White Lady (8 page)

He’s been gone all night? Excellent. Thieves are going to think we’re inviting them in!

I sigh and roll my shoulders to try to relax, and notice there is a huge puddle of water on the floor below the windowsill.

I close the window and curtains, drop my belongings on the couch, strip to my underwear as I walk back into the hall, throw my dirty clothes through my bedroom door on the way by, and yank the tea towel with the Periodic Table on it off the kitchen door handle. And … what? The kitchen is
clean
?

I stare at the shiny sink, polished floor, empty dishwasher, while holding the tea towel in the air. A shiver travels down my spine, and I sneeze. It echoes through the whole house, followed by uncertain calm. Goose bumps form all over my naked limbs.

I blink. I must be imagining this. This is not the work of Mick. It cannot be. If it is, is it a sign of progress?

I swivel around on my heel and head back to the lounge room to mop up the water. I kneel on the floor. My knobbly knees dig into the floorboards like chicken bones. I am reminded of scrubbing at the bloodstain on the back porch and the satisfaction I had felt at that moment.

Once I’ve mopped up all the water, I collect the papers that have flown about the house. Some are supermarket receipts; some are empty envelopes, sealed envelopes, bills, junk mail from Safeway and David Jones. Another blank postcard from Ibrahim. This time from Istanbul. My husband’s way of letting me know he’s still alive. I feel sick to the stomach every time I receive one. Not because I worry about him. Because he knows I still care. He knows his postcards remind me of our past. He thinks this will bring me back to him. It will not. I have promised myself—and my son—to ignore the temptation.

I single out Mick’s offshore bank statement. He blackmailed some banker into opening it for him. Mick apparently had saved him from being busted by the police after handing cash to a hooker. It is who you know, is it not? And of course, there is the whole “be faithful to your brothers.” And we know many “brothers.”

I stare at the envelope. Thumb already lodged under its corner, ready to rip it open.

Should I?

I do. And I am not at all surprised at the amount of money he has. I was hoping to be surprised at him
not
having any money.

Thirty thousand dollars. At seventeen. With no job. And terrible at maths.

The time has come to call him out on it. It is the only way I am going to fix our relationship. If he knows I know what he is doing, maybe he will have more respect for me. And if I confront him about it, he’ll admit it. Because he cannot lie. He can only hide. He is absolutely fine as long as no one asks him about anything. So I will insist that he promise to come clean, return the money to whomever it came from, or I turn him in to the police. Risky, but worth a shot—as long as Ibrahim has nothing to do with it.

Mick’s bedroom door is closed. I knock, hold my breath. Just in case. No answer. I twist the silver skull-handle and open the door. A whiff of stale vodka and weed engulf me. I sniff. Cheap sex. And teeny-bopper perfume. My stomach and throat constrict.

Dirty clothes are sprawled all over the floor and bed. Racy panties hang from the light fixture and picture frame hooks. Empty coke bottles, a smashed white saucer, bongs, threads of tobacco on the windowpane that look like furry caterpillars.

I haven’t stepped foot in this room for two years. But I cannot play the ignorant and naive mother any longer. Even if I have been doing it for only a short amount of time. If I continue in this fashion, Mick will end up in prison, or worse—following in his father’s footsteps.

Mick’s wardrobe is open. One side of it is completely empty, bar the one hundred or so manipulated wire coat hangers he has drilled into the wood to create something that looks like a torture chamber. A
seccade
, his Muslim prayer mat, is rolled up in the corner. Does he pray for forgiveness? Did Ibrahim teach him that, too, after I asked him specifically to leave our religion out of his upbringing? My stomach sinks. This is our
son
. And we made him like this.

I take a deep breath. I am in here now, and might as well start looking for something. But is there even anything to find? If his father taught him well, probably not. To be honest, the easiest thing to assume right now would be that he is dealing drugs. But that is stereotypical, and if there is anything I am more certain of, it is that Mick cannot
stand
stereotypical. He has always got to go against the grain. How do I know? I have seen the way he looks at Mia. In the quiet moments in class, when no one is watching. He has a soft spot for her. I know it. I recognize that look. It is straight from Ibrahim’s face when we were in high school. It must be in our family’s blood. We are attracted to different.

