Luck in the Greater West (17 page)

Mia sat in the interview room and found she had trouble breathing. She was nervous, but hadn't expected this level of anxiety. An officer came in, one she hadn't seen before when she'd been here with her father. Mia was thankful it was a female officer.

—Hi, Mia. I'm Constable Wong. Your father asked that I conduct this interview. As you probably know, he's removed himself from this case, and you also personally know a number of the other officers here, so it might not have been comfortable talking to them.

—Okay.

—So, we'll start at the beginning. How did you meet Abdullah Najib?

Mia told her. She told her everything she could remember. And it was like she was telling the story of some other girl. Especially now, since she'd heard bits and pieces of what Abdullah and his mates had done. That girl, that other Mia, was a fucking fool.

When she had finished, the officer asked her the names of all of Abdullah's friends, and if she knew where they lived. Mia could
give their first names, at least most of them, but not exactly where they lived. Even when they'd gone to Abdullah's friends' houses, she couldn't say where they were, because she'd never driven, and most of the time the surroundings were unfamiliar to her.

—Abdullah and his friends lived around Punchbowl, which is a fair few suburbs away from Newington, right?

—That's correct, Mia.

—And you say they met these girls in the western suburbs?

—Yes.

—I heard them mention the west a few times, and then they'd laugh and give each other high-fives. I realise now that's what they must have been talking about.

—Okay. Now, Mia. Did Abdullah, or any of his friends, force you to have sex?

—Will my dad hear any of this?

—Yes, he may. But if you were raped, Mia —

—Abdullah and I had sex. He didn't force me —

—Did you use protection? A condom?

—He wouldn't.

—You need to have a blood test, Mia.

—Oh, Jesus. Oh no. I have been feeling sick.

—And if you're sure it was consensual, your father doesn't have to hear about it, Mia. But make sure you get that test. We can arrange it for you.

—Thanks —

Mia began to cry. Cry from real pain. That girl, the one she'd just told the story about, that other Mia, was her.
She'd
been foolish. She'd gone out with that arsehole. She couldn't picture it, the things he was supposed to have done. But then there was that time he hit her. That guy, that monster who'd hit her, he would be
capable of anything. She was lucky he hadn't done it to her. Offered her up to all his ugly mates. How could her judgment have been so off? How could she not have seen what he was like? He'd broken her, emotionally. Mia couldn't bear to think about what he'd done to all those other girls.

Whitey could finally drink no more. Not even water. His stomach was rejecting everything. Everything was coming out. Sweat, tears, shit, vomit. He'd been drinking for a few days, trying to get used to the strange new flat. The flat without Sonja. It was empty. It smelt sweet, like rotten grapes or apples. Or both. He'd been able to take ownership of the Sonja-less flat while he was drunk. But the cement-rendered walls were cold this morning, reflecting the feel of this sudden sobriety. He got up off the floor. He showered, but the soap had finally been reduced beyond utility. He stood in the water through hot, warm and then dead cold. He shaved before drying off. His hands were steady, but his head was shaky. He threw all the clothes he could find into the twin tub and dressed in some jeans and a grey (once black) shirt, neither of which had been worn since before his stretch in prison. He headed out of the flat.

He climbed the stairs and knocked on the door. He knew he wouldn't have been able to do this in any other emotional or physical state. Not drunk. Not sober. But in this purgatory it was possible.

Sonja's mother answered.

—Hi, Whitey mumbled.

—Hello.

—Is, um, Sonja here?

—She's getting ready for school. I don't know if she wants to talk to you.

—Oh.

—I'll see if she will, Mrs Marmeladova said without looking at Whitey.

Sonja came through the lounge room to the door. Her hair was still a bit wet. She looked older. She didn't smile.

—Wait outside. I'll come out in a minute, she said.

When she did come out she smiled a little, he thought.

—Hi, Sonja.

—Hi, Patrick. How have you been? You look — pale.

—All right. Actually, not good, Sonja. I miss you.

—I miss you too, Patrick.

—Will you come back to me?

—I don't know, Patrick.

—Why did you go, Sonja? Don't you love me anymore? Suddenly he felt faint — as if the carpark they were in was suddenly not real; and neither was the blood pushing up to his head.

—It's not that. But things changed.

—What? What changed? Whitey asked, beginning to sweat and get a cold, tight feeling in his torso as blood and concrete rushed back to this new reality.

