Between Us Read online

  Clare Atkins wrote her first book, Nona & Me, while living in Arnhem Land, and is now based in Darwin. Nona & Me won the 2016 Book of the Year in the NT Literary Awards, was an Honour Book in the 2015 Children’s Book Council of Australia Awards, and was longlisted for the 2015 Inky Awards and highly commended for the 2015 Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards. She has worked as a scriptwriter on many successful television series including All Saints, Home and Away, Winners & Losers and Wonderland.

  PRAISE FOR NONA & ME BY CLARE ATKINS

  Honour Book, 2015 Children’s Book Council of Australia, Book of the Year for Older Readers

  Winner, Book of the Year:

  2016 Northern Territory Literary Awards

  Highly commended, 2015 Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards

  Longlisted, 2015 Inky Awards

  ‘A powerful coming-of-age story … Atkins writes with clear-eyed sensitivity … Nona & Me is poignant young-adult fiction invoking the complex and often overlooked realities of remote indigenous life.’

  – Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘Clare Atkins writes about a place and a time with love and care, and explores a complicated and fraught situation with honesty and respect … Nona & Me is one of those wonderful books that takes you deeply into a rarely seen world and brings it vibrantly to life.’

  – Books + Publishing

  ‘A powerful, beautifully contoured story of cross-cultural friendship.’

  – The Weekend Australian

  ‘[Clare Atkins] wrestles with some of this country’s most hotly debated political issues with a rare lightness of touch … a convincing portrait of a naive but feverish first love, friendships waxing and waning, and the clash between fitting in and sticking to your values. Above all, there’s a warmth and optimism that’s hard to resist.’

  – Sunday Age

  ‘Clare Atkins delivers a polished, unflinching book that deserves to be read’

  – The Age

  ‘A thought-provoking debut’

  – The West Australian

  ‘Clare Atkins’ debut novel is a triumph: a coming-of-age tale that celebrates friendship and loyalty, family and community. Here is a striking new voice in Australian youth literature, and her story is one that will surely leave its mark.’

  – Kill Your Darlings

  ‘Atkins has chosen difficult terrain for her first novel and mapped it with honesty, style and insight.’

  – Adelaide Advertiser

  ‘A fascinating book, beautifully told, with rich insight into a deeply Australian but little known community.’

  – JACKIE FRENCH AM

  ‘Rosie’s story brims with the joy and pain and complexity of friendship and love at sixteen. I adored this smart, heartfelt book about family, kinship, country, and finding out what really matters.’

  – FIONA WOOD

  Published by Black Inc.,

  an imprint of Schwartz Publishing Pty Ltd

  Level 1, 221 Drummond Street

  Carlton VIC 3053, Australia

  [email protected]

  www.blackincbooks.com

  Copyright © Clare Atkins 2018

  Clare Atkins asserts her right to be known as the author of this work.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.

  9781760640217 (paperback)

  9781743820216 (ebook)

  Cover design by Tristan Main

  Text design and typesetting by Marilyn de Castro

  ANA

  I start again.

  I lift my right foot off the ground, and place it on the lowest step of the bus. My nerves are an electric lightning storm inside me, fraught and fiery.

  The officer waves for me to get on. Her voice cracks with impatience. ‘Hurry up!’

  I lift my other foot. Nothing happens. The officer doesn’t yell or grab me or shove me forwards.

  I take another step, then one more. I’m up in the aisle now. Zahra beckons me towards her, but she’s already sitting next to Jamileh; there’s no room for me there. The boys are up the back of the bus – I can’t sit with them either. Zahra indicates the empty seat in front of her, and I slide into it, as another officer starts calling the roll. This one is short and Asian, with a clipped, singsong way of talking.

  ‘ADE036.’

  A muttered ‘yes’ and a shuffle from the back.

  ‘COR005.’

  ‘Yes.’ Zahra’s voice, bold and grinning behind me.

  ‘KIN016.’

  Silence. He tries again. ‘KIN016? Is that you?’ He’s looking at me.

  I manage a small nod. The lightning flashes inside me again.

  He ticks me off the list, hurries through the rest of the numbers, then turns to the bus driver. ‘Good to go.’

  The roller door in front of us screeches open, and the bus eases forwards. It stops just a few metres in front of where we were; there’s a second roller door blocking our way. The one behind us closes, and for a moment we are locked in a concrete void that is neither in nor out. My stomach churns.

  Then the outer door clunks upwards and the bus lurches out onto the driveway. The Asian officer hurries to take a seat beside the female officer, just in front of me.

  The bus slows at a boom gate. The final barrier is raised. Then we’re out on an empty road. Smooth black bitumen, painted with a carefully dotted white line straight down the middle. The land around us seems to stretch forever, an expanse of flat red earth. The trees on the roadside are stringy, with leaves like bursts of green fireworks erupting into the clear blue sky. So much green, so much space, and not a single person or building in sight. It’s the opposite of home.

  We pass a section of blackened trees, burnt trunks standing like charred sentinels guarding the way to the city.

