Luck in the Greater West (4 page)

Condiments were stuck to the stainless-steel tray with sugary glue. Whitey'd never seen anyone use the jars, but they were half full. Breakfast was the same every day — planks of toast, a choice of two cereals, a poached egg — if you wanted it. Lunch and dinner were determined by a roster. Today, Wednesday, was sausage rolls and dogs' eyes for lunch. It was something to look forward to, although before his stretch, which he was six months into, he hadn't gone much for the heavily salted pastries.

He'd worked, for a while, in the workshops, preparing aluminium signs for spraying. But working simply galvanised depression — the way it had outside. So he opted out. Did the exercise, ate, smoked, thought, and pushed down the realisation that time is a natural resource that men have built structures around to process — extricating it in the crudest form. Time had meant little to Whitey on the outside. It flowed with him out there. In here, you were made to feel it. A little more drawn out of you each day. Like a serrated blade being removed, an hour at a time. Well, that was when it was at its worst.

Every second morning they tried to get a man's smell out of the rooms with disinfectant. But the men sweated and farted and shat and pissed and breathed. And came. And so, collectively, let the disinfectant in, but never let it win. This was a world of armpits, purple testi-sacs, and hairy toes with thick, tough nails.

 

—Hey, Whitey, ya lucky cunt. Gettin' out tamorra? Keithy said.

—Wha?

—Saw ya name on the out-board.

—Fuck off, he said, to buy a moment to get his mind around it, trying to work out if it was a joke.

—Ah well, fuck ya then, cunt. I don' give a fuck if ya in or out.

Whitey had misread Keithy's intention.

So he looked at his name, like it was someone else's, because it was, or it was his but anyone could use it in any way they pleased. His name had been directed to see about the requirements of the Parole Board.

 

—And what about accommodation? she asked.

She had a plump face that to Whitey suggested compassion. But then the laugh-lines suggested fakeness.

—Well, I dunno. I can stay at a mate's place, I s'pose, he said. Whitey had gotten in touch with Pete the Bull through the Prison Community Liaison Office — they'd tracked him down in Townsville — and told him about the bust. With no one living in the house, Pete had had to forfeit the lease.

—Will that be permanent? asked the clerk, knowing it wouldn't be, but hoping still that he would say yes anyway.

—Um, I dunno. Probly not. Depends on me mate's missus.

—We can get you emergency accommodation, in public housing. It may take a week or two.

—Yeah, okay, he said.

He'd never had his own place. The thought gave birth to the realisation of his impending freedom. Until she said:

—What area? You can give two preferences. No guarantee, of course. And she turned the monitor to his face, as though he would understand its expression of lines and broken language.

He made a phone call. Ronnie was drunk, but he said that it would be cool with his woman, Michelle, if he stayed a few days. He would organise a party.

 

On the outside, on a grey day, he looked at this large, careless prison, the world outside jail. He could catch the bus or take a cab from the jail, but he had put on some weight inside and his clothes, folded for too long, felt like they needed the movement, so he walked.

He thought about the lesson he'd learned. He didn't want to go back inside again. In many ways, it wasn't as bad as he'd imagined. There was no forced anal sex. He didn't get bashed. In fact, he'd learnt that, just like outside, if you kept to yourself, didn't look at anyone for more than a glance, and didn't want to make a name for yourself, you got left alone. But the heightened awareness of time, the sudden realisations at three am of where he actually was, and the profound lack of privacy made him want the freedom to be anonymous, to be away from people when he needed to be, and the choice of being with those he wanted to be with.

He had a beer in a pub he once drank at in the city, not because he was tonguing for it, or for any reminiscence, but because the beer symbolised freedom, and the alcohol let him believe it. He
rang Ronnie from the blue pay-phone next to the cigarette machine. Ronnie was hungover but willing, in his need for a day-after session, to meet him at another bar, at the other end of the train line, closer to his home.

 

The west opened up for him. Bands of industry and unemployment spread out from the train window. And the beer, or the thought of more, and putting his feet up on the opposite seat, gave him hope for his first day out.

The walk from the station to the pub where he was to meet Ronnie worked off any lingering beer. Inside the ashen pub there was a group he recognised sitting at a table. They were people he went to high school with. He looked away. He would wait for Ronnie outside.

