Between Us Read online

  I tense. ‘They are from library. My teacher say …’ I trail off as I see her grin.

  She says, ‘I’m joking. Happy reading.’

  We wait for the locked door to click open, then file inside, showing our ID at each checkpoint as we pass through.

  As we near the Surf compound, I spot my mother pacing up and down the perimeter fence. Her face lights up when she sees me. ‘Anahita, joon!’

  She hurries towards the gate, her pregnant belly bobbing up and down. Arash looks up from where he’s been playing in the red dirt and starts to run towards me too. I show my ID one final time, then I’m in Maman’s embrace. Arash’s tiny body barrels into my legs, his skinny arms wrapping around my knees.

  He squeezes me then sprints off again. He’s become obsessed with running; there’s so much more space here than on Christmas Island and Nauru.

  Maman yells after him. ‘Arash! Officer! Officer!’

  He screeches to a halt, eyes wide. The officer at the gate isn’t even looking in our direction, but it’s enough to make Arash sprint back and grab onto Maman’s skirt. I hate that she uses it as a threat, but it works.

  She looks intently into my face, as if she wants to absorb every thought and feeling I’ve had in her absence. It’s the first time we’ve been apart since coming to Wickham Point; I wasn’t allowed to start school last year while we waited for my immunisation records to come through. They seemed to take forever.

  She says, ‘Aziz-e delam, how was it? Were they nice to you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I push the image of Jono staring at the bus out of my mind.

  Maman eyes my headscarf. ‘Did you take that off at school? I told you not to wear it.’

  I run my hand over the fabric, feeling the uneven lumps of patchy hair beneath.

  ‘There were other girls wearing headscarves and hijabs, Maman.’

  ‘But not the Australians?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell who’s who.’ I crouch next to Arash to avoid her probing gaze. ‘I missed you.’

  He copies my words. ‘Missed you.’

  ‘I brought you something.’

  ‘Chi? What is it?’ His face glows with excitement.

  I unpack the books from my bulging bag onto the hard earth. I chose the shiniest, newest books from the school library; the opposite of the ones they have in the library in here.

  Arash picks up the top one and shoves it into my hands. ‘Bekhoon, Ana! Bekhoon!’

  I start to read.

  KENNY

  I see the girl from the bus crouching on the ground near the gate to Surf. I don’t want to approach, but protocol demands that I check: what if she’s doing something that’s not allowed? Has she smuggled something in from school?

  I edge closer, trying to stay out of view. There’s a book cradled in her palms. Her little brother peers over her shoulder at the pictures as she turns the page. Their pregnant mother shifts heavily, from foot to foot, nearby. The mother is quite striking, really; she’s always immaculately made-up, like some kind of movie star. Some of the officers jokingly call her the ‘Iranian Catherine Zeta-Jones’. There’s an Afghan David Duchovny and a Rohingya John Lennon in here too.

  I’m close enough to hear the girl’s voice now, reading in a halting but familiar chant: ‘Can’t go … over it, can’t go … under it … have to go … through it …’

  I think I remember Roxanne reading that story to Lara and Jonathan when they were small. Something about a bear hunt. I never read much with the kids. They teased me about my pronunciation. Still do.

  As if she senses my presence, the girl looks up, sees me and smiles.

  Cara’s words echo in my mind. They can manipulate you. Manipulate him.

  She has stopped reading now, and waves in my direction, as if beckoning me over. I avert my eyes and walk quickly on, pretending I didn’t see.

  The soft lilt of her words chases after me. ‘Can’t go … over it … can’t go … under it …’

  JONO

  Dad arrives home with an offering of peace:

  ‘Want to have dinner at McDonald’s?’

  Of course I say yes.

  We sit opposite each other

  behind a barrier of burgers and coke.

  (Now Lara’s gone, one Value Box feeds us both.)

  Dad asks, ‘How was school?’

  ‘Okay.’

  I flick the question back at him: ‘How was work?’

  He says, ‘Not bad.’

  But his shoulders seem to slump.

