All These Perfect Strangers (5 page)

‘Perhaps there should be police in every tutorial ensuring that the police don't enter,' I said innocently.

‘Very funny.' Rachel gave me a shrewd look which she converted to a mulish pout for the rest of the table.

Toby asked, ‘But what was he doing there?'

‘He's a student.'

Almost giddy with relief, I smiled down at my dinner. I was in a place where I could say the word ‘police' without a stunned silence following and people beginning to whisper about me the moment I turned away. That realisation more than made up for the pain in my head.

Rachel changed the subject. ‘Anyway, who has their outfit ready for tonight? If I knew we were wearing red again, I wouldn't have traded my favourite bra last year.'

She frowned, but was distracted by Kesh, who beetled her way across to our table, head bowed, eyes on the floor. A round girl dominated by enormous breasts, I had only seen Kesh in baggy t-shirts and shapeless dresses, but tonight she had squeezed herself into a tight red singlet which threatened to disintegrate. Appreciative hoots, whistles and applause came from the surrounding tables and embarrassment stained her face, neck and the more than ample portion of skin on display.

The theme for the bar crawl was the Rubik's Cube. Each college had been given a particular colour to wear. We were supposed to wear six items of red to swap with strangers from the other colleges, while drinking as much as was humanly possible. I just didn't want to end up naked, which seemed to be a common outcome, according to Toby.

‘She is so gullible. Arts student, so that explains it,' Rachel murmured to me. ‘Couldn't fool you though.'

I smiled like it hadn't even been a possibility.

Tears glinting, Kesh slumped into the seat opposite me.

‘Rachel,' she whispered. ‘You said everyone here would be dressed in red. You told me we had to come down to dinner dressed for tonight.'

‘Aww, just a first-year tease,' said Rachel. ‘I'm sure someone else will turn up soon.'

‘I think you look really
great
in it.' It was a tall long-faced girl from the table behind us, who pushed her chair back until it was almost level with Kesh. Her nostrils flared, almost equine-like, as she drawled out these words, which teetered on the edge of sarcasm. Kesh didn't seem to notice, the ghost of a hopeful smile on her face. Behind the girl, I could see several people sniggering.

‘It's a
huge
improvement,' said the girl. Her eyes, wide with mock-innocence, flickered over to Rogan at the end of our table. ‘And scarlet . . . well it matches your complexion.' There was an explosion of laughter behind us and it dawned on Kesh that this was only more torment. Miserably, she hunched her shoulders and dropped her head, pretending to be engrossed in dinner.

‘Get stuffed, Emelia,' said Rachel. ‘Why don't you go back to torturing the hired help.'

I realised this must be Emelia Manaway, who was something of a college celebrity. According to Rachel, Emelia's family had made a lot of money in dry cleaning and she would inherit a million dollars when she turned twenty-one. What was definitely true was that she owned a brand new midnight-blue Honda Prelude which stood out in our college carpark, amongst the handful of beat up Nissan Bluebirds or rusting Toyota Corollas. Rachel claimed that Emelia's next car was going to get upgraded to a BMW.

Rogan got up from the table, his plate empty. ‘Meet me in the courtyard with the garbage bin, Toby. I'll get the booze now.' Toby nodded and continued to bulldoze his way through a second helping.

‘Is that for the bar crawl, Rogan?' called out Emelia, ignoring Rachel. ‘Do you need a hand?'

I watched as she followed him across the room to where the dirty plates were stacked. Rachel noticed.

‘You think he's cute, don't you?' she said.

‘No,' I answered, and tried to stop my face from telegraphing the truth. ‘I was just thinking I've never heard the name Rogan before. That's all.'

‘His real name is Joshua,' she said to me. ‘I don't know why they call him Rogan.'

‘After the curry,' explained Toby. ‘Had five helpings of it during the curry-eating competition in Bush Week last year. I don't think he's managed to eat one since.'

‘What's so impressive about that?' said Rachel.

‘Afterwards, they found out it had been made with dog food.'

Those at the table who had chosen the meat option began to look at their plates suspiciously.