—Whitey!

Ronnie was at that table. Because they were Whitey's friends. And Ronnie's. He hadn't realised — or at least, didn't want to. Because now he'd have to explain shit he wasn't ready to talk about. He hadn't processed his time inside for long enough to express it with the posturing his mates might expect.

But time had made them not care. And alcohol, wetting the ash at the table, had diluted their interest in others. So he drank the few that he was shouted, and hugged Ronnie in the toilets after a piss, and skulled shots of tequila at the bar with him. And they all left for Ronnie's with cases under their arms, or half-gone cans, or a bottle of scotch. Because they wanted music and yelling — takeaway things.

Shock was beginning to set in. Because of the beer, the behaviour, and the big line of goey that he'd roughly dragged up into his sinuses.

Back at Ronnie's house, his wife was waiting with a child, a girl, and a baby they'd had while Whitey was away. A boy. Helen, the eldest, couldn't speak when Whitey'd gone in, and it seemed that she was still unable to. She knew language though, and was happy with just knowing.

—She remembers ya, Whitey. Don't ya, Helen? Michelle said.

—She's quiet, he remarked.

—Oh, she's all right. Aren't ya, baby?

Inside the fibro house, Whitey pushed her around on the plastic dump truck, dodging the sparse furniture and thick people. Then he was sitting on the back step, drinking harsh unaged scotch, and drawing hard on a Winnie Red — there was no smoking inside the house.

—So. How've you been? she asked as she shifted in next to him.

Whitey looked at her, and drew again. Natalie. Nat. Like everyone here she looked like a new version — or an older version — of the person he remembered. As he was to her, he supposed.

—Okay, he said, and smiled, and fumbled for the chipped glass.

—Happy? Ya know, ta be out?

—Yeah.

—So, what was it like?

—Okay. I mean ya learn ta handle. Ya havta.

—Listen. I um found out that that Eddie guy, the guy I brought 'round, he was a pig. I swear, Whitey, I didn't know. I swear. Looking back, I mean, his fucking haircut, but please believe me.

—I believe you. I knew he was a pig but didn't twig until too late too. Way too fucking late!

—Can you forgive me?

—Hmm? I dunno, Caxaro.

Nat looked down at her shoes.

—Hey, I'm kiddin'. Fuckit. I said I believe you. Forget it. Of course I forgive you.

Whitey had thought about it a lot inside. The Eddie fucker had fooled him. And it just didn't seem like the type of thing Nat would do to him. He just couldn't see her going to those lengths to fuck him up. Whitey slid his hand up Nat's back, and rubbed her shoulders.

—Hey, Whitey, you know I thought about you, and — she put her head between her knees — and I touched myself, a few times.

—I did too, about you, but more than a few times, he said, and drank off the scotch; he was smooth now.

He hugged her. And they kissed, twisting their backs on the step. They went inside. In Helen's room, amongst the curled and knotted-blonde nylon and flesh-coloured vinyl dolls, they lay on the single bed Helen didn't use — she and her baby brother both slept with their parents. Whitey and Nat bit and licked each other's teeth and pulled at each other's shirts. Nat was chubby, had gotten chubbier maybe, he thought. She was Maltese and her skin was all one perfect colour, except on the small of her back, where Whitey'd come every time they'd had sex. She'd cut and streaked her hair while he was away — probably several times. Her eyes were so brown they were almost black and he could easily see the whites in the darkness. He could like her. She was a chocolate girl.

He scratched at her bra and she unhooked it. He rolled off her panties. Her vagina gave off a heat he'd almost forgotten and he dripped to be inside it. She was unshaven and looked like Vegemite toast, cut diagonally. He sucked in her labia and swallowed, but she pulled his head up.

—Fuck me, she said to his cheek. He entered her and could feel the spasm arcing through his groin. He withdrew and she grabbed
him and bent him back inside. He thrust hard, slamming her along the Wiggles sheets, the violence stifling his come. The speed he'd taken pushed and aggressed until the semen burst into her, his orgasm coming only when he was empty and kissing her.

They lay and leaked.

—You've never done that before. Come inside me, she said, her mouth struggling with saliva.

—Sorry.

—I prefer it. It's more like making love, you know, she said, a bit too close to his ear.

