Into My Arms (18 page)

‘C’mon, Romeo,’ she said. ‘Get going. Woo me.’

The students giggled. Zia stared at his book, trying to find a way in to the dense black text. ‘It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night, like a rich . . . jewel in an Ethi . . . Ether—’

‘Ethiope’s,’ Mrs Leon corrected. ‘Someone from Ethiopia. That’s in Africa, where you’re from.’

Zia looked up, losing his place. ‘I’m not from Africa. I’m from Iran,’ he said. In the front row, two boys had begun making monkey noises.

‘Well, it’s close, isn’t it?’ Mrs Leon replied, unperturbed. ‘And anyway, Shakespeare used the word to mean a person with dark skin, like you. Riley, Con, be quiet. Zia, keep going.’

He looked back at the book in his hands, but the lines had all dissolved now, words scattering across the page like ants. Amanda leaned in against him, so close he could smell the chewing gum on her breath, the synthetic tang of her skin. ‘Here, Romeo,’ she said, pointing. ‘We’re up to this bit, where you tell me how beautiful I am.’

To his horror, Zia felt his penis begin to swell, pushing against the seam in his pants. He lowered the book to conceal it, but then he couldn’t see what he was meant to be reading. Amanda, losing patience, hissed at him, ‘“Beauty too rich”—go from there, moron.’

Still Zia hesitated, his face flushed with shame.

‘Zia, what on earth are you
doing
?’ Mrs Leon called from her desk, but thankfully at that moment the bell rang, sparing him from answering. The class pushed back seats and tipped books into bags, grateful to be released for another day. Zia gathered his things and slunk out into the corridor behind them.

He was closing his locker when he felt something bounce and splatter against the back of his head. Tentatively, he put up his hand. His hair was wet. Something else hit him, in the neck this time. He turned to see Con throwing grapes at him from across the hallway.

‘Oooh, oooh, oooh,’ the boy hooted, scratching under his armpits. ‘Time to feed the monkey.’

Beside him, Riley laughed, searching in his own locker until he found a banana. ‘Where’d you learn to read, gorilla boy? In the jungle?’ he asked, then threw the overripe fruit at Zia, hitting him on the ear. The banana slid to the floor, leaving a trail of brown pulp down one side of his face and across a shoulder. Instantly, Zia saw red. This was new. He’d been made fun of before, but no one had ever thrown anything at him. He didn’t think they’d dare. He was bigger than them, fourteen to their twelve. Without thinking, he stepped towards Riley and hit him hard, once, in the middle of the stomach. Riley doubled over and made a noise like a tyre being let down.

Con launched himself at Zia, his face contorted. ‘I’ll get you, you filthy muzzo, you dumb cunt.’

Zia pushed him aside, grabbed his bag and began to run. Farid would be waiting. Farid hated it when he was late to pick him up after school. Zia was the only person he could rely on. He started to sprint, thinking of his younger brother, but Con tore after him, down the stairs, through the school gates, out into the street. Quickly, however, Zia pulled away. Con was overweight and unfit. Zia glanced back to see him crouching down, panting.

‘You’re a moron, Zia,’ called out Con, coughing. ‘We’ll get you. You better watch out.’

Zia kept running. That was twice in one day someone had called him a moron. He still remembered the time Ms Walters had had to explain to him what it meant.

‘Come on, Farid. Just three more pages.’

Farid sighed but picked up his book once more, hunching over it in the dim light of the kitchen. He resumed reading aloud. ‘“Please don’t go, Mr Elephant,” said the mouse.’ He decoded the words mechanically, without affect, following the sentence with one chubby forefinger. Zia noticed that his nails were dirty. He should probably make him have a bath, but he couldn’t be bothered. He still needed to clean up from dinner and do his own homework. ‘“We will have a party. We will have balloons. We will have . . .”’

The door to their parents’ bedroom opened and closed. Farid stopped, looking up as his father came into the room.

‘Baba,’ Zia greeted him, ducking his head.

His father nodded in reply, then took a bowl from the cupboard and filled it from the pot on the stove. He sat down next to Farid and began to eat, indicating with a flick of his fork that the boy should continue.

