Luck in the Greater West (11 page)

Sonja had been missing a lot of school. She wondered if they'd written a letter to her parents yet. The principal had been a bit sus when Sonja had been sent to her for not wearing a uniform. Sonja told her that she'd ripped it and that her parents couldn't afford a new one. The principal had called Sonja's mother but had obviously been hung up on. She'd given Sonja a second-hand uniform from lost property.

Sonja would be missing school altogether today. How could she go now? The police had just come and taken Patrick. No explanation other than that he was required to attend the station. And then they'd asked her what she was doing there, in his flat. Patrick had interrupted them though, and said he'd go with them — said he wanted to sort out whatever it was as soon as possible. So they'd taken him. She'd have to go and see her mother now. She was sure her mother wouldn't have called the police, but why else would the cops take him? They didn't search the place; Patrick hadn't been dealing drugs for quite a while.

Sonja hadn't been to see her mother since she'd moved in with Patrick. Maybe her mother really did want her to come
back? She'd hoped, despite feeling like it was a bit of a betrayal to Patrick, that her mother would make an attempt to see her again. She hadn't expected the police though. This would make things ugly. Patrick had told her what the police were like to deal with. Nothing like
Water Rats
or
Blue Heelers
; but liars. Violent liars. And her parents had never trusted them. So why would her mother call them?

She'd have to go and sort this out.

 

She could smell her mother the instant she opened the door. She'd worked up so much shaky courage in the stairwell, and now this smell was melting her resolve.

—Hi, Mum, she said, looking directly at Katerina.

Her mother chewed the inside of her cheek, something Sonja had never seen her do before, and began to cry a little. Maybe it was anger.

—Sonja. Where is
he
? Katerina asked, looking past her daughter and down the stairwell.

—Where do you think? Sonja snapped, her anger partly due to her nervousness about seeing her mother again.

—What do you mean? Sonja, please don't come here to fight with me, not today.

—Did you call the police on Patri — me and Patrick?

—Don't say his name, Sonja. Don't say his name like that. Like he is your husband.

—Did you call the police?

—What do you mean, Sonja? No.

—Please. Don't lie to me, Mu —

—Do you want to see your father?

—Have you told him yet, Mum?

—He's home, Sonja.

—Oh.

 

She entered her parents' bedroom, but couldn't smell her father. His scent had changed, she suspected. He had changed too. He had put on weight, on his face at least. But his eyes were still full of sorrow.

—Sonja.

—Hi, Dad.

—Are you moving home? he asked.

—No. I don't know.

—Who is this boy?

—His name is Patri —

—How does he treat you?

—He loves me.

Zakhar's jaw tightened.

—These Australians, Sonja, he sighed. They respect things in a different way to us.

—Us? What do you mean, Dad? What do you respect? Do you respect me? She knew she was really hurting her father now, but found that although she told herself she forgave him his drinking and putting the family under financial strain, she nevertheless held deep anger for him. Patrick respects me, she continued. Too much.

—He's older than you, and can only be taking advantage of you.

—Even if he is, Dad, you were too weak to stop me leaving. And now I've left.

Sonja only realised this as she heard herself say it.

—So you are not coming home?

—Can I still see Patrick?

—No.

—Then no. I don't want to — I don't want to come home right now.

But being back here, it suddenly struck her that maybe she did want to be back home. She had to leave her father, so he wouldn't read her thoughts. She went back into the kitchenette where her mother was standing with Peter, her brother.

—Peter, she said, and grabbed him. He hugged her back, tightly, and she did the same so he would feel she still loved him.

—I want to see my brother and sister. And I want to take some of my stuff.

—Take your clothes, Katerina said.

—I want some stuff for school, too.

—He lets you go to school?

—Of course. Why wouldn't he?

—Because he's making a wife out of you, a girl.

—He wants me to go to school. It's me. Sometimes I choose not to go. But I am still going to school, Mum.

It was best that she stay at school. For all concerned. She and Patrick had agreed. But it was hard, when he was at home all day. And the days at home with him were a whole world away from time and school. She should make more of an effort, though. She'd have to talk to Patrick tonight.

