Luck in the Greater West (6 page)

Whitey lay on the floor where he'd woken, where he must have passed out the night before. His mind tracked backward, trying to sort through flashes of what had happened the previous day. He'd gone to the bottleshop, and had been drinking cask wine alone. Either celebrating or drowning something. No. He'd been drinking to absorb shock. He'd never had an afternoon like that. That girl, Sonja. Fuck. Sonja. He looked at where they'd had sex. It made him feel horny — not in the usual hangover-bustin'-fora-quick-hot-orgasm-just-for-a-moment-of-pleasure/escape horniness — but a smooth, genuine endorphin-filled horniness. He looked at the ceiling and smiled.

She's only sixteen.

And all that speed, all that alcohol turned in him.

He sat up and tested the cask. He filled the glass. And smelt Sonja.

He lay back down and pulled the doona off his mattress. It had her on it and he breathed it, and breathed it. Tears stung his eyes with their toxicity, but he had to masturbate, and for the first time in his memory he thought of only one woman.

Or girl.

The intravenous drip was full, which meant that the nurse had only just been. So if her father appeared to be asleep, Sonja knew he was feigning. She wanted her father to be awake; she wanted to talk to him.

—Dad, she said, and touched his arm. Hi, Dad, how are you feeling today?

Zakhar rolled towards his daughter and gave her a small snarl. Sonja knew the snarl was not aimed at her. It was his self-disappointment. He'd told her, when they'd been alone during her last visit, that it finally didn't matter if he drank anymore or not. But he no longer felt like it. The surgeons had removed that part of his liver that made him thirst, he'd said. And the years he'd spent in Australia had been thoroughly wasted.

Sonja kissed her father's forehead.

—Mum just took Peter to the toilet, she said.

He nodded and pulled himself higher up the bed.

—Dad, she continued. I don't even know how to say this. I want to have a boyfriend. Sonja had thought about it all night and all morning between snatches of sleep in which she could feel
herself smiling. She had to tell someone about Patrick. But she didn't want to tell her mother, not just yet. In case her mother couldn't handle it. But her father, although he'd been compulsive with alcohol, was much more in control of his emotions. She could at least trust him — particularly as he was in a hospital bed — to react without succumbing to fits of yelling and tears.

Zakhar regarded her now. His eyes had the look of a child; a child much younger than his daughter. He looked away.

—I don't think your mother will allow.

—I haven't asked her. I wanted to know how you feel, Sonja said, but couldn't look at him now either.

—Boys, Sonja, he sighed. Boys can be friends, but boys can be friendly because they want something that is not friendship.

—What about older boys? Or men? she asked.

—I don't know, Sonja. I think there is little change from boys to men.

—But some men must love their girlfriends.

—A man is something you will have to wait for, Sonja.

Sonja's mother, brother and sister walked into the ward.

—I like someone, Dad, and I think he likes me, she whispered, and glanced at her mother, hoping she hadn't heard.

 

Sonja liked the smell of the hospital. And the hospital staff looked happy today. She walked through the corridors. She wanted to get lost in them. Yesterday she'd made love. She'd really made love. It'd felt stranger and nicer than she'd imagined. It was so — so physical. The part when he put it in. She could still feel him there. And his body on hers. His muscles tensed over every part of her. And lying, smiling at each other.

But did he love her?

It wasn't like with Raz; but it could end up like the Raz thing had — nodding at her the first time he'd seen her after their — what? Fling? Affair? Whatever it was — and then never even looking at her again for the rest of the term.

Would she see Patrick again? How would it be? How could another situation be created where they could spend that sort of time together? Would her parents allow her to see him again if they found out what she'd done with Patrick? She wanted them to know. But Patrick was a man. A man. She had a man. Or, at least, she'd had a man. She couldn't bear not seeing him again.