I notice an open cardboard box squeezed between his dresser and the wall. On top is the dark-blue jumper my mother knitted for him when he started high school. I smile, lift it out of the box, and hold it in front of me. The grey light from the window shines through the fabric. I bring the jumper to my nose and sniff.

I miss you.

I imagine it still smells like my mother.

Anise
.

I decide to keep it. A token of my son’s innocence, a memory of my mother. I close my eyes and whisper, “May Allah bless her soul and make her grave a garden of paradise,” out of respect to my parents.

I look at the box again and notice that the whole thing is full of Mick’s woollen jumpers. Is he giving them to the Salvation Army? Is he finally getting rid of all his excess junk?

I rummage through the box, to see what he is getting rid of, but as I push some fabric to the side, I hear a heavy muffled thud. So I pull out a couple more jumpers and there are more thuds. They get louder and louder the more jumpers I pull from the box.

I toss the pile of jumpers onto the bed, and reach into the box to pick up one of a dozen or so T-shaped black leather cases. Its weight is quite soothing in my hand, like a stress ball.

I unclip the press stud at the center of the T, hands trembling, heart pulsing in my ears, and slip it from its case. I am pretty sure I know what it is. But I am hoping I’m wrong.

But I’m not. Push daggers. And they are all engraved with a capital
I
.

I smile … until I realize I shouldn’t.

Chapter 23

Mia: Maybe he isn’t a dickhead after all.

I’m supposed to be in Theatre Studies. But I so can’t see myself performing that stupid Joan of Arc scenario when I feel so rat shit. I lean against the newly decorated mosaic wall of the auditorium and smoke a ciggie, breathing in slow, long, and hard, the velvety smoke caressing the inside of my throat like a tongue.

I stare across the empty football field at the cluster of old red brick buildings—the English wing—and wonder why Psychology and Advanced Sciences get the new building when English is a compulsory subject. Everybody’s got an agenda. Even the people that aren’t meant to.

The waist of my jeans digs into my stomach as I bend down to pick up a smooth black oval rock; my dry lips crack as I wince, and my feet burn as gravel scratches the soles of my black baby doll flats.

I slip the rock into my schoolbag. I’ll keep it. Maybe I can do something with it in Metalwork. A pendant for Dad maybe. It would be a nice gesture. And I should butter him up a bit anyway, prevent him from finding out about the pills.

The pills.
The
Pills
.

I’ve never done drugs before. What if I get hooked? Caught? What if I lose heaps of weight, but then keep losing it and turn into a freaky anorexic? Ugh. I’ve seen what that shitty disease does to people. They look like zombies.

Man. Even grosser.

I take another heavy drag of my ciggie, suck my cheeks in as much as possible, and imagine gorgeous cheekbones appearing. But I breathe in too deep and gag and spit yellow foam onto the concrete. As it splatters onto my shoe, someone around the corner of the building kicks something, and yells, “Cunt! Fuckin’ stupid fuckin’ cunt!”

I drop my cigarette on the ground and with a quick press, twist, and jerk of my heel, I butt it out and lob it under a bench.

There’s more swearing, more kicking, more groaning, and I creep to the corner of the building to see what’s going on.

It’s Mick. Having a tantrum. As usual.

Dickhead.

I roll my eyes and spin around to grab my bag to leave. I can’t deal with his shit again. He’s a freaking psycho. But just as I hook my arm into a strap, Mick grabs it and yanks me around to face him.

“You spying on me, you fat fuck?” Mick spits on the ground.

A fleck of his saliva lands on my lip. Yuck, gross, ew. I hold my breath and try not to look him in the eye. Instead I focus on a mole by his left nostril. He’s got a good grip on my arm; maybe I’m not as fat as I feel. Or maybe Mick’s hands are just extra big. I swallow, squint, and channel my own bullying nature back to the surface.

“Nope. You all sooky ’cause your mummy didn’t come home last night?” I say.

Mick snarls and inches backwards. He flicks my arm out of his hand like it’s burning his palm. He stares at me, arms slightly out to the side as if they are opposing magnets pushing from his torso. He sucks in his top lip and scrapes it over and over with his bottom teeth.

Maybe I should push some more. What have I got to lose? He’s gonna try to make my life miserable anyway.

“Didn’t Mummy leave you any yum-yums, Mick?”

