Luck in the Greater West (12 page)

Artemesia Testafiglia left school early. She couldn't focus on what anyone was on about: teachers or students. She'd been in some kind of agitated state since she last spent time with Abdullah. He'd always had some kind of effect on her, and when it was a new experience she'd loved it. But now it was getting to be a bit out of her control. This last intoxication was just unpleasant. And she couldn't shake it.

There were some boots at a mall out west that Mia had fallen in love with when she went shopping with Deba the week before. They were high, but had a slender foot — exactly what she'd been looking for to go with some lately purchased but unworn skirts. At two hundred and fifty dollars they'd shocked her mother, but she really had no idea. If she were to buy the same boots in her area — the north-west — she'd be paying at least three fifty. It's amazing what a difference a few suburbs can make. Mia had gotten hold of her mother's Visa card to buy a new jumper for school, but the jumper, of course, could wait.

Mia got on the westbound bus and flashed her student card. It was full of geriatrics, so she sat up the back, behind a westie couple.
The agitation resurfaced. She used to enjoy thinking about Abdullah between times when they were together, to be topped up by his smell, attitude and touch. But now she needed a dry stretch. Maybe. She didn't know what to do. He was hot. She'd invested a lot in him — deliberate betrayal of her parents, or her father at least; her body, her virginity; and so much mental energy. But lately, she'd been starting to miss her pre-Abdullah life — the sense of security her father had created for her. She'd wanted a relationship so badly before she met Abdullah, and he, a hot, confident guy, had made it possible. But maybe Daddy was right: she was too young to judge guys. Mia burped bile, because she hadn't eaten all day. She covered her mouth to stifle the impulse. It seemed to work.

She glanced over at the westie couple. They weren't paying attention to her, so she felt a little easier about her nausea. The guy had potential, but needed to cut his hair short and get some new clothes. Westies love that faded look, like they want to prove that Levis and T-shirts can outlast any fashion trend. The girl was young, or maybe just small. She too needed a hair consultant and, although she had on new and not inexpensive jeans, her shoes didn't go, and the shirt looked like it could be her boyfriend's. The guy touched the girl's hair and looked at her. He gazed into her eyes. He said one or two words, but his eyes were communicating most of what he wanted to say. They both laughed softly and then kissed. It was short, but Mia could tell it was enjoyable — she felt some of it and wanted to touch the guy's arm. It was a kiss of reassurance, of bonding, of something between only them. The guy put his arm around the girl and held her closer. The girl looked into his face and they kissed again. He seemed to respect her. Their physical closeness was so mutual. There was sexual attraction between them, but also so much love. Or at least something beyond just sex.

The couple also got off at the mall. Mia noticed the guy smelling the girl's hair as they stood waiting for the back doors of the bus to open. She wondered if the girl knew he did this. She wondered if Abdullah had sniffed her hair. She doubted it. She doubted that Abdullah had for her any of the feelings this guy held for his girlfriend. Abdullah liked to ejaculate freely and selfishly and drive away in his little car. There, she had admitted it to herself. Because Mia knew she had to start hating Abdullah in order to dispel him.

Patrick had been distant since his return from the police station. He'd held Sonja — as soon as he'd come in the door. But his expression had been too neutral. And he hadn't wanted to talk about the incident; just told her that it was all a fuck-up — a big mistake. He'd seemed pleased that she hadn't opened the door to the cops when they'd come back, three times all up, but his happiness appeared to evaporate as soon as he looked away from her. She'd cried, and Patrick had held her again. She didn't tell him she'd gone back to see her family. But she would tell him. When he seemed happier. When she was happier.

 

—I have ta get a job, he said after a couple of days of not really communicating much.

—Okay. Um, why? she asked, sensing from his tone that working was akin to putting a beloved pet to sleep.

—The dole's not enough for both of us. I can't sell, at least for a while, and I can't claim dole for you, I don't think, so, ya know, I guess I should get a job.

—Oh, Sonja replied. I'm sorry.

—Come here, you. He pulled Sonja close and hugged her. It'll be good. I think I want ta work.

—What will you do?

—Dunno. This West Work joint keeps sendin' me letters, tellin' me to come in and see them for an appraisal. Part of my dole conditions. I have to lie about looking for work on my form every fortnight anyway. I guess I'll go an' see 'em.

—Okay. As long as we stay together. And stay happy, Sonja said, and kissed Patrick's neck because he was finally including her in his thoughts again.