  He watches, as I take the pickle out of my bun.

  I try to sound offhand as I ask,

  ‘What do you do out there, anyway?’

  ‘Security. You know that.’

  He inhales soft drink

  until slurps rumble in the bottom of his paper cup.

  I persist.

  ‘Yeah … but what do you do, day to day?

  I mean, who’s out there?

  And what’s it like?’

  KENNY

  I cram fries into my mouth, trying to buy myself some time. In the three months I’ve been working at Wickham Point, Jonathan’s never asked me about it. Never shown even a hint of interest, let alone come out with a string of questions like this. I shift uneasily, wondering if this is about the girl. Did he meet her today? I want to ask … but what if he didn’t? Maybe – hopefully – he never will. To mention her now might be opening a can of worms.

  I decide to tackle the easy question first. ‘They’re from everywhere. Burma, Afghanistan, Iran. Vietnam. New Zealand too.’ I’ve always found it easier to talk in facts. Emotions are trickier. Messier.

  Jonathan frowns. ‘I thought everyone out there came by boat.’

  ‘Most did. But some overstayed their visa, or had their residency cancelled. And others just went fishing in the wrong spot. Crossed into Australian waters. They’re Vietnamese, mostly. I think they pretty much see it as a holiday from work.’

  I’m trying to lighten the mood, but Jonathan is unusually focused. ‘So … why do they have to be locked up?’

  The justifications they gave us in our officer training swim readily to my lips. Defending our borders. National security. Protecting our quality of life. I’m not even sure I completely believe them, but it’s easier to accept what I’m told than start asking questions and risk getting fired. I tell myself I just need to stick to the basics: do my job, get paid, go home and look after Jonathan.

  He frowns, as if I’m talking gibberish. ‘What does that even mean?’

  Irritation swells inside me and I snap: ‘Why you ask so many questions?’

  He stares at me with his big dark eyes. Those eyes that show every scrap of hurt and pain, and make me worry so much that some nights I can’t sleep.

  He sits back in his chair and picks up his burger. ‘Forget it.’

  ANA

  We watch The Voice on the TV in our room. In the commercial breaks, Maman peppers me with questions about my day. ‘What classes did you go to? And what did you learn?’

  My answers are stilted and careful; she’s got enough to worry about, and I know there are things she wouldn’t like. Such as the fact all the classes are a mixture of boys and girls. Or that we’re studying evolution in Science; I remember once listening to her debate with Baba about whether it fits with the Qu’ran.

  So I avoid mentioning it and describe the grounds instead: the lush green grass, the curving paths, the space.

  Arash listens with wide eyes. ‘When can I go to school?’

  I say, ‘Hopefully in two years.’

  ‘I want to go now!’

  Maman hugs him. ‘What about the Australian students? Were they friendly?’ Her voice is tinged with anxiety. Before we came here she thought Australia would make us welcome. But then we arrived to high fences and locked gates. She’s convinced it means the Australians don’t want us here, and maybe she’s right.

  Jono’s expression flickers into my mind: Oh, you’re one of them.

&nb
sp; I’m grateful when the commercials end and The Voice comes back on. Maman returns her attention to the TV; it’s her favourite show. We always line up for dinner at the Mess when it opens at six, so we can be back in our room to watch it by seven.

  A young black man begins singing a crooning ballad, and Maman watches, almost breathless. He’s good. One of the judge’s chairs spins to face him.

  I try to focus on my homework, using my dictionary to search for words from The Outsiders, then look up again as Maman exclaims, ‘Yes!’

  The final judge’s chair turns around.

  I grin at her. ‘Of course he was going to get through.’

  ‘Alhamdulillah.’ Maman thanks God for everything, from our boat making it to Australia to contestants doing well on The Voice.

  A blonde woman comes onstage and starts singing a warbly American pop song.

  ‘Maman, you’re better than her,’ I say. ‘You should enter.’

  Maman laughs. ‘I could never do that.’