‘Anyway, he's always got plenty of cash, so Emelia won't be able to bribe him to be her boyfriend,' Rachel continued. ‘People think he's gorgeous but there's something a bit weak about the chin, don't you think?'

I didn't. Watching him chatting to a couple of later-year students, I thought he was perfect, but then I realised Rachel was looking at me with a smile on her face. I turned back to my dinner.

‘What about . . .' began Kesh, but Rachel interrupted her, hissing, ‘Quick, don't make eye contact or she'll come over.'

The entire table immediately looked up and started gazing around the dining hall. There was constant movement around us, like pigeons at a park, but it was obvious who she was referring to. Leiza felt the gaze, turned in our direction and launched herself at us.

‘Hello, I think I've met everyone here. If you don't know me, my name is Leiza. You may not have heard but there was another attack on campus last night. A girl from Chifley was hurt. I have a petition here demanding the university increase campus security.' She thrust a piece of paper and a pen at Kesh who, flustered, quickly signed and handed it to me.

Rachel looked at Leiza. ‘Is this that Screwdriver Man thing we all got notices about?'

‘Yes, I believe that's what they are calling the assailant, but my petition . . .'

Rachel interrupted. ‘Come on,
Screwdriver Man
? Is that the best we can come up with? Sounds more likely to put up your bookshelves than rape you. DIY not GBH.'

‘Call him Jack the Ripper for all I care. That girl needed medical attention and besides, my petition goes much further,' said Leiza firmly. ‘Better lighting, more security patrols.'

I looked down at the petition and saw a long list of demands, including ‘wimmin's room'.

‘Jesus, where do you get this stuff from?' Rachel asked, reading over my shoulder. ‘And what does a wimmin's room have to do with security?'

Leiza turned her back towards Rachel and addressed herself in the direction of the nearest ‘wimmin', Kesh and myself.

‘A wimmin's room would be a refuge from the oppressive male patriarchy that dominates this university . . .'

Toby interrupted. ‘Leiza, the first attack was on a Marchmain boy. As a gay Asian-Australian, if anyone is going to be oppressed here, it will be me. No one is oppressing you.'

‘Can we start?' Then Rachel laughed, pleased with herself.

Kesh, who had been quietly listening, asked, ‘How many people have signed so far?'

‘Congratulations. You're the first,' and Leiza put her arm on Kesh's shoulder in a show of sisterly support.

Kesh slumped further into her seat.

‘Tell you what,' said Toby. ‘I'll sign your petition on one condition.' He grabbed the paper off me and began to write.

‘Male voices are not part of this discourse,' Leiza said. ‘Give it back.' But he fended her off until he signed his name with a flourish. Leiza leant across the table to read what he had written. ‘Toby, you are completely sexist.'

He feigned shock. ‘You aren't trying to gag a minority voice, are you?' He stood up and, putting his hand on his heart, proclaimed, ‘I am only too happy to support your fight for a room for women, as long as you support a men's room as well.'

Leiza was so angry she could barely speak.

‘You've convinced me, Toby. I'll sign up,' said Rachel. She passed it down the table. Everyone signed.

‘You are making a mockery of a serious issue,' Leiza fumed, as a dark-haired girl from the next table came over and scribbled ‘Annabel', surname illegible.

‘God, you take these things so seriously,' said Rachel. ‘Lighten up a little.'

Leiza narrowed her eyes and gave Rachel a scathing glare but said nothing. Instead, she grabbed the petition and stormed off to another table at the far end of the hall.

‘If looks could kill,' said Toby, who picked up his fork to resume eating. ‘You better hope she doesn't get you as a target in the Murder Game, Rach.'

Much later that night, I sat next to Kesh on a grassy bank near the river. At a distance, the river was charming and picturesque, especially as the night was lusciously warm for the tail end of summer. But from where I sat, you could smell rotting vegetation and see tangled litter pushed up against the stones. Upstream from us, a shopping trolley was slowly turning to rust.

The bar crawl had started on the far side of campus and we had spent most of our night stumbling our way back home between drinks, Scullin being the final stop. I had traded some ugly red plastic clip-on earrings for an oversized orange t-shirt which I had tied around my middle. Kesh had borrowed a red-checked flannelette shirt, which she wore as camouflage over the singlet, and had gained a blue headband and one white sock. She had also thrown up two colleges ago and was now pretending to feel much better.

