Luck in the Greater West (15 page)

—That's good, Dad. Polly and me will come to the hospital with you after school if you like. Is she ready?

—Go inside and see. This is still your home, Sonja.

She went in, unsure of whether her father expected a response. Polly was eating a triangle of barely browned toast.

—Ready, Poll?

Polly rolled her eyes. She liked school, Sonja thought, but was getting to the age when the world outside school begins to reveal itself as an infinitely more interesting place. Even a day off at home could be a secretly novel experience.

—Well, we're running late, Poll, let's go.

Her little sister stuffed the toast into her mouth and slung her schoolbag over one shoulder. Walking to school together was something Sonja had missed when she'd first moved in with Patrick. It was probably the main thing that had kept her going to school now. It made it more comfortable. Going straight to school
from her lover's bed felt strange, awkward. Walking with Polly was a buffer between woman and schoolgirl.

—Bye, Dad, she said.

—Have you thought about it seriously, Sonja? her father asked.

—What do you mean? she replied, but knew.

—Coming home.

—Dad. Yes, I've thought about it. I'm still thinking about it.

—Seriously?

—Dad, I've got to go to school.

Sonja felt the side pocket of her schoolbag. It was something she did whenever she thought of Patrick. Because that was where she kept her mobile phone. She'd left it back at the flat. Shit. She didn't have time to go back for it. Patrick rarely rang since he'd started the job anyway.

They walked hand in hand through the streets that wound up towards their respective schools, Polly swinging their arms to a rhythm that Sonja easily adapted to. Her flat, her parents' flat, had felt different this morning. It had felt like a home. A family home. There was no tension. When she'd moved to Patrick's she had wanted to get out of there so badly. And she'd thought she'd never want to go back. Her mother was just a stress-head and impossible to live with when her father was drinking, and then in hospital. But things had changed since she'd been gone. They seemed calm. It was the way a family home should be. And she missed her brother and sister so much. She missed being their big sister. Sure, she was still their big sister now, but maybe too big a sister — living out of home with a boyfriend. She wanted to be there for them. And when she compared her two homes, one had gotten better, while the other — the one she was living in — had not really developed any further. And in fact, had just gotten a bit tense.
These thoughts had been fighting to come to the surface for a while now, she realised, and it seemed they'd broken through.

As Sonja walked through the school gates, she could sense someone looking at her. She looked sideways, quickly, to try and avoid any direct eye contact. But failed. The boy waved at her. It was Brett, Raz's friend. She waved back, and half-smiled. She'd thought she'd seen him waving at her once before, but had decided that he must have been directing the gesture at someone else; or just being a smart arse.

—Hi, Sonja, he said.

—Hi.

—How are you today? he continued, now walking beside her.

—I'm not too bad.

—You look good.

—Thank you, Brett.

Charlie Testafiglia hated girls. He hated looking at them. And couldn't talk to them at all anymore. Even Sophia in his English class, whom he hadn't been able to stop looking at, thinking about, wondering about a month or so ago, now disgusted him. She was a completely different being now. Girls had flaws. He'd never imagined they would. Not the type he'd discovered anyway. Even his sister, who had turned into something perfect at age twelve, was a totally flawed being. She let someone like Abdullah — like him — do things to her. That girl, in the back of Abdullah's car, had made him come. She hadn't wanted to do it. He could tell by her expression. But her face had made him come. She knew what to do. He didn't even
mean
to come. He wished he hadn't. He hated that he had. And girls, all girls, reminded him of his weakness, his vulnerability.

The hatred had dawned gradually. In fact, it felt like it was still building. It wasn't a violent hate though. It just made him want to avoid females altogether. He was going to avoid Abdullah too. There was no way he was going to do that again. Abdullah had called Charlie though. There were probably fifty
unanswered calls from him on Charlie's mobile. He wouldn't be able to avoid him for much longer. But he couldn't tell his dad — the one thing that would stop Abdullah — because it would kill him. Mia had already nearly killed him. The whole thing made him sick, and he hated it. And everything that was associated with it.

He was sweating, and didn't know what was going on in his class. People were moving, getting up, but it wasn't the end of the period. It'd only just begun.