  Then we’re on a bridge zooming across a shimmering body of water. The ocean, vast and endless. The memory of terror grips me and twists my guts into a knot. I gasp.

  The Asian officer turns to face me, misreading my panic. ‘First day?’

  My nod is as small and fragile as the wings of a butterfly flapping.

  He says, ‘No need to be scared. You’ll like it.’ His voice softens even more, as he adds, ‘It’s a nice school. My son goes there.’

  I can’t hide my surprise.

  He smiles, and his dark eyes crease into triangles. ‘His name’s Jonathan. He’s in Year 10. You see him, you tell him his dad says to help you, okay? If you need anything.’ He holds his lanyard up above the back of the seat and says, ‘This is me.’

  I see his ID photo and his name: Kenny Do.

  The female officer nudges him, and he turns back to face the front. I study him from behind. He has thick black hair, clipped carefully in around his ears. His uniform is wrinkled around the shoulders, as if someone only ironed the flat bits. His wife, I suppose.

  I’ve seen him in our compound before; he’s one of the good officers, Zahra says.

  I silently practise the names I need to remember. Strange sounds. New words.

  Kenny Do.

  Jonathan.

  JONO

  I wake,

  smog in my head.

  Heart like lead.

  Reluctantly

  swing the soles

  of my feet

  to touch the tiles.

  See it’s eight.

  Already late.

  Want to text Will,

  then remember I can’t.

  Last night,

  smoking with the boys,

  choking on dumb jokes

  and guffaws.

  Time suspended.
>
  Skating home in the dark.

  Dad on the moulting velvet couch,

  holding the remote control,

  (carefully bound in cling wrap

  to preserve it from the elements).

  Watching The Godfather.

  (A burnt DVD he bought for a dollar.)

  He looks up, voice hard.

  ‘Where you been, Jonathan?’

  I hate that name.

  ‘Come here.’

  I take a step closer.

  Look him in the eyes,

  let him see the red cracks in mine;

  fault lines above hell.

  ‘You been drinking?

  Or smoking again?’

  I shrug.

  Too

  stoned

  to

  string

  words

  together

  to

  make

  a

  sentence.

  His eyes flare. ‘Why you do this?

  Waste your time on stupid things?’

  He uses the only real power he has:

  ‘Give me your phone.’

  I slump into a groan,

  know from experience he won’t budge.

  I place

  my friends

  my games

  my music

  my life

  into his hand.

  He looks triumphant.

  ‘One week.’

  Seven days stretch

  before me,

  black and endless.

  I force myself to stand

  and start the day.

  ANA

  My eyes drink in our surroundings as we fly past. A cluster of red roofs, hiding amongst lush green trees. Powerlines so big they’re like wire skipping ropes held up in the air by metal giants.

  We seem to be skirting a town now; one side of the road is still bush, but the other is a high mound of dirt that dips away. Beyond that, fences block our view of sprawling backyards.

  Zahra leans forwards in her seat, explaining in Farsi: ‘That’s Palmerston. They have a cinema there.’

  Jamileh’s eyes widen. ‘How do you know?’

  Zahra says, ‘I’ve been on excursions there. A few times.’

  Zahra’s been here almost two years; if anyone wants to know anything they ask her.

  Palmerston flickers past us like a suburban mirage. We don’t drive in.

  More bush and wide roads give way to a barricade of houses. These ones are surrounded by high wire fences, shrouded in black fabric that glints in the sun. Enormous shiny cars zoom past us in both directions.

  Then suddenly we’re climbing off the bus. I stay close to Zahra and Jamileh. The high school, at least, feels vaguely familiar; from the front, it is a series of concrete buildings. Most are low set, but there is one that is like an apartment block, at least three storeys high.

  There is a woman waiting to greet us. She’s wearing a beautiful, long, flowing skirt covered in red flowers, and dangly golden earrings drip from her ears. She welcomes Jamileh, then turns to me. ‘And you must be Anahita.’

  I think KIN016. But I nod.

  ‘I’m Lisa. I work in the Intensive English Centre. I’ll be looking after you both.’

  ‘Me too, Miss,’ says Zahra.

  Lisa smiles. ‘Looks like you’ve already got a friend. That’s great. Thanks, Zahra.’

  Zahra gives her a cheeky grin. ‘No worries, Miss.’

  Her words sound strange and round. Is she speaking Australian? Zahra sees my surprised expression and flicks me a wink. Lisa leads the way into the school. There’s an enormous grass courtyard in front of us, but instead of crossing it we turn into the tall building and begin to climb a flight of stairs.

  Lisa says, ‘The Intensive English Centre’s on the top floor. So it’s easy to find us if you ever get lost.’

  The stairwell folds back on itself in concrete zigzags as we ascend. A group of girls overtake us, chatting, happy and carefree; I long to be like them so much it aches. Two boys run up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Further up, there’s a boy and girl with their arms snaked around each other’s waists; I try not to stare.

  We reach the top. The windows are full of bursting blue sky. There is no smog at all.