Other people in various hues were taking a breather nearby. Right beside us, a second-year student from our college was lying on the ground next to a paralytically drunk girl dressed predominantly in green. He was wearing a red bandana and a pair of large red ski-gloves. ‘Really, my life's ambition is to write a manifesto, you know, like Marx and Engels,' he said, as a glove began to creep up under her dress.

I looked away and caught sight of Michael sitting in the shadows of a large willow tree. Dressed in dark shorts and top, he was the only person without any bright colours attached to him. Instead, he sat on the periphery of it all, watching the world from a distance. A familiar-looking boy, dressed in jeans, a red t-shirt and sporting an electric-blue silk scarf, was talking to him. Michael shook his head, and shrugging, the boy came up to us, and asked if we wanted to score. I tried to make my ‘no thanks' relaxed and nonjudgmental, but he was indifferent to the rejection and went to ply his trade elsewhere. I knew that I should go and tell Michael I appreciated him rescuing me from Joad, but this late in the night it felt like it was easier to pretend the whole thing had never happened.

‘That's Stoner,' Kesh whispered to me, when the boy with the blue scarf was far enough away.

‘That can't be his real name,' I said.

‘Evan, I think. He's on second-floor Forde with all the druggies.'

Stoner was standing about twenty metres away from us, watching a raggle-taggle group all in white who had appeared on the opposite side of the bank. The river was narrow here, so we could see them clearly. The leader, thick-set with blonde curly hair, was dressed in a cream cotton suit and a buttercup yellow cravat. He opened his arms wide, one hand holding a boater hat, the other a champagne bottle with an orange label. He then took a large swig, and shouted over, ‘It's heaven with strawberries,' bursting into laughter. But he soon stopped as he stared hard across the river to our side. He pointed something out to his comrades, then yelled, ‘Stop, Stoner, I want to talk to you.'

Stoner took no notice of him and began a transaction involving money and quick handshakes with a group further along the bank.

‘White is Maggies' colour, isn't it?' said Kesh. ‘I thought that was a girl's-only college.'

‘Maybe they swapped all their clothes with the friendly inhabitants,' I answered.

There was only one girl I could see amongst the group. She sat down on the river bank, quite separate from the mayhem around her. The boy in the cotton suit gave her a rough kiss on her head. It seemed that some of the boys had decided to swim across to our side and were stripping off. As more flesh was displayed (‘Oh my,' said Kesh) the girl seemed quite unperturbed, just looking dreamily at the river. Wearing a white sundress that might have been a nightgown, with straw-coloured long hair parted in the middle, she looked like a virginal sacrifice from a B-grade horror film.

The boy in the cotton suit didn't take any clothes off. Instead, he hopped onto the shoulders of two of the naked boys, who began carrying him into the water, like this was some victory lap. A third boy, grabbing all the discarded clothes, balanced them on top of his head and followed them across. The water must have been cold, judging by their yells. The leader sat there unperturbed, taking sips of his bottle, as they splashed their way across to us. Turning, I noticed Stoner had disappeared into the darkness.

Once they got to our side, the leader slipped onto the bank. He tipped his hat to us. At his arrival, the red ban-dana boy, who had dispensed with the ski gloves, pulled the slightly less green-clad girl clumsily to standing, and vanished into the shrubs behind us in the search for somewhere more private. The naked boys began to put their clothes back on, as Kesh stared fixedly at a spot in front of her feet.

‘Where did that fucker go?' asked one of the boys. ‘Can't be too far away,' said another.

The boy in the suit walked up to us. ‘Good evening.' He made a low bow.

‘Hello,' I said. Kesh was a bit overwhelmed.

‘I was wondering if you know Stoner? You were just talking to him.'

‘Sure,' I said. ‘We're at college with him.'

‘Can I ask, and I understand this may be a delicate matter, but was he peddling his wares?'

‘He-asked-us-if-we-want-to-score,' said Kesh, in an excitable squeak.

‘See, I told you, Nico,' said one now-clothed boy. ‘He was selling at the bar during the week. Death Riders' gear.'