He turned his head to face her.

—So did you, um, get any sex inside?

—I told you, I just jerked off thinking of you a hell of a lot, he said, and touched her stomach.

She flinched, for ticklishness and a loathing of having that part of her touched.

But he had had sex in prison. Or, at least, he had shared his male need. Pulling at an uncircumcised cock, wanting the thick spit of semen as much as its owner. And had had his own blunt cock brought to an orgasm like that of early pubescence. It was a turn-on. There was no need for physical attraction; it was all about coming. Until the cold after-burn.

—So what about you? he asked. Got a boyfriend?

—Kinda.

—What does that mean?

—I see a guy. Sometimes, she said, and looked away.

—Oh.

He got some beers for them, but Nat had fallen asleep. He sat there drinking, tired, but the goey wouldn't let him sleep; until he did.

The speed was still at work in him when he woke a few hours later. Purple light was leaking into the fibro. Natalie's skin was less perfect now, but he was hard. His kisses made her roll away. She was lying face down now, and he climbed on top of her. He tried to insert himself but she closed her legs. He left the room and jerked himself to a quick orgasm in the toilet.

The evidence was too much throughout the house. People and carpet, both lying lumpy, smelt of beer. Helen was awake and testing cans for dregs.

He took her out into the backyard where they climbed the old ghost gum and watched the sun threaten over the steel and tile. And magpies talked of the coming day.

 

The flat was on the ground floor and had a small courtyard. Easy to break into. Not that his things were worth a forced pane or broken glass. His possessions had been kept by the Public Trustees Office while he was away — released to him by paying a tax — and no longer felt they were his. They had the smell of the not-too-distant past though, which came back in intensely short gusts. He set his things up — spacing them evenly through the one room. The mattress, the foam two-seater, the three drawers, the low table, the portable telly and its cousin, the portable stereo.

He'd also gone back into business. He'd been offered five ounces of head on credit, and a few days later, two ounces of goey. For a drug dealer, living in Brunei was like having a souvenir shop at the airport outside the JAL terminal.

Ronnie had also lent him the use of an unregistered VB Commodore to run around in. The rectangle of yellow new-growth grass where the car had been almost permanently stalled was too poignant for Whitey as they rolled the freshly-jumped
Holden onto the street. Would going back to his life before prison burn him, the way it had before, the way the sun had laid waste to the grass outside the shade of the Commodore? He didn't want to think about it. But things were rolling.

Sonja lay on the grass, letting it etch into the back of her thighs. She put her arm over her eyes, making the inside of her elbow fit snugly over the bridge of her nose, to shield them from the lunchtime sun. She disappeared from the sun, from the other students, from time.

She heard the grass telling her of an approach. She lifted her sun-sealed arm but her eyelids knew better and strained in a shaky protest.

—Hey, someone said.

Sonja sat up, into the wood of someone's skull and dropped back onto the now hard and indifferent grass.

 

Sonja vomited into the plastic bucket. A boy was already on the sickbay bed, so Sonja sat hunched in the vinyl chair. The boy whose head had knocked her down looked into the doorway.

—It was a mistake, he said. I thought you were someone else. My head got hurt too.

The deputy principal called him into the office.

—We've called your mother, the office lady said. She'll be 'ere when she can get 'ere, she told us.

Sonja worried how her mother would get to the school. They didn't have a car. And she was sure she wouldn't know the way anyway. It had been her father who'd enrolled them. But the worry was thick and numb, unlike the usual sharpness that accompanied anxiety concerning her family. She'd forgotten twice now why she was in the sickbay. And she felt sleepy. But then that hotness would spurt up, making her vomit and vomit. She dreamed for a while, about the sickbay and the school office, and the orchard beyond. How it went neglected, while the dramas echoed through the halls and offices.

—Sonja. Your mother's come for you, the office lady said, shaking her too hard.

And her mother was before her. With a man. A young man. An absolutely beautiful young man. He was nervous, and dressed in that shabby, heavily faded, Aussie way, but not the deliberate way the boys here tried for. His clothes were his. He was boyish and slouching, but she could see something manly in his out-of-place stance — he wasn't trying to cover up his nervousness by acting tough like a teenager. What was he doing here with her mother?

