Pretty Girls

by Pretty Girls (retail) (epub)

  “So your father’s sick, is he?” the old woman asked. She was a busy-body, just like Mirela, they liked to know peoples’ business.

  Evie chewed categorically and then responded, “Yes, stage three lung cancer. He’s in a hospice.”

  She was used to saying those words, they came out like she had learnt them by rote.

  “He smoked heavily didn’t he?”

  Evie nodded.

  “Hear that Mirela? Stage three lung cancer – a smoker,” she yelled in Mirela’s direction, as though she were in the other room when she was only a few metres away.

  “I’ve given up Mum,” Mirela responded, busy at the espresso machine.

  “I saw you smoking outside ten minutes ago.”

  “Last one Mum,” Mirela said and winked at Evie.

  “Thinks it’s a joke. She’s got a daughter now. Has to look after herself. Still smokes and drinks and eats too much,” she took her voice down a notch, as though to hide its audibility. Discretion was not her strongest quality.

  “I heard that Mum.”

  “Good, better you hear it from me than someone else.”

  Mirela sighed as she plonked two espressos down in front of them.

  “Never changes does she? Just like when we were kids,” she shook her head and took a seat next to them.

  “What about you Evie? Mirela said you’ve got a daughter now too,” Mrs Manganelo continued her line of questioning.

  “Yes, Tilley. She’s seven now.”

  “No husband?”

  Direct, like she had reached across and slapped her.

  “We split a while back. We were never married.” They were barely together. Evie took a sip of the coffee. It was so strong, she could feel it burning a path down to her stomach.

  “Surprises me. You were always so pretty, I thought you would be snapped up quickly.”

  “Mum, it’s not 1960 anymore,” Mirela rolled her eyes.

  “I never said it was.”

  “Besides ... like you can talk, remember how she told me I was the immaculate conception?” Mirela said with a laugh. “It wasn’t till I was fourteen that I realised I wasn’t Jesus Christ’s daughter, and that my mum was just an old tart.”

  “Watch your language,” Mrs Manganelo said, fiery eyes backlit.

  “What, it’s true isn’t it?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t talk to me like that – I brought you into the world and I sure as hell can take you out!”

  Evie laughed. Thick as thieves they were. Best of friends, even though they were mother and daughter. Maybe it had always been a little too co-dependent, like her and Benny. Her stomach seized just thinking about him. The image of him standing alone on the beach staring into space imprinted into the back of her eyelids.

  “Where is Tilley now?” Mirela asked.

  “She’s playing with a kid from school. Chris, he lives just around the corner.”

  “Oh yeah, one of the Indigenous kids.”

  She felt her stomach tighten again. She hadn’t realised Chris was one of the Indigenous kids. Tilley had insisted on going there by herself earlier on that day, she’d said it was just around the corner ... she should have been more careful.

  “He’s a good kid,” Mirela said. She must have read the expression on her face.

  “Of course,” Evie said.

  She was conscious that she shouldn’t feel like this. That there was a strange racist tang to it – just like her father. But there it was ... simply, there. The preconceived notion that Chris ... wasn’t a good kid. She shifted in her seat uncomfortably. Did the idea make her uncomfortable, or her own prejudices?

  7 Phillip Street, Tilley had said. Just around the corner from their place. Close to where the bird had died. There had been a lot more that had died that day.

  “Seriously, don’t worry about it. My little one plays over there all the time,” Mirela continued.

  Evie smiled feebly – unassured.

  “Mirela said she saw you heading off to work the other morning. New job?” The questions kept on coming from Mrs Manganelo’s end. At least it took her mind off the Tilley situation. She suddenly had a startling image flash before her eyes of Tilley scared, alone in that house.

  Was it Tilley or her when she was a kid? She couldn’t quite separate the two. Why had she let her go? She was the most precious thing to her in the world, worth more to her than her own life — like Benny had been.

  She snapped back to attention. “Yeah, just a new office job up the road, nothing to write home about.”

  “Still good that you’re working, and that you found something so quickly. It’s tough after you have a baby, especially if you didn’t have a career,” Mrs Manganelo said. They weren’t intended to sting those words, but they did. She didn’t have a career. That’s right. Some how she had gotten stuck on the notion that she was pretty. She had thought that would be enough. That’s what everyone said. But it wasn’t. In fact it was a curse, wrapped up in a luminescent bow. Again, her thoughts flicked to Tilley, another pretty girl.

  Boys didn’t respect pretty girls. They told them to sit down, shut up and put out. They didn’t have a voice, because nobody expected that they had anything valid to say.

  A wave of panic again.

  “I’m down at settlement services,” Mirela continued — to Evie’s discomfort. “Been there for years. Just three days a week. I can afford to be part-time because Mum owns this place ....”

  Mirela continued to talk in the background, her mouth opening and closing sporadically but Evie couldn’t hear a word, instead she was back at the park on Phillip Street just behind the blue tennis courts, with that kid Adam. The one who had killed the bird. The cool boy. He had taken her there. Led her to a quiet spot.

  It had started off okay, he had told her he liked her. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets and he was standing awfully close to her, his breathing heavy. She wasn’t sure why his breath was so uneven – if it was playing footy, killing the bird ... or something else. There was something dark about the way he was looking at her.