Natalie looked at the small bag of heads she'd just bought. She'd hoped to smoke some of it with Whitey, but he'd simply handed it to her at the door and told her he was way too hungover to smoke. His flat smelt of sex. He could have at least told her. Just like when they were seeing each other before he went to jail: he'd just stopped. Stopped calling her, stopped talking to her when they ran into one another, and given no explanation. Well, it seemed now she'd gotten an explanation. He was fucking someone else. She put the bag in her pocket as three guys got on the train and sat across from her.

—Hey, one of the guys said.

—Hey.

—Goin' in ta town? he asked, nodding in a north-easterly direction.

—Nah, she said. Just heading home. She shifted a little.

—Where's home?

—Wentworthville.

—With ya boyfriend?

—Pft. Boyfriend. Nah, I live with my mum.

—What nationality are ya?

—What do ya mean? Aussie, she said.

—Ya look Italian or somethin'.

—My parents are Maltese, Natalie said, and pulled her shirt down over her slightly exposed stomach. She could feel their eyes on it. It made her feel cold.

—Maltese. But ya call yourself Aussie, hey? We're Lebs. Ah, except this bloke, he's a choco, but he's a Leb in trainin', he said and ruffled the younger guy's hair.

—Oh, she said. The ‘choco' was cute.

—So, do ya smoke pot? the speaker asked.

—I dunno. Do you? she shrugged.

—Fuckin' A, the cute one said, the subject seeming to give him the confidence to talk. His attempt at a moustache was still soft, feminine, like the hair on her arms — but he was definitely on the way to being good-looking.

—Have you got any? she asked.

—Always, baby, the original talker answered.

—Hmm, Nat said, and smiled at the cute one. She'd been hanging out for a smoke, but she didn't like smoking on her own much. Her mind would tear off in sometimes worrying directions when there was no company to make her laugh. And if these guys supplied the pot, she could save her stash for later.

—We should go for a smoke. What's ya name, baby? the guy asked.

—Buffy, Nat said, because all this attention made her feel like the vampire slayer.

 

They got off at Lidcombe Station and walked a few blocks to a car detailer's workshop. The more confident guy's car was there having new seats installed.

—What was wrong with the old seats? Nat asked.

—They're not as cool as these new ones, he told her. And I still got extra money from my car loan ta blow.

They got in the car and headed for a place where the guys said they could have a quiet, undisturbed smoke. They seemed to be heading back west, but a way Nat wasn't familiar with. She looked around at the guys from her position in the back seat, trying to read their expressions. It felt weird, being so close to these guys, in this little car, when she didn't know them at all. She couldn't read them. And they weren't talking. They wound through back streets and Nat got glimpses of things she thought she recognised: a corner store, a novelty letterbox. Until they parked. They were in the carpark of a public pool. But it was clearly no longer used. The garden surrounding the building was oversized and growing into shapes that no council gardener would have allowed. The boys said they smoked here all the time; that it'd be cool, that no one came down here. Nat wasn't quite sure which pool it was. She wasn't much of a pool kid growing up.

They passed the carapace of the building that was once the ice-skating rink, and their voices echoed through the smashed windows. Two of the boys talked in Arabic, humourlessly. The cute one, who didn't seem to understand the language either, looked at Nat. Then one of the other guys took out his mobile phone and began talking in Arabic, now with a bit more animation. It relaxed Nat a bit, as she'd begun to think that the guys' moods had altered since they'd got here — they seemed to be in a hurry to get to the place where they'd have the session. But she didn't feel like smoking with them anymore.

At the initial-carved barbecue benches that families once used when eating their hot chips with water-wrinkled fingers, a joint
was passed around. Nat refused a toke on the first round, but on the second was forced to explain.

—Have some, one of the guys urged.

—Nah, I don't really feel like it now, she said.

—Huh? Have some. You said ya wanted some. Have a toke.

—No, really, I might just head home actually, Natalie said, and stood up.

—Huh? Sit down, babe. C'mon, relax. We won't bite.

—Hmm. I'll stay for a little while, but I don't want any pot, really. She sat back down. She noticed something switch on in the guy's eyes when she made to leave, something she wanted to avoid seeing again. Going along with him seemed to stop it.