 

They caught the bus to the West Work office near Mt Druitt Mall. Sonja took the day off school. She wanted to be there with him to gauge this situation. It seemed like such a significant step forward. One she hadn't really even thought of, but one that now filled her with hope. And Patrick seemed to want her there. She waited in the foyer while Patrick watched OH&S videos and completed assessments. She read the dry literature on offer that boasted of people's happiness with West Work's services. But listened to the complaints people made to the receptionist about how they'd been sent to the wrong job; hadn't been paid; hadn't been paid; hadn't been paid; hadn't been sent to any jobs at all. She felt empty. She felt sorry for herself and for Patrick. The hope they seemed to share walking in here now felt futile.

Patrick emerged from the carpeted offices off the foyer. He flashed some paperwork at her and folded it into his back pocket.

—We're goin' by the Rooty Hill Plaza ta drop in an application. Greedos is lookin' for people. The chick already rang 'em. I might have a job within a week.

—Good. Are you happy? she asked.

—I guess.

They caught the bus from Mt Druitt to Rooty Hill. They were back in love. They were close and communicating. No one could ruin what they had. Though one thought did land heavily in Sonja's mind as they got off the bus at the plaza: she needed his happiness to be happy herself. Or the surprising happiness she felt when she'd visited her family. It was an isolating feeling. Why were her emotions so entwined with others'? And why did she feel she'd have to choose who she'd be entwined with?

 

The bottom of his bank account was starting to show. The Housing Commission, Electroturbine Company and Telecomonopoly dug out without notice — it was the only way they'd accept Whitey as a customer — and usually they were the only withdrawers. But without his cash income, Whitey had had to start using his dole payment. He'd been told that, as soon as the Greedos pay-office had processed him, he would be paid weekly. Three hundred and thirty a week after tax. More than the dole. But way less than the combination of selling and the dole. He'd also been told that he had to wear a white shirt and black pants. He didn't own any of the type they were talking about, so he'd had to make another withdrawal. Tomorrow he'd be a back dock assistant/shelf-replenisher. He walked past Greedos for the last time as a free man, with his white shirt and black pants in the C Mart bag. He met Sonja after school and showed her the contents of the shopping bag. She laughed.

—I can't wait to see you in them, she said.

 

The staff trainer bent over the bottom drawer of the dented filing cabinet. She had a pale blue g-string on, Whitey noticed. He looked at his boots as she turned around to face him.

—Read and sign this, Paul, she said.

—Okay. It's Patrick. My name's Patrick.

—What? Patrick, is it? Okay. Read and sign this. It's an outline of the company policies.

Greedos Pty Ltd

Greedos = Less Pty Ltd

Big G Pty Ltd

• Greedos employees must promote Greedos, Greedos = Less, and Big G at all times.
  
• Greedos employees must be ready to begin their shift at least five minutes prior to commencement, and be prepared to complete the execution of all tasks regardless of the time of completion of their shift.
  
• Greedos employees must not keep money on their person while at work.
  
• Greedos employees must be neat, clean-shaven and conservatively attired at all time.
  
• Greedos employees must notify management of any theft, by employees or customers.
  
• Greedos employees must provide a doctor's certificate if sick leave is taken.
  
• Greedos employees must adapt to any roster changes initiated by management.
  
• Greedos employees must respect —
  

Whitey looked up at the staff trainer. She was drawing little squares and colouring them in on a tax declaration. He skipped to the bottom of the page and signed it. If he wanted the job there was no use reading the policies: too bad if they sucked.

—Okay, he said.

—Finished? Okay, let's go for a walk around the store.

 

The back dock was full of lamb carcasses. He shook the greasy hand of the apprentice butcher, and that of the back dock manager. The abattoir truck exhaled one last insult of diesel over the little skinned bodies as it left the dock. Whitey was then shown the cold storage area. It smelt like a nest of large wet dogs.

—It's the milk, the staff trainer explained.

Then the produce area. And the grocery area. And the vinyl flaps that led into the shop. Each part of the shop had a name that made no sense to Whitey, so he immediately forgot them. He looked at his watch — which he'd put on for the first time in about two years this morning — and wished it was knock-off time. It wasn't even time for morning tea. It reminded him of his first day inside. Being shown around and told how the joint operated. His chest hurt. He did have a choice though. He could fuck off now. No one would chase him. Nah, it'd get better. The pay 'n' all that. Once he was used to it. Just like inside. You can adapt to anything. He shook hands with and nodded at several people. The people were neutral
at least. They knew why he was here. And didn't care much. Then he met Mr Hardy, Store Manager.