—Look, I love you, Patrick. I've never loved anyone else. But — the only way to say it is going to sound cold, but it's not. It feels like our relationship was a phase; a phase of my life. One I'll never forget. One that was perfect. But nothing perfect can last. Nothing lasts. Things change —

—It can be perfect again. I'll change if that's what it is, Patrick pleaded, and hated the sound of his voice.

—I don't want you to change. That's not it. Like I said, I don't think we can go back to how it was. I was so in love with you, nothing else mattered, and I loved feeling like that, but when it started to go, I saw that there are other things that matter.

—But I don't matter? Patrick asked.

—Of course you matter. We just need to take some time out, stop and look at what we're doing.

—So you'll come back? After some time?

—I don't know, Patrick. Maybe we'll be together in the future. But I think for now we should give it a break.

—For how long?

—I don't know. I've got to get going to school though. I'm late.

—Do you want me to walk with you?

—No. That's okay.

He watched her walk off. He'd never found her sexier. He grabbed his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed it until it really hurt. He tried not to cry and realised that he'd never fought against, or ever really cared about, a girl breaking up with him before. He'd always known that it would suck severely when he did finally give a shit. It was worse. But there was some hope to take away from this. Wasn't there?

Salvatore almost walked out of the Pigeons Arms as soon as he walked in. He'd never had a drink by himself. But it was the only way, or at least the most painless way, he'd reasoned, he could digest what he had to digest. And to decide what to do about it.

He ordered his beer, carried it to a booth and had a couple of sips, then a long pull on the schooner glass. He took the plastic bag out of his briefcase.

Maybe it was his years of policing, or maybe it was the strength of his connection with his daughter — either way, something had forced him to look in the bin next to the upstairs toilet at home. Wrapped too obviously in half a roll's worth of toilet paper was a pregnancy test stick. Blue, faded, but nonetheless blue: positive. It couldn't be Maria's. She would tell him if she was pregnant. The second she knew. And Mia. She was, in hindsight, displaying signs. Nausea, increased appetite, crying. Salvatore had heard his daughter crying. Crying in a way he'd never heard her cry before. Not sulking or sooking. Crying like a woman. He'd reasoned it was because of the Abdullah Najib thing, but this had prompted him to think it was more. Constable Wong had told him that Mia had not
been raped. But was Mia lying? Or had she slept with him? Or someone else?

The beer was working. He'd tried to take the plastic bag out of his briefcase at work after closing his office door. But the hot blood in his chest made him feel like vomiting. His mind searched for a way to make it not true. Here, with three-quarters of a glass of Tooheys in one hand, he could touch the open plastic bag. And begin to work through the sickening information. Because this luck was his; he'd have to take ownership. It was just like the sort of luck experienced by other people in the community he policed. But never him. Did they feel like this? Did the parents of the many pregnant teenagers he'd seen in the suburbs of the Western Plateau go through this churning of emotion and partially digested
penne lisce
? He'd never considered that they would. He'd thought that their bad parenting was to blame for unwanted pregnancies. So was he a bad parent? And just as important, was this pregnancy unwanted?

He drank off the rest of the beer. He wrapped up the plastic bag and picked it up off the table. He could still feel the nasty, hard little stick inside it. Salvatore got up to leave, but as he looked to the exit he realised he hadn't made any decisions.

He ordered another beer. And a blast of Galliano.

There was so much to consider. Just as he'd grasp some sort of answer, contingencies flew in from left field to topple his resolve. Like in discussing it with Mia, should he involve his wife? Would Maria complicate the situation or help? She'd have to know. Eventually. But should he tell her straight away? His instinct was not to. Salvatore had kept a strangle-hold on his emotions over this, and was beginning to feel almost proud of himself. He wanted to deal with this situation while he still had a good grip. Maybe Maria would make him, or let him, let go.

Driving helped his thoughts run a bit smoother. He'd come to a decision. At least, the forward motion of the car had let him fix on one. He would talk to Mia. Not confront, talk. He wouldn't even produce the evidence. It was, after all, something very private. Something his daughter had had to dip in her own urine — and quite desperately. And he wouldn't make her confess. What she'd done wasn't criminal. It was something more confronting to Salvatore at this moment. What she'd done was human.