—Charlie, Mrs Standish said, have you got a partner?

—No, I —

—Well, you pair up with Sophia, seeing as she's decided to finish her conversation with Theresa and Vicky rather than find a partner.

—Jeez, Miss, Sophia moaned.

—It's Mrs, Miss, Mrs Standish said. Now you two go out into the study room so Sophia won't be tempted to start another conversation.

—I'll be all right by myself, Charlie said, but Mrs Standish had turned away and was organising another pair.

Sophia left the classroom without looking at Charlie.

—Come on, Charles, she said in a mock posh tone.

He would have found it so sexy a couple of months ago, but now he felt all the blood drain from his body and into his stomach. He got up on shaky legs.

 

The study room was exceedingly hot. The air was thick, and moving it through his chest was like inhaling jelly. Sophia was talking, but the words sounded like the front gate at home that clanged through the side passage when it slammed. He hated that sound. It was so hot. The air was turning into heat. His neck
muscles went slack. He thought he was going to vomit the hotness. Then his leg muscles turned to water. The desk came up and was about to hit his face. But nothing. It was cool. And he was unaware of his breathing.

 

The voice had lost its tinny ring. He could detect foreignness, but also a comforting timbre. It was a woman's voice. Not Sophia's.

—Charlie. Hi, I'm Dr Keshvardoust. Not feeling so good, hey?

—No.

—I can imagine. Well, it looks like you passed out, mate. You should start to feel yourself again within a couple of hours. We've given you something to keep you relaxed, but it might make you a little drowsy.

—I don't know what happened.

—It's okay. Have you been sick lately? Or stressed about something?

—No. Not sick. I don't know about — stressed.

—Okay. Well, your father is on his way. We'll all have a talk when he gets here.

Charlie lifted himself up in the bed. He was still hot, but the heat didn't have that escalating feeling. He looked at the doctor. She was a woman, not a girl; but she did have something girlish about her. Her hair, or maybe her eyes. He didn't hate her. In fact, he liked her. There was no sickening feeling like the one Sophia provoked in him. Oh, Jesus. Sophia. What the hell happened?

The doctor was talking to a family. A father, or maybe grandfather, and two girls. One of the girls was young, the other maybe his age. He liked the look of her too. She made him feel comfortable, not sick at all. In fact, the only thing left of that
horrible feeling was the detaching memory of it. Charlie moved himself onto his side, and looked back at the girl. She was beautiful. She was with her family. Family. He wanted his father. It was the first time he'd wanted his father to be with him since — he couldn't remember the last time.

Sergeant Rosales checked the office for the third time for the return of his superior. The door was ajar. He was back. He could have rung the Senior Sergeant on his mobile, but thought it better to tell him in person. It was more bad news, or at least unsettling news. Now Sergeant Rosales wished he had called Testafiglia on his mobile. Despite the uncomfortable, sometimes even allergic, relationship he thought he had with his boss, Sergeant Rosales respected him. He didn't need this news; not now.

—Boss. How's the young bloke? Rosales asked.

—He's okay now. He's been under some stress, apparently.

—Oh. But it's all okay?

—Yes. How's everything here?

—Well, there's something you need to have a look at, Sergeant Rosales said, and produced the file from behind his back.

—What is it, Sergeant? Does it need my attention now?

Rosales put the fingerprint report on his boss's desk and slid it across to him.

Salvatore opened the report.

—Which case is this?

—One of the young rape victims. She called triple-oh yesterday saying that one of the attackers had contacted her and was on his way to her workplace. A patrol was sent but they were unable to locate him. He'd come to hand over a mobile phone to the victim — it had been stolen from her during the attack. We just got the report back from forensics. There's a partial print on it. Abdullah Najib. We'll have to get her in to ID him, but it looks like he's one of them.

—This is the same boy, isn't it? The little prick who broke my front window. Unbelievable. Oh, Jesus, Sergeant. Mia. My daughter.

—We'll pick him up, boss.

