wanted to let you know what’s happened since your protest. We’ve had all this money pouring into that prison account you set up, donations from people we don’t even know. Letters too, a ton of them. Boxer’s kickboxing mates have started writing to him – say they’re going to visit.

  Anyway, my final court case has come through – the appeal I was waiting for. The lawyer came in after and told me we lost but. I’d already guessed, cause nobody wins appeals in building five. But now that’s done, the lawyer’s filed the King for a pardon, saying I’ve been on good behaviour and that I’m reformed. And Father Ramone, he wrote me a letter of support.

  There’s rumours the King’s going to hand out a stack of pardons soon. Prison too full and all that. We’ve even been visited by Amnesty, checking we’re okay and making reports. Dutchy was on the news for weeks after they took him, and Father Ramone says that’s why things are changing. That Dutchy was a sacrifice of a lamb or something. I don’t know about that, but maybe instead of us looking after him, now he’s looking after us.

  And, Bel, I don’t blame you for Dutchy. I don’t want you blaming yourself, either. Things are better for us here because of your protest. And there’s already two drug guys who got their sentences commuted to Life after Leo. That’s never happened before. Drugs was always death. The lawyer, he says we filed our pardon at a good time cause the King’s birthday’s coming up and every year on his birthday he gives out pardons.

  Did I tell you that sometimes a pardon means you walk free, outta these walls for good? That would be one hell of a miracle. Getting Life would be the next best thing but, cause then I could get a prisoner transfer. And Mum and Sammy could visit whenever they liked. And a prison back home has to be better than here – my own bed, nobody’s elbows in my ribs and a decent feed three times a day.

  A long time ago, I asked if you believe in miracles, and you told me yes. Well, if I get my sentence commuted to Life, I’ll believe in miracles too.

  Sorry I hurt you, Bel. I hope you stop hurting soon cause you still mean the world to me. I meant what I said. I love you more than anything ever before in my life, but we both need more than dreams.

  Peace out,

  Love Micah xxx

  I fold the letter, press it against my heart and smile.

  He’s okay. It was all I needed to know.

  In the early hours of Tuesday morning I dream of Micah. He’s running through Bang Kwang Prison, running till his feet lift off the earth. Until he’s soaring above the clouds, arms outstretched like eagle’s wings –

  The beeping of my alarm tears me from the dream.

  It’s the morning of my last HSC exam. Girls at school chat about marks, goals, futures. The mark we get at the end of school isn’t what will turn our lives into a diamond or a stone, but I’m surprised by how much I want the scho
larship. To sit beneath the same tree my mother did when she first met my father, to tread the same halls.

  I’ll never know my mother, but maybe I can follow her footsteps just a little way.

  I stretch my hands above my head in the examination room and my pen falls to the table with a clunk. I will never write about Shakespearean tragedy again.

  As we file out of the hall into the grassy yard, I search for Tash. In a crowd of green blazers I find her, leaning against the sun-drenched brick wall talking to Airlie. I’m about to head over to dissect the exam when I see Dad.

  He’s under the Jacaranda tree, scanning for someone. Me.

  Breaking away from everyone, I hitch my bag over one shoulder and head for him.

  ‘Dad. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to collect you,’ he says. ‘End of exams and all.’

  Tash catches my eye, and I wave a quick goodbye to her and Airlie before following Dad.

  He opens the boot and I launch my bag in before climbing into his BMW, inhaling the earthy scent of leather.

  ‘Well, this is a surprise,’ I say, grinning at him.

  ‘How was it – the last one?’ He adjusts his rear-view mirror.

  ‘It feels surreal. Better than I expected. Don’t want to count my chickens, though …’

  ‘Good, good,’ he says as we move into traffic. ‘Let’s go for a little drive.’

  I frown, watching him intently. ‘A drive to …?’

  ‘Bradley’s Head.’

  I nod. ‘Let’s do it.’

  I watch the harbour flick by outside my window. Wondering if Dad has something planned.

  He pulls the car to a stop on the gravelly drive at the lookout. From here, we can see all the way over Sydney Harbour. The Opera House gleams, white and magnificent. The harbour throws rays off its surface as yachts and leisure cruisers carve trails of foam through the water.

  Dad opens the door, arching his back and pressing his hands into the small of it. He nods in the direction of the concrete steps leading down to the water.

  He sits on a step, pulls his sunnies over his eyes to shield the glare and gently pats the space next to him.