  She had ignored it and smiled, and said that she liked him too.

  Then he kissed her. She should have liked it because she had been waiting for him to kiss her for weeks, she had been imagining it in her mind. The way his lips would feel, soft and firm at the same time, and his sweet taste. But the fantasy was so far from the reality. He had kissed her roughly, shoving his tongue into her mouth from the very start – he tasted of salami and sweat, and she felt like she might gag. But she had kept going, telling herself that she should like him, that this is the way things should be.

  He had pulled away and looked at her for a moment, as though he were assessing his kissing prowess, and whether she was pleased with the performance. She smiled, even though she knew her lips were already starting to swell from the intensity of it.

  He went back to kissing her, and that’s when it got worse. Suddenly he was touching her crudely again, his hands were down her blouse, fumbling at her barely there breasts, squeezing and pinching relentlessly and then he moved on ... he jammed his fingers inside her. The sudden and intense pain made her scream out – he must have taken it as a sign that she was enjoying it, because he moved his hand within her more vigorously. She could feel his nails ripping her up inside.

  Then he forced her head down to his crotch. She had tears in her eyes, but she blinked them away. He smelled rank, acrid, and again she clenched her teeth to stop from vomiting. He forced himself into her mouth, moving against her rhythmically and hard, jamming himself down her throat.

  Please let this be over ... please let this be over ...

  But it wasn’t. When he pushed her to the ground, he made her face it. He had shoved her face down into the dirt, so that she could taste it in her mouth. She could barely breathe and for a moment, she thought things could be a whole lot worse. She realised then, that he could really hurt her, more than hurt her.

  When it was over, he walked
her home, and kissed her on the cheek at the gate, like he was her sweetheart and he hadn’t just raped her behind the tennis courts on Phillip Street. Like she didn’t have blood on her skirt, like her blouse wasn’t torn, like she didn’t have a bruise on her face.

  “I’ll see you at school tomorrow,” he’d said lightly.

  She hadn’t gone to school for a week.

  Suddenly she refocussed on Mirela’s face – her lips were still moving as though she hadn’t noticed Evie’s mental digression at all.

  “I’m sorry,” Evie cut in. “I really should go and pick up Tilley.” She got up quickly, she needed to leave now at this very second – any length of time that lapsed could be fatal.

  Mrs Managanelo and Mirela looked up at her alarmed.

  “She’s fine,” Mirela suddenly said, as though she had read her mind. The only person she had ever told about the incident was Mirela. Was rape an incident? Is that how she had been downgrading it? Maybe because it hadn’t just been the one occasion. Multiples normalised things.

  She had always suspected that her mum had known ... she had asked her about the rip in her blouse and Evie had given her some sort of vapid and vacant response about getting it caught on the school fence – but her mother had looked sad, and then never asked about it again.

  She’d never told Benny. Benny would have lost it, he would have gotten himself into a fight over it. Adam was bigger and stronger – Benny was the junkie kid. He would never have won.

  “Of course ... but best that I collect her.” She said.

  “Yes, no worries,” Mirela said with a tight smile.

  “I’ll come around later and bring Til’ too,” she lied. She had no intention of going around again. Too many memories. Too much shit that made her terrified. But she had to say something. She had to be pleasant in making her departure.

  Mirela nodded. She knew she was lying. She knew Evie too well.

  Evie always ran from everything.

  10

  Armageddon

  (2017, Redfern)

  Out on the street, the rain had stopped – she tried to stop herself from breaking out into a run. Calm down. Calm down. She told herself. But her breath was coming out in quick tight bursts and she didn’t feel calm at all. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could feel the adrenalin coursing through her body, there was a tight feeling in her head.

  She turned down Phillip Street and counted houses, her strides long – one, three, five, seven. The old terrace was opposite the tennis courts. Still blue, still dilapidated.

  It looked like a housing commission. There was furniture pulled out into the front courtyard. Two burgundy couches and a coffee table with an old putrid jam jar which served as an ash tray. Two Aboriginal blokes stood by the door, mugs in hand, chatting.

  Instantly she felt uneasy. Why? The two memories weren’t interconnected at all ... but the blue tennis courts were just behind her, and she could feel the energy of them oozing into her skin.

  She pushed the broken gate open and they both looked in her direction. There was an older one with skinny legs and a beer belly and a guy who looked her age, wearing a hoody.

  “You lost?” the younger one said. That familiar Aboriginal twang, instantly recognisable. He didn’t smile. That’s how things worked in these parts. You went on the offence first.

  She knew it, and she knew how to respond.

  “Nope, just here to pick up my daughter,” she said – direct. Keeping her eyes on him, like he hadn’t made her feel small.

  “You Tilley’s mum?” the other man said. His face broke into a grin. Clearly, he was the friendly one.

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice to meet ya. I’m Chris’s dad, Pete,” he took a few steps and offered her his hand. She shook it. He looked nice enough. Great big dark eyes, gentle smile, kind voice. But they all seemed nice enough at the start.

  “Likewise.” She shook his hand.