—Sonja, what has happened? her mother asked, thankfully in English.

—I think I was hit on the head.

—We'll take you to the hospital now.

—Who's we, mother?

—Ah, this is, ah — the young man who lives in the next stairs over. I heard his car when the school called and asked him to drive me. He has taken me, bless him, and will to the hospital now.

The young man looked at her and smiled. He looked tired and confused. It was how she felt too.

In the casualty ward Whitey was tapping his foot with indecision. People would be knocking on his door, wanting to score, and then kicking it, and going around the back to look in — to wake him, or get in and turn the place over. Maybe. There were plenty of other dealers at Brunei. He didn't want to leave, or to say he had to leave. So he stood. And shook his leg. And bit his cheek. Katerina Marmeladova thanked him and did something with her mouth, like she was about to talk, and then did it again. He liked this lady. The trip to the school had been a bit uncomfortable, but he liked the fact that she was a mother, living of all places at Brunei Court, and he was able to help. And her daughter, the reason he was here: he was fascinated. Both by her, and by his reaction to her. She was a school chick, and sick, but she was striking. When they had walked into the sickbay, he'd seen some boy on the bed, and that uncomfortable feeling from the ride over had escalated, but when the mother started talking to the girl sitting in the chair, the feeling swung. It wasn't comfortable, but it was something he wanted more of.

—Concussion, Dr Keshvardoust said. Don't let her sleep this afternoon. Plenty of fluids. I've given her an injection for the vomiting.

The doctor smiled evenly at Whitey, because who else could he be but a big brother? He smiled back. But his smile, unlike the one it mimicked, lacked medicine degrees, supportive parents, and proud aunties and uncles back in Syria. He wandered off, to let any further conversation carry on unhindered by his misplacement.

—Thank you, Sonja said in the front seat of the Commodore, because neither of the back windows wound down. By the way, my name is Sonja.

—I know, he said. Your mother told me.

She was still pale, but a peachiness had returned to her cheeks, and Whitey found it hard to keep his eyes off her. She looked up at him, her head angled down slightly. Her eyes were too bright to look into and drive. The dull road was much less intrusive.

At Brunei, he put his hand on her back to help her up the stairs, and left for his own flat to the sound of their gratitude, saying:

—No worries, hope ya feel better.

He was flushed with new feelings he liked — they gave him an energy — but that he wished to purge, because he couldn't identify them.

 

The days of supposedly increased choices fell into one another. He did sit-ups and push-ups, for lack of the prison gym. He watched what was on the telly. People came over to score. Some sat, had a smoke, got paranoid, and left. Others left straightaway, and he could hear them talking to whomever had chucked in with them in the stairwell, examining and debating size and aroma. He only sold to those he knew well now, but he was also aware that customers inevitably made introductions. It was hard to tell with speed buyers. But, he reasoned, pot buyers could be trusted. And six months had taught him not to explore offers of purchases of ozs of goey — or H.

Natalie came over. They fucked, rolling around on the foam between knocks at the door. And though he'd never had feelings for her before, now he started to dislike her. For her condescension. For her well-meaning — he supposed — instructions on how life is in
the post-jail age; how life should, could, be for him. And the way she began each sentence with
So
.

—So, why did you start dealing again? she asked.

—I dunno. Because I was asked, I guess.

—Shouldn't you worry about getting busted. Again?

—Yeah.

But he didn't worry. Or at least he'd reasoned with the worry. People had always put too much faith in him — in his judgment and his self-confidence. Saw in him something he couldn't see in himself. He'd been able, on a number of occasions, to threaten — effectively — when there was just no violence in him to back it up. It was the same with selling. People thought he should do it, so he did — on the strength of others' opinions. He was, it seemed, shackled with an image, a persona, with a will of its own, that knew how to act, whereas he'd actually never learned. But it did at least tow him along in life.

And it wasn't Nat's hypocritical questioning of his dealing or his life outside that really bothered him — she smoked his cones and dipped into the goey — it was her presumption that he wanted her advice and opinions. Or even her vagina, or her presence.

She said he was sulky since he'd gotten out.

But he didn't dislike her enough to ask her not to come around anymore — he couldn't have given her a real reason anyway — so he stayed sulky, and ignorant, and withdrew.