If he returned tonight.

She felt a bit weird about coming back to Patrick's flat. It was her home now too, but there was no comfort here. The comfort left with Patrick. Without him, she felt homeless. There wasn't enough of her here. It felt like Patrick had most of her with him, and his return would make her whole again. She needed to vomit, but hadn't eaten anything to facilitate it. She didn't know how she'd cope tonight if Patrick didn't come home. She didn't know if she
could stop herself from going back to her parents' place so she could sleep with her sister. She couldn't sleep alone. Not tonight.

She looked out the window, into the courtyard of sun-killed grass husks, and to the ghost gum and the grey sky behind. It was a cold-looking day, but the humidity begged to differ. She turned on the television, but heard the concrete steps echo with footfalls outside the door and switched it off.

There were three firm knocks.

Sonja breathed as silently as she could and slowly moved to the door. Patrick had a piece of black cardboard over the peephole so visitor's couldn't see anything moving inside the flat. Patrick had told her there could be times when he had to avoid people. Sonja had assumed it was because of drugs. But maybe he could predict something like this happening. Because there was only one person Sonja would let in now. And as she lifted the cardboard and looked through the peephole, she saw that it wasn't Patrick.

The cops knocked again three times. Sonja nearly swore. She saw a cop's head move toward the peephole so she slid the cardboard back over it. She stepped away from the door. Her bladder burned. Adrenaline was hot in her arms. She had to look again. Three more knocks. She looked through the peephole. The cops were checking a black folder. One of them disappeared from view and she heard the neighbour's door pounded three times. Old Sid. She'd heard Patrick talk to him a couple of times. They'd met some of the same people in prison. She doubted if he'd answer the door to cops.

The cops left, slipping a worn NSW Police Force card under the door. Contact ASAP was written in red pen above a Constable Polkinghorn's name and number. Sonja threw it on the bench as she poured greyish tap water into the biggest glass Whitey had.

The tattoo gun's buzz became more annoying than the pain caused by the needle. Abdullah was worried that the expression on his face when the needle first broke skin would betray him, but he could tell Fadi was jealous regardless. And he did truly get used to the pain about five minutes into the session. The Aussie biker had thrown him a look when Abdullah pulled out the Lebanese flag design. But he'd done the tatt anyway, without saying a word.

It was looking, and feeling, powerful. It was something to be proud of. Something people would remember of him.

—You gonna get one, mate? Abdullah asked Fadi.

The biker gave him that look again.

—Soon, mate. When I get the cash together, Fadi replied, and looked at the biker.

—Yeah fuckin' right, mate, Abdullah said, and the biker grabbed his arm hard to steady it.

Abdullah looked down at the biker's work. The green ink was staining inside the lines of the cedar tree. A thought as penetrating as the gun struck him. He'd never been to Lebanon. In fact, he'd never even really thought of going there. He was no fuckin' Aussie
though. This country was full of dickheads, but he wasn't one of them, and this tatt would make that difference clear.

The biker bandaged the wound on Abdullah's shoulder.

—Don't pick at it. You'll tear the colour out if ya scratch the scabs off. Stay outa fuckin' trouble, hey boys.

—No worries, mate, Abdullah said, and extended his hand to the biker.

The biker scratched his stomach and went back into the tattooing room at the back of the shop.

Out on the main drag, Abdullah felt the energy of the pain in his shoulder. The Cross was alive with this sort of energy on any Friday night. Abdullah had fucked his first slut up here not too long ago. Ninety bucks, but fuck, it was mad. Better to get a free fuck though, he thought. The energy, like the wound it came from, was starting to become uncomfortable for Abdullah.

—See that Aussie biker cunt? Thinks he's too good ta shake my fuckin' hand. Lucky I didn't smack 'im one and take me two hundred bucks back.

—Yeah. Dickhead, Fadi said, and looked at the bandage on Abdullah's shoulder. Are ya gonna tell ya dad?

—Huh? Dunno. Fuck 'im.

Fadi could feel Abdullah's discomfort.

