just_a_girl (19 page)

It’s
Baptism Now!
at the church this week and I was hoping Layla might come along, you know, she’s never been baptised and it’s one of the best days of the year to come to Church with all the singing and they’ve got this beautiful new baptismal pool down the front so people can just wade in and everyone can watch, and they’re all filmed now and put up on YouTube, and Chelsea sings
I will rise up
as they emerge.

It’s quite different to when it was my turn, you know, there weren’t many attending the Church back then and it was in the backyard pool of one of the congregation, and I remember it was freezing cold even though it was January and the new millennium had just clicked in, and we were all glad to still be standing there, and I had put myself forward to be baptised but when I saw how deep the pool was my legs started to shake because Violet had never taught me how to swim, I don’t remember ever seeing her in bathers, and so I waited while everyone else had their turn, the couples together and the teenagers throwing their arms up to the Lord with wild abandon, and when they came out they
looked renewed and their families gathered around them with fluffy towels and held them tight as they laughed and sobbed, and the longer it went on the more I didn’t want to go down the steps into the water, not with all those people watching me, but then Pastor Bevan caught my eye with a question mark and beckoned me over, and Layla was standing behind me and she gave me a little push, and I sat on the edge of the pool and couldn’t go any further and he leant into me and I whispered,
I can’t swim,
so he whispered back that it only came up to his waist, we didn’t have to go deep at all and that he’d be holding onto me tight the whole time, and he went in to demonstrate with his black t-shirt clinging to his chest, and as I waded into the water I wondered why I had worn a skirt because it floated around me like a fan and I had to keep trying to flatten it down by holding it between my legs.

But when my feet at last touched the bottom the crowd became a blur and all I could see was Pastor Bevan, one arm around my neck and the other holding me close, and I felt calm and silent and peaceful, and I was overcome with this sudden desire to let it all go, let go of the fear, leave my selfish nature and sins at the bottom of the pool, make this commitment to God and carry him in my heart, and just then I saw a pigeon flutter above my head and land at Layla’s feet and she bent down to feed it some of her sandwich, and the pigeon started cooing so loudly that I couldn’t hear Pastor Bevan’s words, and I wanted to become brand new, and then I heard the question,
Is Jesus Christ your Lord and Saviour?,
and I whispered,
Yes,
and Pastor Bevan asked me to cross my hands over my heart, and then he tenderly dipped me backwards like we were doing a wonderful dance, and the water no longer felt cold, and when I came up I felt light and glowing, as if I was a new person coming to the surface, and Pastor Bevan
hugged me and cried and led me to where Layla was waiting with a towel, and I bent down to squeeze her tight and she said in a small voice,
Mum, I’m bored, can we go home now?

Running to Central up Broadway, my silver heels dangling from my hand. Marco’s arm in my back propelling me forward. We just make the last train to Lithgow. In the carriage Marco’s all soft hands and hard eyes. He kisses like he’s never been kissed. I kiss like I’ve always been kissed. We sink into the green two-seater. His legs brace and mine dangle between his. The sweat’s making a puddle in the groove above my lip. I try not to stick my tongue out to taste the salt. In the end our tongues mingle all sweet and sour. Wedges and sweet chilli sauce with vodka, lime and soda.

The carriage is empty except for a group of businessmen who’ve been to the footy. They cram hamburgers from paper bags and watch us as we kiss. As we head towards that point of no return. They pretend not to look but their eyes keep flickering. A mixture of envy and disgust. Wishing they were Marco but glad they’re past that stage. Of having to do it in public spaces. Wherever the mood
suits. I’m nearly past that stage too. I want to be in a bed. In my own bed. I could keep going. This might be the right time. But Marco has his own point. And it’s like a full stop and he’s already reached it. My mum would say his mother brought him up well.

The train always gets scary at night from Parramatta to Emu Plains. Then it’s safe again once you round the bend at Glenbrook. You’ve got to watch out for those crazies especially at Penrith. It’s like all the psychos inhabit this particular radius. As if they can only travel a certain distance before they ping back in like a slingshot. Maybe it’s the exact diameter between their house and their dealer. So I’ve learnt to pump up this inflatable jumping castle around me. Extra thick padding if it’s at night. I sit near the emergency button. But I also know that if a guy attacks me no-one will help. I’ve seen it all before. It’s like in those movies where everything freezes in the background. The only thing that moves is what’s in focus around the main action. So I’ve learnt to read between the eyes. And right now after Purple Sneakers I’m glad Marco is beside me. And he’s built like a side of beef.