‘“We will have a cake. Do you like cake? I prefer chocolate cake,”’ Farid droned. Zia’s head ached. Words, all these words. He was tired of them, of their strange shapes, their smug fat letters. English was expected of him now, but he still thought and dreamed in Farsi. How could you stop that, and why would he want to?

‘Farid is good, yes?’ his father asked. ‘He has the reading well.’ Zia nodded, not bothering to correct him. Speaking English as a family was a rule their mother had insisted on when they first came to Australia, back when she still cared about such things. He didn’t know why they persisted now she had gone to stay with Aunt Nala, but he knew there was no point in arguing.

‘This is good, Zia,’ his father said, forking up a last mouthful. ‘One day you make somebody a fine wife, huh?’ He winked to show that he was kidding, then stood up, kissed Farid on the head, and placed his empty bowl in the sink. ‘How was the school today?’

‘I played cricket at lunch,’ Farid said. ‘Gumin taught me how to bowl a yorker. I’ll show you on the weekend if you like.’

Zia nearly laughed. His father barely knew what cricket was, and was unlikely to appreciate the intricacies of ball placement.

‘And you, Zia?’ his father asked.

Zia shrugged. There was no point mentioning Shakespeare or Amanda or Con. Baba would simply tell him to work harder and make him proud. ‘Nothing much. But it’s Thursday tomorrow, so I’m going to the drop-in centre. Can you leave me two dollars?’

His father fumbled in his pocket, drew out some change and slowly counted it out, lips moving. ‘Here,’ he said, handing Zia a small pile of silver, ‘take it now. And do not forget to collect Farid from care-after.’ He glanced at the clock above the kitchen table, his face closing over. ‘I have to go. Keep the door locked. I will see you tomorrow.’

‘After-care,’ Zia said. ‘Thank you. We will.’

‘Bye, Baba,’ Farid called, following him to the front door. The air outside was fetid and close, reeking of the garbage area two floors down.

‘Goodbye, Farid.’ His father embraced the boy. He stepped towards Zia as if he were about to do the same, then seemed to think better of it, and touched him lightly on the arm instead. ‘Do your homework,’ he called over his shoulder as he left. ‘Stay inside. Don’t answer the door.’

Zia went back into the flat, still hot from having been shut up all day in the February sun. He didn’t know how his father slept when it was like that, though maybe it was no different to summer in Shiraz. It was four years now since they had left Iran. He didn’t really remember anymore. And his father must be tired, he supposed, tired enough to sleep through the heat and the daylight and the clamour of the commission block. Who wouldn’t be exhausted after stacking shelves all night? Still, at least he had a job. It was far beneath Baba’s capabilities, Zia knew, but at least it brought in enough money for food, a football for Farid, and Zia’s drop-in fees.

Yet it had also taken their mother away. Zia began to clear the kitchen table, transferring plates and cutlery to the sink. In the next room the TV blared, though Farid was supposed to be getting ready for bed. His mother had been brighter for a while after Arran had told her that he was searching for Iman and Habib; she had got out of bed and done her hair, even sat with them once again for meals. But six months had gone by with no news, then twelve. Arran was apologetic, and dropped around regularly to assure her that he’d sent the brothers’ descriptions to refugee camps and asked his aid-worker friends to make their own enquiries. The trouble was, he said, that so many people had been displaced in that part of the world. So many were missing; so few had papers. Those on the run were too afraid to say who they were; others were too unwell. Zia’s mother had nodded at the explanation, then returned to her bed. Not long afterwards, his father had found a job, and a decision had been made by the handful of Iranian families with whom they were in contact that someone else should care for her. ‘You are at work all night and asleep all day,’ a grey-haired woman had argued with his father, the first time Zia had seen anyone dare to do so. ‘The children are at school. She needs to be fed, to be tended. Who will do that? Can you?’ Zia’s father had lowered his eyes, but not before Zia had seen that they glimmered with tears. He couldn’t, he had admitted, not if he wanted to keep his job. Soon after, his mother had been moved to a small, clean room in a share house in the next suburb. Zia visited her there every Sunday, on his father’s day off. She always smiled when she saw him, but she didn’t say much.