—So, what are we doin' tonight? Fadi asked.

—I'm gonna give Mia a call. You can hang if ya want. 'Cept when I'm givin' her one in the back of the car.

 

There were five or six Aussies having a piss-up at one of the barbecue tables in the park. They looked older than him — maybe thirty — but it was hard to tell with the Aussies: their flat faces and hard drinking showed age too early, Fadi thought. He was already
in sight of them, and Abdullah would freak if he went back to the car now, so he kept walking towards them.

—Howsitgoin', mate? one of them said.

—Good, Fadi replied, and nodded at them.

—What's happenin'? the Aussie continued.

—Just havin' a session, mate, Fadi said. But my mate's busy with his missus.

—Fuckin' good on 'im. Wanna beer?

—Nah.

—Don't ya drink, mate?

—Nuh.

—Smoke but don't drink, hey. So what kinda wog are ya? the Aussie said and opened another beer.

—Leb, mate.

—Yeah, you Muslims don't touch the piss, do ya?

—Nuh.

—Ya should give it a try, mate. Mellow ya out.

—Thanks, mate, I'm mellow enough. So, does it give ya a good hit, mate, the beers?

—Fuckin' hit? The Aussie laughed. Fuckin' best hit.

Fadi doubted he'd like the hit of beer. He didn't even enjoy the hit of pot. But he'd started now, and to tell Abdullah and the others that he didn't want to smoke anymore would be more uncomfortable than that first twenty minutes of stoned paranoia after each session.

—Well, you guys have your hit, and we have ours, hey? he said.

—Mate, we have both, the Aussie laughed again. That's the good thing about this country. Ya can have piss, smoke, and whatever else ya fuckin' want as well. We're free here. Not like you poor bastards. Chained to ya religion and ya old ways 'n' that.

—I was born here, mate, like you, Fadi answered.

—You might have been born here, but not like me you weren't.

The whole group erupted in laughter. Fadi moved to look back at the car. He couldn't see either Abdullah's or Mia's head. He walked away from the Aussies regardless.

 

Abdullah had pulled it out this time at least. He said he hated condoms. She was nearly there too. If he had had a condom on, and just left it in for another minute, or even thirty seconds, she would have fully gotten there. He wiped himself with a small towel and put it on the puddle of come on her stomach. He did up his jeans and got out of the back of the car and back into the driver's seat.

—So what took ya so long tonight? We were waitin' at the bottom of ya street for forty fuckin' minutes, he said.

—My dad, she replied. He doesn't want me to go out. Some girls have been raped in the suburbs recently. I had to really convince him. It's getting harder to convince him too. We might have to cool it for a while.

—Fuck 'im. Raped? Ya can tell 'im I'm the only one rapin' ya, Abdullah laughed.

—Don't, Abdullah. It's serious. If he found out I was having sex with you, and if he found out you were Lebanese, he'd kill us both.

—What's wrong with Lebs? We're the best lovers. He should be happy you're gettin' the best.

—I'm serious. We're going to have to cool it for a bit.

—What about ya brother? Is he allowed out?

—What is it with you and my brother? Mia asked, raising an eyebrow in mock suspicion.

—Why, what's he told you?

—Nothing. But if Dad's getting stricter with me, he'll probably be stricter with him too, you know, so I won't be able to complain that he lets Charlie go out and not me.

—What about if I only ring you once a week for a while then? Ya gotta give us at least one root a week, Abdullah said.

—Please don't talk like that. It's meant to be a nice thing we're doing. You don't have to make it seem so — I don't know, crude. Maybe wait for a bit. I'll call you.

—What, so I can't even root my girlfriend when I feel like it now?

—Abdullah…

 

Abdullah finished his third set of thirty reps on the bench-press. Forty kilos. He got up and looked in the mould-stained mirror he'd propped up against the doorless wardrobe where his dad kept his tools. Gettin' cut up. More sit-ups are needed but, Abdullah thought. Sex is s'posed ta make ya fit. Need ta be bangin' more bitches. He flexed and scowled into the mirror, stretching the damaged and inked tissue of his shoulder. Fuckin' unbeatable, mate.