We sit sharing the earpieces of his iPod. Taking turns to choose songs. I laugh at his collection and pick the lamest tracks. He pretends he’s cool and eclectic and old school. I close my eyes and start to spiral off. I wish we’d had an E instead of drinking. It’s so hard to keep awake. At Penrith a group of guys gets on and sit in the seats the businessmen have left. The other end of the carriage. Within seconds they take turns to jump from seat to seat like chimps.

Marco and I snuggle and sink lower into it but we’re ready to pounce or run. Alert to the possibilities. The guys
show no interest in us. One is filming with his phone. They stage a mock fight. Or a cockfight more like. All strutting and circling. No punches landing. One pulls out a bong and lights it. They sit in a circle like wise monkeys. Marco and I are now busting for the toilet.

We move through the rubbery connector doors. Marco lets me go first. I stand wobbling on the balls of my feet. So I don’t have to touch the seat. There’s no toilet paper so I find a tissue in my bag. I head back to the seat to wait for him. The monkeys are stretched out on their backs and quiet. Ready for a tummy tickle. I circle into jumpy alcohol sleep. My eyelids all jittery as the train comes around the mountain.

But I need to stay focused. I feel the energy in the carriage change. I wish I had my book to read. I’m loving this Murakami now. I imagine the character in the book as the suitcase guy. All neat on the outside. But having lots of dark adventures. You never know where he’s gonna end up.

We’re just braking into Glenbrook when a monkey talks to me. Then there’s the whole barrel of them. They start to hassle and fidget. I hope Marco is on his way. I stay still as if I’m invisible and they can’t see me. So much for Bionic Layla. A boy tries to get my attention. He asks where I’m getting off. I don’t answer. He calls me a lesbian. So lame. I keep pretending I’m asleep.

But then the side of my head hits the window. He’s smashed me from behind. A blinding ache stalls between my eyes. I don’t want to open them. Now he’s behind me on the seat. He whacks my head the other way. I wonder if I’m bleeding yet. He jumps around and laughs into my face. I have to open my eyes now. His are hash demon red.
His mate is filming me. The train pulls into a station. One screams through the closing doors,
Take that you dumb bitch.

I look around for Marco. I see him outside on the platform. My superhero the invisible man. I feel the blood start to pulse in my head. The dull throb of a crimson bruise.

The boy hit me.
I can’t seem to move. My legs won’t stand up. All I want to do is shut my eyes.

I lean against the window.

But then a quiet voice says,
No.
He’s there in double vision. A blurred kind face leaning in to me. He’s holding my head. And there’s the suitcase. Like an old, worn out, friend.

The boy hit me.
The man is silent. He holds my hand and checks my head carefully. He moves a finger in front of my eyes. I wait for the torch.

The boy hit me.
This time he nods. But still doesn’t speak. My eyes hurt so I close them. I let my head fall into his shoulder.

The boy hit me.
I want to sleep. The lights are so bright on the carriage. Ugly lights. I want to keep my eyes closed. I just want to block everything out. No noise. No lights.

The boy hit me.
He reaches down and puts my arms around his neck.

The boy hit me.
He lifts me and steps out of the carriage.

The boy hit me.
I am ready for sleep. And the sound of his footsteps is soothing. I need to open my eyes. But he lays me down gently. The tiled floor is cold. And I hear a loud
click click.

I am bumping, bumping, bumping. Enclosed. It is very dark. I am curled up to the edges. I can’t move my arms or legs. My hand touches something soft and sticky. Like rubber. I grab it. Fingers curling around me. Like I’m holding my own hand.

My eyes try to open. But it’s hard because they’re stuck together. All I see is a sliver of light. Coming through the curtains. I’m scrunched up in fresh sheets. A snug doona tight around me. I stretch my legs. They creak as they unfold.