—Sure, the more confident one said. Sure, it's up to you. It's good stuff. You're pretty hot, ya know.

—Thanks. But now I know you've had too much pot, Nat giggled, trying some artificial sweetener on the situation. Anything to stop him from looking at her again with that expression in his eyes.

—Nuh. So, have ya ever gone out with a Leb? he asked.

—No, I don't really know any.

—So, would ya like to have a Lebanese boyfriend? Ya know we're the best lovers in the world. Ya'll never go back after ya've had Leb-style, he said, and they all laughed.

—I don't really judge a guy by his nationality.

—Well ya know Leb guys are fuckin' well-hung, do ya judge on that?

Natalie didn't answer. She looked at the cute one. She tried to half smile at him, but she was feeling too out of herself to manage it. This place, these boys. She wanted to leave. If she could just avoid his eyes. Just get up and leave. These guys would follow her
though; and they were right, no one came here — not one person had come by.

—I might head off now, guys.

—C'mon, babe, the confident one said, and grabbed her around the waist. He pushed her hair back behind her ears and kissed her cheek, then licked it. Then his hand was down the back of her jeans, grabbing her g-string.

Then the other one, the other Lebanese one, was cupping her breast with tensed fingers. The confident one undid the button of her jeans and Natalie pushed his hand away.

—'Ey, fuckin' bitch, he snarled.

—Fu — Fuck, Natalie gasped, and she was crying. She hadn't felt it coming, the crying was sudden.

—Charlie, get the fuck over here, the confident one said to the young one. Hold her.

She felt the guy's arms wrap around her. The other two pulled her jeans off. There were hands all over her vagina, fingers cutting into her. They were pulling at her undies, but somehow she managed to keep them from coming all the way off. Someone was yelling in the distance. Natalie shut her eyes.

—Abdullah, ya dirty bastard, she heard more clearly now, and the hands were off her. She opened her eyes. She could smell them, these guys. They smelt of an almost-feminine cologne, stale sweat and marijuana. The one who'd pushed her down, whose hot breath she'd felt in her throat, was motioning or waving or something. There were more guys coming. The other Lebanese guy stood on the barbecue table and yelled something in Arabic. The other one whistled. Natalie stood and ran. They'd pulled off her shoes with her jeans. She hadn't even felt it. She ran. She ran away from the guys, away from the barbecue table, her jeans, her shoes, her wallet.
The guys were yelling. She ran towards the other end of the now-filled-in pool, and through a gap in the cyclone-wire fence. There must be some shops, some houses.

 

The lighting was way too harsh in the little interview room. They'd given her a blanket, and Natalie sat there with it wrapped around her in her T-shirt, socks and undies until her mother arrived with some pants. A female cop had sat with her, but Natalie was barely aware of her. When her mother turned up, another cop, a man, wanted to talk to her. He said, to start with, just to tell him in her own words, in her own time, what had happened. It was hard to know what to tell them. Her mother kept crying and looking away from her; she seemed pissed off about the guys getting hold of the wallet, knowing her address now.

—One's name was Abdullah, she began.

—Abdullah, the female cop repeated.

—Yes.

—And the younger one, I think they called him Chris, or — Charlie. They said he wasn't Lebanese. Italian I think. They called him a choco.

She couldn't remember what they looked like. Like any other bunch of guys. Not westies though. They wore those clothes that are meant to look cool but don't. One was wearing a European or Pommie soccer shirt. She could remember the more confident guy's expressions. And his smell. My god, please don't let me smell that cologne again, she pleaded. She seemed to reek of it herself though. She wanted to vomit. They'd gotten her a bucket. But the vomit wouldn't come. Like the rest of her, her stomach was paralysed. And then she realised there was a name for why she was here, why they were about to take her to the hospital, why the lady
in the four-wheel-drive she'd flagged down had so readily let her into her new Landcruiser and brought her here: rape. She'd escaped. But nevertheless, she was a victim of rape. It was something she'd worried about, like any woman, but she'd never imagined she'd be an actual victim of it. Never.