—Make sure you pack up these exercise things and put the car back in, Abdullah, his father said, walking past the side door of the garage and adjusting the nozzle of the garden hose.

—Yeah, Abdullah said, and then to himself: Just water ya fuckin' wog trees. Dickhead.

—And then come inside. I want to show you something, his dad added, reappearing in the doorway.

His dad sat at the kitchen table, still in his State Rail uniform. Abdullah came in wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt. Bet ya it's about the bandage on me arm, he thought.

—There's something in the paper I think you should look at.

—What are you talkin' about?

Abdullah's father slid the paper over to his son.

—I think you should think seriously about this.

Abdullah looked at the open page in front of him. It was the furthest thing from his mind. The employment section.

—There's a couple of jobs you could do, Abdullah.

—What are ya talkin' about? I've got a job. You got it for me, 'member?

—Abdullah, you may not be able to go back to the railways.

—What? Do you agree with those fuckin' Aussies?

—Don't swear at me. You should get another job anyway. It could be a while. Sam Spiropolous was on suspension for two years before they got rid of him for going to the internet things on the station computer. Perno, porno, or whatever you call it.

—Dumb Greek, Abdullah laughed.

—Then you should be smart and look for something else.

—All right. I'll look. Later.

Abdullah's father left the table. His usual gesture when he was frustrated with his son. When Abdullah heard the back door slam on to the plywood frame he looked down at the paper.

But Abdullah quickly bored of the employment pages. Why was it necessary to have all the shit they ask for: communication skills, customer service skills, experience in this thing and that fuckin' thing. Cunts should be happy if people just turned up to a place they didn't want to be. He flicked through the pages, looking at the women in the various images that had made it to print that day. Not much talent. He began to look at the words. Shit that mainly Aussies would be interested in. Cricket scores, golf stuff; shit about banks, and political cunts; Aussie troops in the Middle East (fuckin' cunts); rapes. Rapes.

Abdullah scanned the article for names. There were none. Who was this cunt? A man. What fuckin' man? Rapes. One of those last chicks they fucked — the one who Fadi pulled the starter pistol on — she'd called them rapists. Rape? Abdullah shook his head, bewildered. Maybe, but a fuck's a fuck. But Fadi said later on that he didn't want to pick up chicks that way anymore. That it was a bit fucked-up to be going through all that to get a root. That he'd prefer to just get a girlfriend. And that he'd really scared that chick with the pistol — he'd felt a bit sorry for her.

Rape. Fuck. Isn't rape when you bash them and kill them? If this has come out of that last chick talking to the pigs, telling them she was raped, that's just fucked. She'd let them do it to her. The starter pistol was just a joke. And she'd agreed to a suck already anyway. All the chicks they'd picked up had let them. And they hadn't killed any of them. Hadn't bashed them either. Couple of slaps, but not beat them up. Shouldn't they like having so many blokes? I'd dig having five chicks root me, he concluded. They said they didn't want to do it, but all chicks say that, don't they? And they had agreed to come with us. They knew the deal. And anyway,
like my uncle says, all these Aussies, all these non-Muslims, need sorting out. The country needs sorting out. Chicks walking the streets half-naked. Teenagers allowed to carry on with the opposite sex. Families go to the pub instead of church. All the laws favour the Christian Aussies. And we're meant to fit in with them, their fucked ways. Me and the boys are just stirring it up a bit. And having a bit of fun with the sluts. We're a gang, like the Crips and the Bloods in LA, but also like the Hezbollah. Offensive jihad, like my uncle talks about. We have to be hard cunts. We have to take what's not offered to us. Right?

Callous and cowardly?

Who knew about this? What cunt is talkin' to the cops?

What the fuck does callous mean?

The receptionist at the
Telegraph Post
couldn't, or wouldn't, help Abdullah with any names. She told him to ring the police, which he did — first making sure his own number-sending was switch off on his mobile. The only name they were interested in was his though. But he didn't give it. Not that fuckin' stupid.