A bang on the front door brought him out of his thoughts. Farid ran into the hallway, eyes wide. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

Zia didn’t know. ‘Probably just a bird,’ he said, trying to sound reassuring.

There was another thump, this one so heavy that the light fitting in the hallway shook. Zia edged toward the door, nervous in case it suddenly crashed open. He stood on tiptoe and peered through the peephole, but all he could see were some indistinguishable shapes milling around outside. His heart raced. Could it be Con? Maybe he’d followed him home after all, then gone back to get some of the other boys . . . Maybe Riley was out there too, waiting to pay him back for punching him in the stomach. A third thump. Zia felt the sweat break out on his forehead, watched Farid dart towards the back of the flat in fear. It was almost dark. Who would be trying to get in at this hour?

‘Go away,’ he called out, his fingers shaking as he tried to thread the chain beneath the deadlock, cursing himself for not having done so earlier, as his father had instructed. The door rattled and somebody outside laughed, the sound low and menacing. There was another thud, and Zia lost his nerve altogether, racing to the kitchen to snatch up the phone. Yet once he had he didn’t know who to call. His father was at work and didn’t have a mobile. Maybe the police, except Baba wouldn’t like that; he was still apprehensive of anyone in authority. Zia suddenly caught sight of Arran’s business card, taped to the fridge. He’d only seen Arran once since his mother got sick again, when Arran had convinced him to go along to the drop-in centre. Probably out of guilt, Zia thought wildly, so he could say that he’d tried, then wash his hands of all of them. Well, too bad. Arran was going to hear from him again. Zia began to dial.

21

‘That wasn’t so bad,’ remarked Ria as they walked back to their offices after the meeting. ‘Neither of us made a fool of ourselves, and nobody asked why we were there.’

Hamish laughed. ‘Your standards are pretty low.’

‘I still feel like the work experience kid,’ she said. ‘I keep expecting that somebody will want my desk back, or tell me to go and make coffee.’

‘You can make me one if you’re missing it. White, no sugar.’

Ria pulled a face and he laughed again. He liked Ria. They had started in the company at the same time, and held similar positions. It was good to have an ally at work, someone who might know where the paper was kept when the photocopier ran out, or to debrief with after a client had been less than impressed with his advice. Not that that had happened for a month or so now, Hamish thought. He was learning the ropes. He was getting there. And he was enjoying it, too—enjoying the dance of numbers across his screen, enjoying using his mind instead of just his muscles, enjoying, even, the anticipation he felt each morning as he logged on and waited to see what had happened to the markets overnight.

‘Do you want to have lunch?’ Ria asked, as they stopped outside his office. ‘I’ll come and get you in half an hour. You don’t have plans, do you?’

Hamish shook his head. ‘Sounds good. Maybe we could go to that sushi place?’

‘Maybe,’ she said breezily, striding away down the hallway. ‘I’ll see what I feel like.’ Hamish watched her go, admiring her backside in a tight pencil skirt, the way her stilettos sank into the carpet. That was another thing, he thought. Women in heels. He enjoyed that too.

His good mood lasted until he sat down at his desk and opened an email from Skye.
We need a pram
, she had written without preamble or greeting.
Three wheels? Four? I don’t have a preference. Can you investigate?

Hamish sighed. He didn’t have a preference either, but more to the point, he didn’t have time. He was working all day, trying to get established in his new job; on top of that, Dan’s knee had required a reconstruction, so three evenings a week Hamish was still looking after his clients. Skye, in contrast, was home alone, with no more required of her than to cook the dinner and walk the dog. Why the hell wasn’t she out shopping for prams?

Hamish felt the anger curl in his stomach, then snake its way along his arms to his fingertips. He wanted to hit something. Instead, he closed his inbox and forced himself to take three deep breaths. The anger came so easily these days. It frightened him, because it
wasn’t
him. Any little thing could trigger it: the email about the pram; Skye turning her head away when he went to kiss her one night after returning home from work. She was getting a cold, she’d told him, and sure enough the next day she had a cough and a runny nose, but still that rebuff had irked him, had made him itch to grab her chin and force her lips to his.