—Patrick, is it? Well, we're going to stick with the policies and keep the stock rotated, faced, and in constant stock aren't we, Patrick?

—Yes.

—Okay, well, welcome to Greedos Rooty Hill.

Mr Hardy didn't offer his hand so neither did Whitey. Whitey smiled though, and looked just past the manager. Mr Hardy wandered off to another stupidly named area of the store, rubbing his hands together. His slacks were pulled up way too high. But large, square arses did suit bosses.

Whitey was then given his first task. Emptying the meat, produce and general rubbish compactors. The compacted and plastic-sealed waste was then wheeled outside the loading dock area by pallet jack and left there for pickup.

—The last cunt left 'cause he had ta do that job every day, the back dock manager said, lighting a ciggie. Hasn't been done for a few days; ya must have a strong gut.

—I'm only just holdin' it down, Whitey replied.

—Well, after that ya can mop out the cold storage area. Now that's another top job, Pete.

—Patrick. Name's Patrick.

—Mmm.

Mia was starving. She'd been having these stupid waves of nausea followed by ravenousness. She knew why too. It was because of Abdullah. She had to talk to him, to tell him about how she was feeling. Because for her, it was over between them. She'd thought she'd loved Abdullah. And she thought she could forgive some of the things he'd done, the way he sometimes behaved. But really, how could she love someone who'd hit her? She'd forgiven him, she'd been fair; but whenever the thought crept back into her head, it made her ill. He'd done it. He'd hit her. That was the reality, and he could do it again. But he wouldn't. She wouldn't let it happen. And the way he talked to her sometimes. Worse than the way he spoke to his mates. She wanted to be serious with someone, and in love with someone, but she couldn't picture Abdullah as that someone any more. She had to tell him. Tell him it was over. But she knew that this was little more than a fantasy until she broke the news to him. And until she did she'd feel sick. But still, she couldn't finish dialling his number once she'd started. After dinner though, it'd have to be done.

—Mia,
mangiare
! her mother called.

At least someone's happy, Mia thought, now at the dinner table. Mum loves it when I eat; she barely eats herself, but makes sure everyone else makes pigs of themselves. She took another piece of chicken and flopped it on her plate. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had any more than half a piece of her mum's
parmigiana
.

—I think we'll have to have chicken seven nights a week, Maria, Salvatore remarked. We've finally found something our daughter will actually finish.

—Dad! Don't make me sound like a pig.

—It's good, Mia. You're too skinny. The last thing you have to worry about is getting fat, her father replied.

—You can never be too skinny or too rich, Dad.

—Don't be stupid, Mia. Too much of anything is — is unnatural.

—All right. Do you have to argue about everything I say, Dad?

—I'm not arguing with you, Mia, but some of your attitudes—

 

She'd had his number displayed on the screen of her mobile phone for ten minutes. She was about to press dial, but stopped again. She went into the options and turned her own number-sending off, just in case she lost her nerve after pressing dial. She brought Abdullah's number back up and called. Fuck it. Just do it.

—Yo, Abdullah's voice answered.

—Hi, Abdullah?

—Yeah. Who's this?

—It's Mia.

—Mia. Baby. Ya numba's comin' up as silent. What's up?

—I just want to talk to you.

—I can come by later. About ten if ya want.

—No. No, I just need to talk to you. The thing is — I think we shouldn't see each other for a while.

—Huh? What do ya mean?

—Maybe we should just cool it for a bit.

—You've said that before. What the fuck do ya mean?

—I dunno. Just not see each other for a while. Have a break.

—What the fuck for? Why are you being a bitch? What's ya fuckin' father said?

—It's not him, Abdullah, it's me. I just need a break—

—You fuckin' some other cunt?

—Abdullah, don't be like that. It's not about other guys—

—I'll be 'round in ten minutes. Be at the bottom of your street.

—Abdullah, no—

He'd ended the call. She tried his number again. It went straight to his message bank. Fuck.

Mia sat in her room deciding whether or not to give in to the nausea. She called out to her brother, and waited until he'd come in then shut the door.

—I've just broken up with Abdullah.

—Good. I mean, if that's what you want.

—It is.

—I don't think he's suited to you. Or you to him.

—I guess.

—He's not faithful to you, Mia.

—What?

—I think he — sees other girls.

—Arsehole.

Mia's phone rang.

—Mia. Where the fuck are ya? Abdullah barked.

—I'm not going to meet you.

—Bullshit. Get down here.

—No.

—Fuckin' bitch —

Mia ended the call.

The WRX pulled into the driveway and the high beams flooded the front windows. The driver sounded the horn.

