Into My Arms (20 page)

Arran shook his head. Skye didn’t know. Nell had told him that Skye hadn’t heard from Ben ever since the day of the test results, that he had left her life as abruptly as he’d come into it. Then she’d sighed and added that it was probably for the best. Arran wasn’t so sure. Was it really that big a deal, them being brother and sister? They shared some genes, sure, but nothing else of importance: no history, no common upbringing, no parents, even. And if it meant they couldn’t get married or have kids—well, so what? As a gay man, neither could he. Life went on.

‘Arran? Arran!’

Ben was calling from the opposite side of the court, his whistle now in his hand. Arran started. The game moved on between them, dark and light hands jostling for the ball.

Ben jogged around to him, ignoring a foul. ‘I thought it was you,’ he said. ‘Good to see you. What brings you here?’ He held out his hand, and Arran shook it. Ben’s grasp was firm, his eyes clear and unblinking. They were his eyes, too, Arran realised with a shock. His, and also Skye’s. His mother had seen it. How had he never noticed that before?

‘Hey, Ben,’ he replied casually, as if they met every day. ‘I wanted to talk to Zia, if that’s OK with you. Can you spare him for a few minutes?’

‘Sure,’ Ben said. ‘Zia, come over here!’ The boy detached himself from the game and loped towards them. He seemed to be another few inches taller every time Arran saw him.

‘How’s he fitting in?’ Arran asked.

‘OK. He doesn’t say much, but he’s always here. I think he enjoys himself.’

Arran nodded. ‘Good. I don’t think he enjoys himself anywhere else.’ Ben, he noticed, looked tanned and fit. Being outdoors more must agree with him. He caught Ben glancing in his direction and realised he must be similarly sizing him up, examining his features. Surely Ben must be curious too?

‘Hello, Mr Holt,’ said Zia shyly, panting slightly from his efforts on the court.

‘I reckon by now you can call him Arran, Zia,’ Ben said. He gestured towards the game. ‘I’d better go exert some control over this lot. Yell out if you need me.’

Arran led Zia to a shaded spot on the edge of the bitumen. They sat down on the ground with their backs against the fence.

‘Is everything alright, Mr . . . Arran?’ Zia asked, his face apprehensive.

‘Everything’s fine,’ Arran assured him. ‘I just wanted a chance to talk to you alone, away from the flat. I’ve decided I’m going to go to Syria, to look for Iman and Habib.’

‘You will not find them. I think they are dead,’ Zia said flatly.

‘Why? What makes you think that? Do you know something I don’t?’

Zia shook his head. ‘I just feel it,’ he said, looking up at Arran. Then he dropped his gaze to the court and began tugging at a dandelion growing from a crack in the paving. ‘If they were alive we would have heard by now. They would let my parents know. They wouldn’t let my mother keep worrying.’

‘But we don’t know for sure, Zia,’ Arran said gently. ‘Maybe they can’t contact you. Maybe they sent a message—ten messages—but they got lost on the way. Maybe they’re ill.’

Zia uprooted the flower, crumpling it to a ball in his fist.

‘Look,’ Arran went on, ‘you could be right, but maybe you’re not. It’s worth trying, and I want to try. I came to talk to you here because I didn’t want to tell your family, get your parents’ hopes up again. It’s possible that nothing will come of the trip, and this way we can spare them the extra disappointment. But you,’ he said, ‘you can deal with it, can’t you?’

Zia nodded.

‘Good. I need your help. I want you to get me a photo of them, a clear one, something I can show around at camps and to officials. There’s no point just having their names. Refugees often change them, if they’re scared of the authorities or they don’t want to reveal their nationality. I can get much further with a photograph. Do you have one?’

‘There is one in a frame in my father’s room,’ Zia replied, now shredding the petals from the crumpled weed. ‘I thought Madar would take it with her when she moved, but she didn’t.’ He was silent until the task was completed, white seeds lying at his feet like little bones. ‘OK.’ He shrugged. ‘I can get it.’

Ben blew the whistle to signal the end of the game. The teams congregated around him in the middle of the court. Arran got to his feet and held out a hand to pull Zia up.

‘Thanks,’ he said simply. ‘Bring it here next week. I’ll drop in then.’