  “Chris is always talkin’ about Til’. We were looking forward to meetin’ ‘er.”

  She smiled, tight-lipped. She didn’t want to chat, she just wanted to get Tilley and back away quietly, and never come back here again. She could feel the other man watching her. She had come to hate the sensation of men’s eyes on her flesh. Searing, probing, seeing straight through. Taking everything from her in a single glance.

  “You just move here?” he continued.

  “Yeah, from Melbourne. But I used to live in Redfern, when I was a kid.”

  “An original!” his voice boomed, and he laughed. He looked over to his friend to include him in the conversation. The younger man didn’t smile at all. He could sense her disapproval, and he was judging her for it.

  She nodded politely. “Where are they now?”

  “Out the back love,” Pete didn’t seem to notice her discomfort.

  She headed up towards the door passed the younger man. Her skin tingled, as though she could feel him on her skin even though he was over a metre away from her. He was handsome and disarming. She hated the thought as soon as it entered her mind.

  But why?

  The terrace was decent on the inside, old like hers, but reasonably kept. She passed a living room with a television blaring, and went through to the kitchen, where a woman was chopping vegetables. She was large, like Mirela, substantial. Again Evie felt the opposite.

  “I’m Tilley’s mum — come to pick her up.”

  “Hello, love, I’m Rosie” the woman said, unsurprised. Her dark skin was smooth and clear. Her face split into a brilliant smile. Like Mirela had, she embraced her. Evie felt tiny within her arms, as though she might be crushed by her large round breasts and protruding stomach.

  “So good of you to come around. You want a cuppa?” she asked, heading back to the vegetables.

  “No, I’m actually in a bit of a rush ... we have another appointment to get to.” The word sounded thick and strange in her mouth, overly formal in this format, and clearly a lie.

  Rosie didn’t seem to notice or mind. She wiped her hands slowly with the torpor that seemed to embrace all her movements and continued to smile.

  “No worries love. They’re just out the back,” she turned around and led her to the back door.

  Outside the two children were running about with the footy, laughing.

  “It’s my turn!” Tilley screamed dramatically. It was always her turn. Chris was a skinny kid with curly hair that was blonde at the ends. His big green eyes flashed in the sunshine.

  See, nothing to worry about. She heard Mirela’s voice in her mind. But Mirela didn’t understand, she never would. She hadn’t gone through it. They had lived a few streets down, gone to the same school, and been virtually inseparable ... but their memories were different. Mirela’s were filled with biscotti, and sharp but sunny words from her mother, hers were filled with boys shoving their hands between her legs, and the smarting sensation of the back of her father’s hand as it landed another blow. How could they have been so similar, and yet so different?

  “Tilley, it’s time to go!” she called.

  Tilley’s pretty face framed by that tangled blonde hair turned towards her. Then she frowned.

  “I don’t want to go,” she said resolutely, pulling her face into a grimace and crossing her arms in a comical fashion.

  “Well we have to.”

  “I only just got here!”

  “You’ve been here for a few hours.”

  “So what?”

  “Tilley get your things,” her voice bristled. She hated when Tilley made a scene in front of other people. It made her feel like she didn’t have control of the situation. Like she was an ineffective parent. Like she wasn’t enough. All the old sensations that she had experienced when Tilley was born came flooding back. Single. Alone. Young. Unfit for the situation.

  “No.”

  “Get your things now.”

  “Why? We’ve got nowhere to go.”

  The statement shamed her further. They didn't have anywhere to go
. They didn’t know anyone here, and the people she did know were ghosts of the worst kind. There was no appointment. That was just some terrible lie she’d made up because she was a racist of the worst kind. Let’s face it. As much as she wanted to believe she was progressive and embraced everyone, she clearly didn’t. She’d judged Chris on the basis of him being Aboriginal. She’d judged the house from the outside because of the couches. She’d judged the men outside based on the colour of their skin. But how do you erase your mind of a thousand slurs and indecent comments she’d heard across a lifetime?

  “Tilley ” ... she said in what she hoped was warning tone. Instead it came out as a desperate whine.

  Tilley must have felt sorry for her because she relented, and went to collect her bag which was flung near a tree.

  “Kids!” Rosie said in a sympathetic tone. Evie couldn’t embrace it though. She felt harrowed by the experience. Weak. Frail. There was something about this place which made her feel like a desperate teenager all over again. A pretty girl with a violent father and crazy mother. Nobody had her back. Vulnerable kids – they were the ones that copped it. They were the ones that were taken advantage of, because there was no one around to say otherwise. Worse still, you got to a point where you thought you deserved it. Your parents were shit, and you were worse than shit.

  “Can Chris come and play at our place next weekend?” Tilley said. She was standing near her now. Her face grimy from play and needy.

  She nodded. Her voice was gone. Again.

  She managed to lead Tilley through the house and back out the front where the Aboriginal men were still standing.

  “See you Til,” Pete said, waving a hand.

  “See you later,” Tilley chirped in return.

  Evie managed a half smile. Her throat felt tight like she could barely breathe.

  The other man stared at her over his coffee. His dark eyes hard. Like he could see straight through her semi-pleasant facade. Like he knew she was a fake.