Mia and Charlie looked out her bedroom window and watched their father approach the car. He leant into the car window and then shook his head. He then brought his mobile up to his ear as the WRX backed out.

It would be a long night of explaining and then re-explaining. Her father never accepted anything the first time when he was pissed off.

Something shattered one of the double-glazed windows of the formal lounge as Salvatore Testafiglia climbed the stairs to his daughter's room.

 

He couldn't go home. His dad would piss him off. Just lookin' at him. He didn't want to see any of his mates. They wouldn't know how to act. He'd chucked that piece of garden tap through the bitch's window. Her dad's a fuckin' cop, too. She better explain to him that it's her fault for trying to dump him. He dropped the clutch through the intersection and saw the cop car, its strobing red and blue lights triggering his heart to beat in hot, involuntary unison. He pulled on the handbrake and punched the sun visor.

 

The ink wouldn't wash off. The cop wore rubber gloves when he took the fingerprints. At first Abdullah assumed the cop put the gloves on because the stupid skip didn't want to touch him. But the cop knew the black shit wouldn't come off. Then he had to have his photo taken. And a photo of his tatt. He flexed when the
cop took that one. And the charge — Malicious Damage. That bitch's father is lucky I didn't damage her and him. Did damage her though. And she loved it. She'll be feelin' that fuckin' sorry now that her father'll be down here droppin' the charges very soon.

—Senior Sergeant wants to talk to you himself. He'll be here shortly, the cop said. You're either one very unlucky bastard, or one very stupid bastard.

 

—That guy says he's your boyfriend, Mia. Your boyfriend.

—He — he was.

—What the hell do you mean, was? You were sneaking around with that?

—I don't know — yes, I s'pose.

—Jesus, Mia. What did we decide about you having a boyfriend? Do you remember?

—You decided.

—That's right. I decided that my daughter can go out with a boyfriend when she's finished school. And your mother and I should meet him.

—You wouldn't like any boy I brought home.

—Can you see why? Jesus, girl, that guy, your boyfriend is — what is he? An Arab? An Arab and a bloody criminal. Have you seen the window? An Arab, Mia. An Italian boy, at least. I would have thought you had some taste.

—Daddy. I'm sorry. She began to cry.

—Mia. I don't know. I don't know what to think. You lied to us. And not just a little lie. And look what's happened.

Salvatore moved closer to his daughter.

—I'm sorry, she said, checking her eyes in the mirror. I swear, Daddy, I'm sorry.

—Mia. You won't see this guy again, will you? I'm serious, Mia. This ends here and now.

—I promise, Daddy, I was trying to break up with him. That's why he did this.

—I thought as much. Mia, I know boys are asking you out. But you have to say no. Look what's happened. You're beautiful, and boys will fall in love. But you don't want this, do you?

—No, Daddy.

—There'll be no more going out on your own, Mia. Not for a long time.

Mia hugged her father. Just a few weeks ago she couldn't even look at him. Now she didn't want him to leave. Because she knew if he left, when he came back he'd have that look again. It was pure hurt. She'd hurt him so much. Just a few weeks ago she wouldn't have cared if her father had gotten upset. He would have deserved it — for limiting her freedom. But now he was the answer. The situation with Abdullah was difficult but she knew Daddy would fix it now. She'd never have to see Abdullah again. She could feel completely sure that it was over. And she could live with whatever punishment her father had for her. And she could begin to win back his devotion.

Her father released his hug as his mobile rang. He grunted and ended the call.

—This boy won't bother us anymore. He's down at the station. I'll have a talk with him.

 

The boy was not even good-looking. Those dark, lying eyes. Skinny little Lebanese. He must be a good liar to have convinced Mia to go out with him. It hurt. Lurking in the back of his mind was the possibility that Mia might have slept with this thing.
He couldn't ask her. He'd rather not know, now that he was faced with it.

—You've got a court date next week. I'll see you there. But between then and now, and every day after that I don't want to see you. And my daughter will never see you.

—She wanted to see —

—You're lucky I'm a cop, mate. You've got a chance to put this behind you and never think of my daughter again. But if you choose not to put it behind you, I know some people who aren't cops who would love to have a word with you.

—What the fuck does that mean? Abdullah retorted, rubbing his shaved head.

—I have to leave now or I'll rip your fucking face off, Senior Sergeant Testafiglia said as he waved a threatening hand just centimetres from Abdullah Najib's nose.

He left the interview room. The blood vessels in his neck, pounding like a mudslide, were bringing him to the verge of vomiting.