Mick clenches his fist and lifts it above his head as if about to pound the shit out of me, but he just swings at the air. Man. What a dick.

“What the fuck do you know about that?” he barks.

“About what? Your mother or your dinner?” I scoff, surprised I haven’t been smacked or spat at again.

Mick takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. His torso and arms relax, and he squints across the football field; the expression on his face is the epitome of what I was thinking about earlier. Mick hurls a globule of phlegm at the ground and wipes his mouth with the hem of his T-shirt. He looks at me and his nose twitches.

“Can I bum a smoke?” Mick asks, as if trying out a slightly different personality.

I hesitate a little, not sure if I heard right, then fumble through my bag looking for the pack. When I find it, I hold it out in front of me, at a distance, as if Mick were a wild animal that might bite my arm off if I get any closer. He stares at me, then at the pack of ciggies. I glance at my hand, flick the lid open with my thumb. Mick steps forwards, takes a ciggie, launches it into his mouth. He catches it between his lips like a pro and gawks at me. What? Does he want me to congratulate him? I gawk back.

Mick raises his brow in question.

“Uh … uh … here.” I rummage for my lighter. I can’t find it.

Mick reaches into his back pocket and pulls one out. Lights his cigarette and blows smoke straight into my face. His lips form a perfect
O
.

I don’t flinch.

Mick hovers above me. I’m not gonna let him intimidate me. He’s all show. He’s got to be. And who would hit a girl? For real? If he did he’d be fucked. My dad would kill him.

“You gonna hang around here all day, pussy shit?” Mick says. Didn’t take long for him to stop being “nice.”

I scrunch up my nose, numb to the name-calling. “I have as much right to be here as you do, man.”

Mick’s upper lip twitches. He looks out at the field again and takes another long drag, his ciggie pinched between his forefinger and thumb. When he exhales, he tilts his head and narrows his eyes at me as if scrutinizing every wrinkle that is bound to surface as time goes by.

“You’re still hot.” He smirks.

I blush and glance in the opposite direction as if I might have heard someone approaching. I rub my nose, sniff, and look at the concrete, smile a little, hoping Mick can’t see it, then draw a star on the ground with my toes.

“Didn’t really take you for the type to go for ‘Big. Fat. Fucks.’” I laugh. I don’t mean to laugh. It just sorta comes out.

Mick cracks his knuckles by pressing his fingers into fists, sits on the bench and rests his elbows on his spread knees. He doesn’t ask me to sit, but something makes it seem like an invitation.

So I sit. And place my bag between my feet on the ground.

Mick doesn’t look at me, but he smiles and sucks on his ciggie. The tobacco crackles and burns as I watch the smoke slip in and out of his mouth.

I get butterflies in my stomach and gulp.

“The only reason I give ya so much shit,” he says, “is because yer the only chick in this school that doesn’t break down cryin’ every two fuckin’ seconds.”

I think about the logic of that for a sec. But can’t find any. I scoff. “And
how
exactly does that make me a target?”

Mick laughs and shakes his head as if the answer were obvious. “Yourra challenge.” He leans closer to my ear and whispers, “I want to
break
you.” He glances at me for a split second, grins, and shifts in his seat.

Could he be feeling nervous?

“You’re never gonna break me,” I say, bumping my right shoulder into Mick’s left one. “I’m already broken.”

I just touched him. A huge lump rises in my throat, and my face flushes. I don’t know what possessed me to say something so,
so
lame. Mick turns to face me, his smile fading slightly. For a very short moment we hold each other’s gaze. Just long enough for me to see another side of him lingering in his eyes.

I grab my schoolbag off the concrete, lay it in my lap, and zip it open. I reach inside and pull out a packet of gum, squeeze a couple of pellets into my mouth, and then offer some to Mick. He shakes his head and rubs his hands over his knees.

“I gotta go.” Mick stands, puts his hands in his pockets, and lingers a bit, looking to his left. I look up at him. I want to say something to make him stay. Even if it’s something cruel. I don’t care. Beats sitting here alone. But I’m too late.

“Take it easy, pussy-shit.” Mick winks and disappears behind the building.

I lick my lips as I zip my bag shut and rest it beside me on the bench. I stretch my legs out in front of me and scrutinize my swollen ankles.