  Women aren’t allowed to sing in public in Iran. It’s been that way since the Islamic Revolution, just a few years after Maman was born. I think about pointing out that we’re in Australia now, then realise it’s not exactly true; we could still be denied refugee status any day.

  Maybe Maman is thinking that too. She says, ‘The Husseins were resettled to Sydney. Did you hear that? Meena told me.’ Zahra’s mother is amazing like that: ask her about anyone and she can tell you if they’ve been moved, deported or resettled, and the current status of their visa application. She and Maman are close; they have mutual friends in Tehran, which made Zahra and me instant friends as well.

  Maman points to a piece of paper beside me on the floor. ‘Don’t forget to fill out the request form there, okay? Tell them we want to see the case manager. What’s his name again? Tom? It’s been weeks. I need to ask him about Abdul again.’

  I resist the urge to scowl. Abdul is Maman’s boyfriend. We’ve never really got on, despite the fact he’s Arash’s dad and I adore my little brother. When they diagnosed Maman with pre-eclampsia and transferred us here from Nauru they refused to let Abdul come, because of a criminal charge for punching a wall. If I’m honest, I’m enjoying the break from him, but Maman is desperate to be reunited before the baby’s born.

  I start to fill out the form. Maman pretends not to watch over my shoulder as I write. The foreign letters and words take shape.

  It occurs to me that I could write anything; I could write: Fatemeh Shirdel requests to go on The Voice – and she wouldn’t know.

  The thought makes me smile.

  Maman leans forwards, worry in her eyes. ‘What are you smiling for?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I double-check the form and sign Maman’s signature down the bottom.

  She reaches around Arash to take it, swatting his grasping hands away. ‘Let’s hope God turns his chair around for us.’

  She laughs, but I can hear the desperation in her tone.

  For English, we’re in the library again. We traipse down the stairs, emerging from the grey of the stairwell onto the central lawn. For once, it’s empty. Quiet. Just a rectangle of green gazing up at the sky.

  I close my eyes and inhale the warm, earthy smell of damp grass. It reminds me of hiking with Baba in the mountains in the north of Tehran; we used to go every Friday, me running beside him, two steps for every one of his.

  When I open my eyes again the class has moved on.

  Zahra calls back, ‘You coming?’

  But I can taste it now. Freedom.

  My eyes fall on a nearby door; it has a sign with the outline of a woman wearing a knee-length dress.

  I point to it. ‘I’m going to the bathroom.’

  ‘Want me to come?’

  I shake my head, but she’s already checking with the teacher. ‘Ms Vo, can Anahita go to bathroom?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I quickly say in Farsi, ‘You don’t have to wait.’

  A frown flickers across her face, but she moves off, following the class.

  I push the heavy door open. It bangs closed behind me. I wait for the chatter of my classmates to fade away. Then suddenly it’s quiet.

  There is no-one with me, next to me, beside me. No officer watching me, monitoring my every move. It’s just me. Perfectly alone.

  I look at myself in the mirror: it’s a real one, made from glass. I take in my wide brown eyes. Headscarf framing my round face. Grin spreading across my lips. I say, ‘Ha!’ It echoes off the dull concrete walls. ‘Ha! Ha! Ha!’ The sound bounces and jumps in my ears. I smile broadly at my reflection, splash water on my face, then peer outside.

  The quadrangle is silent. Waiting. I step out onto the grass. The sun is hot on my face.

  I close my eyes and breathe it all in again. The steamy scent of life. I picture Arash beside me, his face glowing with joy. He never got to go to the mountains in Tehran; Abdul always hated walking, even around the block. He couldn’t be more different from Baba.

  And suddenly I’m running. I run and run and run for Baba – and for Arash. The warm sticky air hugs my body, and I can hear the flap of my headscarf as it billows out behind me.

  JONO

  Kicked out.

  Again.

  Nicked out.

  Again.

  Gone.

  I walk down the snake-gut hallway

  to the lawn.

  Feel the sun on my skin.

  Let it soak in.

  Let the frustration

  drain out.

  ‘Not listening.

  Mucking around.’