  I snap back to attention as Lisa pushes a door open and waves us through to an office. We’re introduced to a woman called Farah, who works as cultural liaison. She smiles and tells us in careful, slow-spoken English that she’s Iranian too. We talk briefly about where our families are from, then Jamileh moves off with Farah, to be shown around. I’m relieved that Zahra stays with me.

  Lisa points out the various classrooms, then hands me a piece of paper showing a grid filled with words. ‘This is your timetable. It tells you which class you have when. Your records say your English is quite good. You learnt in Iran – is that right? And a little bit on Christmas Island, once the school started?’

  I say, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing on Nauru?’ I shake my head. ‘We’ve put you in the “Developing English” phase.’

  ‘Same as me.’ Zahra gives me an encouraging smile.

  Lisa says, ‘That means you have three lines of Intensive English up here then three lines downstairs with the mainstream classes.’

  ‘Lines are classes,’ Zahra explains.

  ‘What is mainstream?’ I ask.

  ‘Classes with the Australian students.’ I give her a small, nervous smile. Lisa quickly adds, ‘Everyone’s very friendly, don’t worry. And we can put you in the same Maths and Humanities classes as Zahra, if you like.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘No worries.’ Those words again. ‘Then you just have to choose an elective. Do you think you’d like to study Science, Technology, Sport or Art?’

  I don’t even have to think about it. ‘Science, please.’

  Zahra says, ‘I’m in Art.’

  But I’m decided. I think of all the books in Baba’s study, piled high. A shiver of anticipation runs through me.

  Lisa’s warm brown eyes search out mine. ‘Anahita? Are you feeling okay? Any problems just come and see me, alright? I’m always here.’

  I nod and – impulsively – form my lips around the strange words: ‘No wor-ries-miss.’

  Lisa laughs and holds a single thumb up. ‘Great.’

  KENNY

  We’re halfway back to the detention centre before Cara brings it up. ‘Shouldn’t have done that, by the way.’

  ‘Sorry. What?’ I turn to look at her.

  ‘Shouldn’t have told that girl about your son.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ I’ve only been in the job a few months; the other officers seem to love giving us newbies advice.

  Sure enough, Cara continues, ‘Last thing you want is your kid getting mixed up with someone like that.’

  I have to laugh. She clearly doesn’t know Jonathan. ‘Someone like that? She’s probably better behaved than my son. He’s no angel, believe me.’

  Cara doesn’t even crack a smile. ‘That makes it even worse. They can use your kids against you. Manipulate you. Manipulate him.’ She must see the scepticism in my expression, because she adds, ‘I learnt the hard way. Became friends with a few of the detainees on Facebook last year. One of their husbands saw pictures of my daughter. And every time I saw him after that he’d say stuff like: “Your daughter is very beautiful.” It was creepy, you know. Like a threat. I was so relieved when he got moved to another centre.’

  There’s a trill of fear in her voice, even now.

  I want to reassure her.

  I want to reassure myself.

  I say, ‘I’m not worried. My son can look after himself.’

  JONO

  I skate

  from the cyclone fences

  of the Narrows,

  to the tiled porches

  of Fannie Bay.

  Kick stop,

  lean my board

  against the whitewashed wall.

  Paste a smile on
my lips

  and head into Will’s house.

  Lean my arms on the cool marble bench.

  Will’s mum, Tracy, breezes around the kitchen

  in tight black gym gear.

  ‘Jono. French toast?’

  ‘Like I ever say no.’

  I sit next to Will.

  The coins in my pocket

  clink against the stool.

  ($2.50 from the back of Dad’s couch.)

  Tracy checks her Fitbit.

  ‘Aren’t you boys running late?

  School’s already started. I’d better drive you.’

  Will groans. ‘We were gonna skate.’

  There’s a thin line of maple syrup dribbling down his chin.

  I say, ‘We can chuck our boards in the car

  and skate home after school.’

  He rolls his eyes at me. ‘Suck.’

  I inhale breakfast, then follow him upstairs.

  My feet drag on the floorboards.

  Will watches with worried eyes.

  ‘You alright?’

  I try to justify my gloom:

  ‘Dad took my phone again.’

  He looks relieved.

  ‘Is that all? Want my spare?’

  He digs into a drawer,

  pulls out the second latest iPhone and a charger,

  and chucks them into my grappling hands.

  ‘Lifesaver,’ I say.

  But my voice is flat.

  ANA

  I stay quiet and listen as the class talks in English around me. Some of their phrases are halting, some are broken, some flow. The teacher, Ms Vo, is leading a discussion about a book they’ve just started studying. It’s called The Outsiders. It has a black-and-white cover with a photo of three clean-shaven white boys staring insolently at the camera, hair flopping into their faces.

  I flip through the pages, and see words that are similar to ones I know but slightly different: outa, talkin’, y’all. I wonder if the words are Australian, like ‘no worries’. There is swearing too; people telling each other to shut up.

  Three boys up the back seem to like the book, or are at least interested in the language.

  ‘Is blade “knife”, Miss?’

  ‘What is a “hood?” Someone stealing?’

  ‘And what about “football”? Is it the round ball or the red one they use here?’