Luck in the Greater West (13 page)

Fadi tilted the load and felt the back end of the forklift jump from the weight. You should never lift two pallets stacked on top of each other, but fuck it. He cleared the pallets from the side of the trailer and transferred them into the receiving dock. It was his fifth semi-trailer this morning, and he'd had enough. The other two forkies — fuckin' Aussies — were the biggest fuckin' bludgers. Even Dicko, the foreman, admitted it. Aussies'll do anything to get out of work. That's why they'll always be losers. But are they losers? Is simply being Lebanese the key to being better, smarter, tougher than everyone else? He'd never thought about it. Why would he? Everyone he hung out with thought the same. Lebs are unbeatable.

But something deep inside him had been damaged — was slowly bleeding, he felt — since that last girl they'd been with. With the other girls they'd done it to, there'd been a kind of shared energy that had erased any misgivings about what they were doing. They were doing it, the Punchbowl Leb boys, so it was right, it was tough, it was showing these Aussies that the Leb boys could do what they wanted to, it was getting laid — fuck, it was even funny. But that last one, she'd shown him something. Or
maybe exposed something in him that had become vulnerable for that moment when he was on top of her. He couldn't work out exactly what it was, but since then his whole life — the way he'd been living it — seemed askew.

In fact, he'd not been able to get her out of his mind. She'd freaked when he'd pulled the starter pistol on her. He'd thought that her fear would turn him on, but instead, it seemed to transfer to him. He'd tried to mechanically go through with it — 'cause the boys were there — but he'd felt sick, was about to spew, and had had to get away from her before the fear she was giving to him overwhelmed him. Then Ali had jumped straight on her. When he thought about it now it filled his veins and his neck muscles with icy hot acid.

But there was another feeling. One that was more intimate. One that was a comfort and quite opposite to the other one. She was so pretty. He kept thinking of her. Not in the situation they'd put her in, but natural, with her prettiness unchanged by that expression of terror. He'd actually almost seen her like that, in the flesh, when he'd first gotten in the car with her. Sure, she'd looked pissed off, and maybe a little scared, but still bright and alive. That fuckin' pistol had wiped that vitality from her. And he wished so much that he could have that moment back, and not have brought out that stupid gun, and become her rescuer. He'd nearly cried a couple of times when he'd thought about it. Fuckin' rapists, she'd said. Yelled it, crying.

He'd driven her and her friend back to the mall afterwards and he'd looked at her every chance he got, at red lights and that. She was beautiful — like a child with sticky tears on her slightly chubby cheeks. Abdullah had taken her mobile, and Fadi had asked for it. He had it at home. He kept it on and checked it constantly
just in case she called it. No one had called it. He really wanted to see her again. He couldn't bear the fact that she must hate him. He wanted to at least apologise. He tried not to think about her, but he noticed something of her in nearly every chick he saw. And there must be a chance that she didn't hate him, mustn't there? Just like her fear had rubbed off on him, mustn't what he'd been feeling have made an impression on her?

After morning tea he was going to go home sick. Fuck those two Aussie dickheads; they can handle the rest of the day.

 

His mum was hassling him. He hadn't been eating much lately and she was convinced that it was the reason he'd come home sick.

—I'll make you some eggs, she said. The third time now.

—No, Ma. I'm orright. Done worry about it.

—I'll make you some. You probably caught something off those swine-eaters you work with.

—Ma.

He shut his bedroom door and sat on his bed. He picked up
her
phone. He'd tried to ban himself from thinking about her. He'd started to love her name. And it filled him with a hot, thick, sick feeling that he couldn't identify whenever it snuck into his head. He didn't even know her name when he'd — been on top of her; Abdullah had told him later. Tennille. But maybe it was okay. It didn't feel as bad as usual. Because he was going to talk to her. He had to.

He'd scrolled through the phone's address book a hundred times. There were some names in there that fuckin' cut him. Brad, Davo, John, Mick, Scott. Aussies. All Aussie guys. She could be fucking one of them. All of them. He hated that she knew so many guys. But there was also a number that held promise. Work. It must be
her
work.

He brought it up and pressed dial.

—This service has been cancelled. Please call Telecomonopoly inquiries on 13 13 —

Of course, he sighed. She would've cancelled her phone. He brought up the details of Work to get the number.

—Ma. Bring the phone will ya!

His mother brought him the phone and told him not to be long. She said the same thing every time anyone used the phone. He doubted she even knew what it meant anymore.

He dialled the number.

—Hollywest Cinemas, the voice said.

Fadi waited in case it was a recorded message.

—Hi. Is Tennille there?

—Can you tell me what section she works in, please?

—Ah — nuh.

—Okay. Tennille is it? Tennille who, sir?

—I dunno her last name.

—Please hold.

He waited and scratched his back. He was doing it. He was ringing her.

—Hello.

—Hi, he said. He wasn't sure if it was the same chick he'd just been talking to.

—Who's this?

—Who's this? he said.

—Tennille. Who's this?

—It's Fadi.

—Fadi? Fadi who?

—We — we met a few weeks ago.

—When? Where?

—I came to the park. You were at the park with my mates. Remember?

—Who is this?

—Fadi.

—How did you get my work number?

—I've got your phone.

—You what?
You've
got my phone. You arsehole. I — I want it back.

—Okay — okay. I want to give it back.

—Take it to the police station.

—I'll bring it to you.

—No. Take it to the police station.