They walked to the outskirts of the circle. Arran had intended to leave straightaway, but it seemed rude now that Ben was talking.

‘I know it’s been hot,’ he was saying, ‘so on Tuesday we’re doing something different. I’ve talked to Avril, and we’re all going to the Fitzroy pool.’ He picked up a folder at his feet, then began handing out forms. ‘It’s off-site, so I need to have your parents’ permission. Get these signed and bring them along with your bathers and a towel. We might even stay and have fish and chips if the weather’s still warm.’

Some of the younger kids cheered, though one grabbed at Ben’s arm. ‘I don’t have bathers,’ he said anxiously.

‘Do you have shorts?’ Ben asked. The child nodded. ‘Then that’s fine. And don’t worry if you can’t swim,’ he added, anticipating the next question. ‘There’s a shallow pool we can all just sit in if needs be.’

He was good, Arran thought, reassuring without being patronising, friendly without being a pushover. The commission kids obviously liked him, and all of a sudden Arran did too. He’d needed to see Zia, he thought, but had he really come to see Ben as well?

The group was dispersing now, Zia calling his goodbyes. Arran waved, stuck his hands in his pockets and began the trek back through the grounds towards his car. He’d got to the edge of the playground when he stopped, turned, and headed back to the court. Ben was still there, packing up the basketball gear and picking up forms that had been left behind.

‘Hey,’ Arran said. ‘It’s hot, isn’t it? I’m going to go have a beer. Do you want to come?’

It was Ben who had suggested the Builders Arms, though it was exactly what Arran had been thinking. He was a bit of a regular here. As he slid into a red booth opposite Ben he wondered if anyone he knew would spot him and think they were on a date.

‘Cheers,’ said Ben, raising his Coopers.

‘Cheers.’ Arran took a long swallow from his own bottle. He wiped his mouth. ‘Look, I probably should tell you what I came to tell Zia. You’re involved with the family now, or at least with him. I’m going overseas in a couple of weeks, to look for his brothers.’

‘Wow,’ said Ben. He seemed impressed. ‘Big call. What’s brought that on?’

‘You knew they were still missing?’

‘Yeah, Zia told me. I asked him when he started at the drop-in. I’d hoped they’d turned up by now.’

Arran shook his head. ‘Nup. I tried to locate them through my contacts at a couple of aid agencies, but everything hit a dead end. Meanwhile, the mother’s so depressed she can’t get out of bed, and the father’s leaving Zia and his brother alone every night so he can stack shelves at Coles.’ Arran tugged at the label of his bottle, which was damp with condensation. ‘He’s got a master’s in finance,’ he added.

‘Shit,’ said Ben.

‘It gets worse. Dad won’t seek treatment for his wife because he’s scared any sort of diagnosis will affect their visa application—that it will give the government an excuse to turn them down.’

‘Will it?’

Arran shrugged. ‘Who knows? They’ve already been waiting almost four years. That would be enough to make you depressed by itself. Anyway, Dad can’t work
and
care for Mum, so he farms her out to friends—which leaves Zia to do all the cooking and housework and look after Farid, his younger brother. Did you ever meet him?’

Ben nodded.

‘A week ago I got this panicked call from Zia at about nine pm. Someone’s thumping on the door of their flat. Dad’s at work, and the boys are terrified.’ Arran took another swig while the beer was still cold. ‘I turn up and it’s just some kids playing soccer in the hallway, using the door as the goal. Zia was so upset, though, that I ended up staying the night.’

‘Shit,’ Ben repeated. ‘I had no idea. And the brothers?’

‘I figure that finding them—or at least finding out what’s happened to them—is the only way I can help the family. Zia and Farid need their mother back, but she won’t improve while she’s still waiting to hear from her older sons.’

Ben gave a low whistle. ‘Yeah. You’re right, but man . . . you’re just going to head off and start looking for them?’

‘I’ve got the leave,’ Arran said, enjoying Ben’s admiration. ‘And I know people working over there who can get me into the camps.’ He tapped at the ID badge hanging around his neck. ‘This opens a few doors.’ For a second he wondered if he’d gone too far, but Ben continued to appear somewhat awed. ‘What about you?’ he asked, feeling magnanimous. ‘Do you like the drop-in work?’