—Hang on. We've only got a partial print, right? This little arsehole won't agree to an ID parade, so we'll have to get the victims to look at some photos. We don't have to get all the girls down here at once — but as soon as one of them makes an ID we'll pick him up. Oh, and make sure that, ah — Patrick White — is in the photo array for all the girls other than the one who knows him.

—Done and done, Rosales replied, moving towards the door.

—Actually, this victim, the one who had the phone stolen, she said she'd gone with the boys to use an illegal substance, didn't she? Sergeant, get that White down here for more questioning. I believe he's still on probation, so we can bring him in. He admitted to knowing one of the other victims; see if he has any connection with this one. And if he's still dealing drugs he certainly won't be after this. Jose, I've had it up to here with this. Rapes, drugs. This is the suburbs — where families are trying to make a living and have a bloody home.

Tennille Baxter looked at the photos. They lacked the colour of real people. They wore expressions that could not be identified.

—That guy's eyes — maybe, she said tentatively, and rubbed her own eyes.

—You recognise this guy? Rosales prompted.

—I dunno.

—Take your time. It's okay.

Tennille had decided that she would go ahead with the charge if they caught them. But she wished the cops would just arrest the bastards. She didn't want this. She didn't want to have to look at photos, and especially not here, in this police station. The last time she was here was the night of the rape.

—Are these guys suspects? They don't even look like they're, you know, police photos.

—Well, Miss, we can't show you photos that suggest that the people in them have been under arrest. But we wouldn't show you any photos unless we needed to.

Tennille looked at them again. Several of the suspects were ethnic, and a few Anglo-Aussies. She pushed these aside. Then she noticed the slight smile on one of the remaining photos. It was the smile of the first guy.

—This guy, she said, he's not the one who had my phone, but he was one of them.

—This one?

—Yes. Well, I thin—

—Thank you, Miss Baxter.

—Abdullah Najib, you've been detained here at Western Plateau Local Patrol for the purpose of an interview. You can decline to answer our questions if you wish. You are not under arrest. My name is Sergeant Rosales. This interview will be videotaped. Do you understand?

—What's decline mean?

—It means it's up to you if you wish to answer our questions.

—Depends on what the questions are.

—Do you agree to the interview?

—I'll tell ya when I won't answer ya questions.

—Okay, Abdullah, can you tell me what you were doing on the twenty-sixth of May this year?

—Nuh. Don't keep a diary.

—Have you ever been to Rooty Hill Plaza?

—Dunno, maybe.

—Have you ever taken young women for a drive in your car? Young women you met at Rooty Hill Plaza?

—Plenty!

—So, yes?

—I guess, why?

—Have you ever smoked marijuana with young women and then propositioned them for sex?

—Maybe — nuh.

—Have you ever forced young women to perform acts of a sexual nature against their will?

—Ah — nuh.

—Okay, mate. Why don't you tell me what you did do with the young women you had in your car, then.

—Nuthin. If any chicks have said anything, they're bullshitting.

—But you're not?

—That's right.

—Well, we've got your mate next door. The boss is talking to him right now. What if he says differently?

—What mate?

—Your mate you score the drugs off.

Abdullah felt adrenaline jab through his veins. He hadn't thought of this. That they would bring in the other boys. My mate I score the drugs off? he thought. I don't score off nobody. It gets given to me. Fadi gets pot off the skips at his work since my cousin had to stop selling. Fadi's in there? Next door, being drilled too? That fucking cunt. He's already told them about the weed. He'll fuckin' tell them everything, the pussy.

—Look. We did take some chicks for a ride. But whatever they said happened, they wanted it. They knew.

—And what was it, Abdullah? What did they want?

—You know. Sex.

—So you did have sex with the young girls you met at Rooty Hill Plaza?

—Yeah. But they let us. They were sluts.

—Can you tell me their names, Abdullah?

—I dunno — Tenni, Melissa, those chicks?

—Okay, Adbullah Najib, I'm terminating this interview and informing you that you are now under arrest. You will be detained here at Western Plateau Local Patrol.

—Is Fadi under arrest too?

—Fadi who?

—My mate, you said is next door being questioned.

—His name isn't Fadi, but I think we should get this Fadi down here and ask him a few questions.