—You work at Hollywest?

She was silent but he could hear noises in the background.

—I'll bring it to your work, he repeated.

—Jesus! Take it to the police. Don't come here.

—I'll be there soon. I'll just give it to you. I want you to have it back.

Fadi's mother came in with the eggs.

 

Tennille had gone pale, but her cheeks began to colour with stress-borne hives. This fucker had the gall to
ring
her. She looked over at the tense-barriers that they used to herd patrons into the cinemas. Could she use one of the posts to wrap around his head if it came to it? Jesus. He was about to turn up here. She couldn't face him. This was just too unfair. Why does it just keep getting worse? Why can't this shit end?

Tennille had gone back to work, gone back to uni after two weeks. No one except Melissa, who'd flown to London with her mother a week after the rape, and Greer, one of her workmates —
who seemed to sense that something heavy had happened to her, so she'd told her — knew about what she'd been through. So she could try and get on with her life, her parents had said. Get on with it? How the hell do you get on with it? Everything is changed. Getting on with it meant dragging it everywhere she went, and through everything she did. What those animals had done to her coloured every aspect of her life now. There were moments when it would slip out of her mind, and she felt like a carefree, happy young woman, but then it would flood back in, and for a moment feel like it was something outside her existence, but then the feeling of dread would quickly set in, and be back, filling her up. The knowledge that she was sharing the world with people — no, things — that had violated her in that way.

The counsellor had told her it was up to her how much she wanted to talk about it. It was up to her to go forward with the charges if they caught these pricks. Up to her if she wanted to go back to work and school. But she didn't trust her own decisions. They'd caused her to get raped. And got her best friend raped.
She'd
decided to go with those arseholes, not Melissa; those arseholes who had made her take them in her mouth, and then pulled out a gun and made her lie down and have two of them thrust and grunt and groan and hurt her and put their stink all over her. The pig with the gun hadn't managed to enter her, but he'd pushed and pinned her down with his whole weight and then suddenly got off her. The other fucker had gotten himself inside her though. She'd turned into a corpse when the pain translated into what was actually happening. Her fear had actually allowed her to mentally escape what she was experiencing — it had sent her mind into a confusing collision of thoughts; until that disgusting thing had broken into her. She felt all her organs freeze, like they were giving up. And her
body went into atrophy. She hadn't really been revived yet. She had no idea how long that second one was on top of her and inside her. She could still feel him now. The sensation would come and smack her. Like that first fucker's hand against her neck, but with a far deeper pain. But, like a zombie, she'd gone back to work and uni. It would help her get her life back, she was told. It seemed logical. But she didn't think the plan was working. She was strong — people had always said so. But how strong do you have to be?

—Jesus, Tennille. What's up? You don't look so hot, Greer said.

—One of those … Tennille looked at her feet. One of those guys is coming here.

—What guys? Greer asked, and then: Oh.

—The ones I told you about. The ones who raped Melissa and me.

—What? Here?

—He's bringing my phone.

—Call the cops.

—Yeah. I'll wait to see if he turns up first. It could be someone being a dickhead, fucking with me.

—No one would be so cruel, surely. I'm going to call them.

—Will you get the phone off him? If he comes?

—You bet I'll get your phone off him. And I'll give him a kick in the nuts.

—Don't. Don't — You know, provoke him. Just in case.

—I won't. I'm sorry. It's just — I can't believe he'd fucking call you, Tennille. What is he thinking? That he'll have another go? Look, if he comes, I'll go down and keep him here until the police come. What do you think?

Tennille and Greer waited up on the mezzanine level where they could see the approach of everyone entering the cinema complex. Every guy with black, cropped hair panicked her. Tennille was praying that the police would arrive, but each minute seemed to eat away at her hope that they would even show up. Then she began to realise that she couldn't remember what any of the guys looked like. Not really. She could recall their smell. And that awful, awful feeling of their fingers. And their cocks — like sick, alien reptiles. But the visual had been mostly erased. Almost immediately. She'd looked at the rego of the car when she'd got out at the mall, but couldn't remember one number or letter when she'd had to repeat it to the cops.

But then she saw those eyes, darting around the foyer of the cinemas, and remembered them. It was the one. The cunt with the gun. She nearly ran. Out the fire exit. But continued to stare. He looked small. Like a boy. A kid. Nervous. The fucker.

—That's him, she said to Greer, and pointed at him.
It
.

—God, Greer said with a shudder.

 

He didn't look like a monster. He looked like a try-hard. A boy who thought he was a man. A follower. The exact same haircut as all his friends, Greer suspected. And a fucking idiot. The cops hadn't arrived yet. She'd have to talk with this creature.

—Have you got Tennille's phone?

—Huh?

—Have you got Tenni —

—Who are you?

—Her friend.

—Where's she? I wanna talk to her.

—Well, she definitely doesn't want to talk to you. What do you think you're doing turning up here and asking for her?

—Hey, I'm just tryin' ta be nice, he whined, and put his hand in his pocket.

—Have you got her phone?

—I'll only give it to her.

—
I'll
give it to her.

—I wanna see her. I wanna apologise.

Greer looked at this boy. He thought he could make it better. He thought he was doing something good here. He thought there was a possibility of redemption. With a phone.

—If you give the phone to me, it'll make her happy. I'll make sure she gets it. And anything you want to tell her, I'll tell her.

—Will ya get her ta call me?

—If she wants to.