‘Yeah, I do,’ said Ben. ‘The kids are great. It’s nice to see them smiling.’ He smiled himself at the thought, and without meaning to Arran grinned back. What had he been so nervous about? Ben was just another bloke. A good bloke.

‘You’ve got it made not working full time,’ he said. ‘You’re from the country, right? Do you get away much, go back home?’

A shadow passed across Ben’s face. ‘Not really, no.’ He lifted his bottle to his lips, but put it down again without drinking. ‘I haven’t spoken to my parents since I found out about Skye—about the whole donor embryo thing.’

Arran was stunned. ‘You’re joking?’

‘That letter I got from the clinic was the first inkling I had that I wasn’t their child. I was furious. I’m still furious.’

‘God, Ben.’ Arran faltered. His mouth was dry despite the beer. ‘That’s tough. They should have told you.’ He paused for a moment, then ventured, ‘But shit, they’re still your parents. I suppose they did what they thought was best . . .’

‘Best for whom?’ Ben demanded, his voice rising. The three guys drinking at the table to Arran’s left glanced over. ‘Best for them, maybe. Not best for me. All those years they lied and lied.’ He stood up and went to the bar, returning with two more bottles.

‘Thanks,’ said Arran, though he was only halfway through his first and needed to go back to the office.

Ben dropped his head into his hands, then ran them back behind his head, looking up almost cautiously. ‘I’ve spoken her name now, so I might as well ask. How’s Skye?’

‘Pregnant,’ Arran said. No point pretending. ‘The baby’s due early April.’

‘She’s what? Really? Who . . . ?’

‘Hamish.’

‘Oh, fuck,’ Ben said, leaning back against the booth. His eyes were wet. Neither of them spoke. The second beer sat sweating on the table, but Arran didn’t want it. It had occurred to him that he could have been Ben. They must have all been lined up once, years ago, in a test tube or a petri dish: Skye, Ben, him, as well as the three or four other embryos that God knows what had happened to. Then a lab technician had come along with rubber gloves and a pipette, and picked out two of them to go to Nell, the rest to the freezer. Another millimetre, a different employee, and it might have been him sitting across the table, blinking back tears while he stared at the ceiling. It might have been him who’d cast off his parents and lost his lover.

Later, Arran wondered if it was guilt at his sheer luck at not being in Ben’s position that motivated him, or simply the fact that he liked Ben and wanted to get to know him better. Maybe, though, it was even more basic: here was a man who knew something about missing brothers.

‘Ben,’ he said, stretching his arm across the table to get his attention. ‘This trip I’m going on. To Syria. Do you want to come?’

23

Mary thought she had been coping fairly well with the day. She didn’t want to be there, but she knew it was important to Kirra; she’d thought she would just sit quietly in a corner of the concrete stands, watch her daughter race, and slip away again without having to talk to anyone. But then, Lila, the mother of one of Kirra’s classmates, had spotted her.

‘Hello!’ she’d exclaimed, the loose skin beneath her chin wobbling in excitement. ‘I haven’t seen you in ages! It must have been last year sometime. How are you? How’s Frank?’

Mary had swallowed and reluctantly moved over, her nylon dress snagging on the rough surface. She should have brought a cushion to sit on, but then she’d been hoping she wouldn’t be there long enough to need one.

‘This is fun, isn’t it?’ said Lila, her eyes scanning happily over the school swimming carnival. ‘Such a good idea to put it off until March. It was far too hot last year, in February. Do you remember?’

‘I wasn’t there,’ Mary replied, but Lila talked on, oblivious.

‘Everyone dropping like flies! I wanted to jump in myself, but Gabrielle would never have spoken to me again if I had. She didn’t even want me to come this year. Said she was only in one event and I shouldn’t bother, but it’s a day out, isn’t it? It wasn’t like I was going anywhere else.’

Mary glanced around the Benalla pool, at the blue water, the cracked tiles, children dressed in house colours cheering and screaming for their teammates. Beyond the cyclone fence on the outskirts of town, parched farms squatted against yellow land, awaiting the autumn rains.