 

The poles of Salvatore's world had been reversed. He was a passionate man. But he'd always saved his passion for his home life. At work, he'd never let his emotions rule. You can't. You simply cannot as a police officer. That's why he was where he was today — with his own patrol. But last night he'd brought some of that professionalism into his home. He'd acted like a cool-headed, professional father. If there was such a thing. But his emotions needed aspirating. And he was at work now, with much entrusted power at his disposal. And he'd forgiven more than he was ever prepared to forgive.

So he made the call, while it was still hot inside him. To an old mate who'd moved over to Corrective Services. Long Bay Jail. A call to ensure the future would hold some satisfaction.

The worst part is when you wake up every morning. And see the walls. And the stupid fuckin' metal toilet with no seat. Sleep was perfect though. While you were in it. But the others in here, and the guards, don't give a fuck about keepin' the noise down. Abdullah had built a place he could get to in deep sleep. And every second spent there was warm and quiet and soft. But the dreams he had to travel through to get there were fucked. Traps. Traps that could keep you bound up until some cunt woke you by yelling or coughing or banging something. You were thankful to get out of the trap, but pissed off you didn't get a chance to break through to the deep place.

The guard slid the door open.

—Shower, mate.

And in the open shower area he saw what he'd been expecting to see every day since he'd been refused bail. One of his mates. They looked at each other. Abdullah nodded slightly and wondered if it was the right thing to do. Fadi was naked. He had a pretty small cock. Everyone in here did. Even him. Abdullah hated the showers. It was typical, he thought, that of all places he'd see Fadi at the showers.

—Hey, Abdullah said.

—Hey.

—So. You're in here, Abdullah continued, and almost began to undress, but shifted from one foot to the other instead.

—Yeah. They hammered me, mate.

—So are we mates?

—Yeah, I guess. Why? Fadi asked and tried to cover his cock with the soap.

—Dunno. I just been thinkin' I ain't got no mates since I been in here.

—We done the same thing, mate, Fadi said and put a towel between himself and the awkwardness of the situation.

—But what did we do? Abdullah asked.

Fadi quickly dressed to avoid answering Abdullah. He too wondered what they'd done. It was so remote — and doubly so in here — from his life now.

—Dunno, he shrugged.

 

The Bellevue Remand Centre dining hall was small but the sound of coughs and snorted phlegm ricocheted off the ecru brick walls. Abdullah had no appetite for the cold toast and cereal but had learned to force it down. He was starting to feel skinny. And Fadi seemed bigger now, so Abdullah would try not to leave a crumb of the dry Aussie food today.

—Do ya talk to anyone in here? Fadi asked.

—Nuh. No cunt's in here for more than a few months, I think, so no one really talks. Some cunts do. But not to me.

—What'd ya get charged with? Fadi said.

—Rape and some shit.

—Same.

—Rape. I never thought it was rape, man. Sluts are sluts. It's well-known, isn't it? Abdullah said and tossed his neck until the vertebrae cracked satisfyingly.

—I can't work it out. I never thought any of this shit would happen. I thought we'd get in shit for takin' that chick's mobile. I didn't think she'd go tellin' anyone about what we did. I mean, why would a chick want to tell people about that?

—Fuckin' bitches. That fuckin' Mia give me up to her father, too.

—What about the little brother, that Charlie fucker? Fadi asked.

—I don't know what ta do about him. I told my solicitor that a pig's son was involved and he told me to leave it with him, not ta mention it ta any cunt yet.

—Did ya olds get a Leb solicitor for ya? Fadi asked.

—Nuh. Some fuckin' Turkish cunt. At least he's Muslim.

—I got a Leb. But the prick wanted to know every fuckin' thing. He says I'll probably do some time.

—Mine says that too, Abdullah replied. You know, now, since bein' in here, when all ya can do is think and shit, it's like that whole time we were with those chicks I was someone else. Like I handed the wheel over to some other cunt. And they just floored it.

—Yeah, I know what you mean, man, Fadi said. But we did do it. Man, I never told ya, but each time we did it I got this shit feeling after, and it kept getting worse each time. Did you get that feeling too, man? And ya kept remembering the look on the chicks' faces. Did you get that too?

—Yeah. I got it. Lookin' back, I got it. But a lot of things make me feel shit. Man, we gotta stick to sayin' that the chicks wanted to go with us, wanted to fuck us, okay?

—Yeah, I know. My solicitor says the same thing.