  ‘It’s called having friends.’

  ‘Don’t give me attitude.’

  ‘Everything’s an attitude, sir.

  Sitting quiet is an attitude.’

  ‘Don’t be a smart-arse.’

  ‘Thought that’s what we’re here for.

  To be smart.

  To sit on our arses.’

  ‘Please wait outside.’

  (Ridiculous that he’s polite

  even though his eyes are spitting fire.)

  But I’m not waiting.

  Not today.

  Outside it’s just me …

  and her?

  The girl from Science

  is running across the fresh clipped grass.

  She stops, looks behind,

  like someone’s following.

  No-one’s there.

  A smile infuses her rosy cheeks.

  She runs again.

  Almost-skips,

  then laughs.

  Bell-like, it shatters the silence.

  I call, ‘Hey!’

  ANA

  I hear a male voice and freeze.

  ‘Wait!’

  There it is again. I turn slowly and … it’s him.

  He sees the panic on my face and says, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  My heart is pounding so loud I wonder if he can hear it.

  He says, ‘You’re in my Science class.’

  I manage, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Jono.’

  ‘Yes … My name is … Anahita.’

  ‘You’re new here.’

  ‘Yes.’ My English vocabulary seems to have shrunk from around five hundred words to one. I think of his expression the day he saw me on the detention centre bus. But I have to ask. I want to know. ‘Your name is … Jonathan?’

  His long hair falls forwards, covering half his face, as he nods. ‘I like Jono better.’ His voice is gentle, almost shy. I notice his hands are shaking. He sees me looking and shoves them deep into his pockets.

  I want to tell him about meeting his dad, but while I’m searching for the words, he asks, ‘Where are you going?’

  I say, ‘The library. My class. In there.’

  A trickle of sweat slides down my forehead. I quickly wipe it away. Did he see me run? Skip? Laugh? Is he going to tell someone I was here?

  He kicks at the dirt, and I notice his worn sneakers say Dunlop Volley
like the ones I’m wearing from detention. I thought they were clunky and ugly, but if he’s wearing them too maybe they’re normal here. His have bright yellow laces dotted with miniature kangaroos.

  I point nervously to the laces. ‘I like …’

  He laughs. ‘Really? These?’

  ‘Yes.’ That dreaded but safe word again. He doesn’t seem to notice it’s practically all I’ve said.

  He says, ‘My sister sent them to me. She just moved to Sydney. You know the Sydney Harbour Bridge?’ A dimple appears in his left cheek. ‘What am I talking about? Everyone knows the Bridge. She bought them near there. At some kitschy shop for tourists. You know, as a kind of joke.’

  He’s losing me. I don’t understand. ‘A joke?’

  He scans my face. ‘You really like them, huh?’

  I nod, earnest, and he smiles. This smile is wider. Toothier. More real. The dimple appears again, this time deeper. I blush and look away. A small white bird lands on a nearby tree and starts pecking at a bunch of red berries. I stare at it, thinking of the pigeons I used to see racing in Tehran; swooping clouds of feathers dancing in the polluted grey sky.

  Jono follows my gaze. He says, ‘Torresian pigeon.’

  I look at him, confused.

  He repeats the words but seems embarrassed. I’m not sure why.

  I say, ‘Australian bird?’

  ‘Yeah. They come in pairs, I think.’ Then, seeing that I don’t understand: ‘Two, I’m pretty sure there’s normally two of them. They don’t like being alone … which means there should be another one not too far away.’

  I want to ask how he knows the bird’s name, and if all Australian boys know this, and if they ever race them, and if they might be the same as the birds we have in Iran. But as I grasp for the words in English a teacher appears, peering out of a nearby hallway into the bright light of day.

  He spots us and calls, ‘Jono? You were supposed to wait outside.’

  He looks irritated, but Jono doesn’t seem to care.

  He says, ‘This is outside, isn’t it, sir?’

  The teacher huffs and starts to walk towards us.

  I take the chance to slip away.

  JONO

  Mr Nibbs says, ‘What are you doing?’