And when I sit up there I am. The suitcase lies open on the floor next to the bed. The clasps are shiny. As if they’ve just been polished. And my whole body curdles. I open the curtains. A cottage garden. The bedroom is all greys and browns. Soft throws on the bed. It’s spotless. Like no-one has ever been here. Before me. Like the interior design magazines my mum buys. I begin to move softly.

There’s a mirror above the fireplace. The side of my face is a veil of purple. I touch it and it’s a dull ache. As if the pain has always been there. My eyes are nearly crusted over. Like oysters buried in sand.

I move through the house. It’s all sleek and elegant lines. The bathroom has a spa and two showers side by
side. Pebbles where you stand to wash. The kitchen has a stainless steel fridge. But there’s no sign of breakfast. The clock says 6am. The dining table has yesterday’s newspaper. And a bowl of fresh green apples.

I think I hear something in the lounge room. It must be him. I tiptoe around quietly. Ready to run if he makes the wrong move. The plasma screen is on. Turned down really low. There’s a young girl. She’s watching music videos. I sit down beside her. She doesn’t turn her head. Just keeps staring at the screen. I wonder if she’s stoned.

—The guy with the suitcase? Are you his friend?

But she says nothing.

—Will he be back soon? I really need to talk to him. He helped me last night. I think I must have passed out or something. And I really need to get home.

The girl starts leaning and then falls over on the couch. It’s like all the air goes out of her. In one puff. I lean over to see if she’s okay.

I turn her to face me. And that’s when I realise. When I can see her properly. Fuckadoodle, she could be real.

She looks just like me. A plastic version. She has soft hair. And gentle eyes. A green apple sits in her lap. I listen for his footsteps. But there’s no sign of him here.

Where am I? On the mountain?

I need to get home. Before mum wakes up. But I don’t want to leave the girl here alone. I grab the suitcase and lift her into it. She fits easily with her head squashed in backwards. I start to drag her down the stairs of the cottage and off the verandah. Then up the footpath. But I can’t do it. I can’t move the suitcase without wheels.

I look around and it’s okay. I know where I am.

But we’ll never get all the way to the station.

I pull the suitcase back. Up the steps. I leave her on the verandah. I hope she’ll be safe there. Until he comes back.
If
he comes back.

As I run past the cafes I look for him. In the windows. In the alcoves. At the station.

I have the feeling he’s here. Just sitting back and watching and waiting.

It feels like there’s a huge chasm dividing us, I mean, first Layla was out all night and won’t talk about what happened, except I get a text the next morning saying they both fell asleep on the train and that Marco’s mum picked them up from the station, but I don’t really believe it because Layla’s been hiding from me this past week, always out, I haven’t seen her for days, and she’s meant to be studying for exams and says she’s at the library but she never takes her computer, and it was blinking at me on the kitchen bench so I turned it on and had a bit of a scroll through, looking at her internet history, Dr Phil says it’s okay to keep an eye on what your children are accessing, that you have to be the boss of their online world, and as a parent you have every right to invade their internet privacy, and then I came across this link on YouTube that she’d been watching, and when it started I felt like I would die on the spot.

So there Layla is on the screen and she’s sitting on the train listening to music with her eyes closed, and she’s dressed up and it’s dark outside, and these boys keep trying to get her attention
leaning on the back of her seat and she’s pretending to ignore them like I’ve taught her but I can tell she’s really scared, because her face goes hard as if she’s trying to hide inside, and this one boy keeps pestering her, and licks the camera and then one of the boys swings and hits her hard on the side of her face, and her head bounces against the window, and she arches her back in shock and it feels like it’s my head, my skull throbbing, and then the camera turns away to a boy laughing and someone yells in the background,
I got it!,
as they run off the train and the video cuts out.

In my mind I see my poor girl continuing her train journey home, afraid to close her eyes to listen to her music, in case they come back and do it again or something worse, and I can’t stand the thought that this video is up there, my daughter being hit again and again for the world to see, and I don’t know who else I can talk to or how I can get it taken down, but the worst thing is Layla never told me, but I know she’s seen it up there, been living with it these past days, and she might even have had bruises but she wears her hair so long over her face I probably never noticed them and I don’t understand those kids, how they can think that bashing someone and filming it is funny, but this has been a real wake-up call, I think the Lord put her computer there so I would find it.