Prohibited Zone (40 page)

We shared a seafood pizza and a beer as we watched
60 Minutes
. Saira was the lead story. The interview had been cut into a series of sound bites, joined together by Kat's voice-over, which, inevitably, over-simplified the story and bypassed some of what I thought had been the most gripping bits. There was clichéd file footage from Afghanistan showing Taliban beating women with sticks and Mujahideen firing off rockets. But I had to admit that all in all it was well done. The rape at the detention centre was the story – a powerful tale of institutional abuse. Saira looked great on the screen – strong, beautiful and honest, a victim who didn't play the victim. Ray Khoury provided the convincing, corroborative evidence that left no doubt that Saira's moving story was true. Amir was a side story, Saira's allegedly terrorist friend. There was, according to Kat, ‘no evidence that this man was involved in any terror-related activity'. He had ‘apparently been shot dead' last week after escaping the Woomera Detention Centre in circumstances that are ‘yet to come fully to light'. Maybe that would be next week's story. The politicians were hammered. The Attorney-General wriggled and squirmed and finally admitted the possibility that human rights abuses ‘could have occurred at the detention centres'. The Minister for Immigration looked as if he had been forced to skol a schooner of bile. He promised a ‘full and open' investigation into ‘allegations of abuse' in the detention centres and indicated that, one by one, they would be shut down. He wasn't happy about it, but that just made it even sweeter. Kat wrapped up by saying: ‘Many Australians would never have thought that our government could allow serious breaches of human rights to occur on its watch. But, hidden away from the public eye, the refugee detention centre at Woomera, and others like it around the country, are ripe for abuses of every kind – by the faceless bureaucracy, by the refugees themselves, and by the very people contracted to protect them. And the victims, inevitably, are those who are most defenceless – women and children.'

I switched off the television as it cut to the ticking clock and glanced at Kara. She looked happier than I'd ever seen her before.

‘I think we just won the war,' she said.

‘A battle.'

‘Yes, a battle. The detention centres are history.'

‘To be replaced by something else, maybe just as bad, or worse.'

‘Maybe. You're right, it's a battle. But what a fucking battle.' She grinned; her whole face was smiling. ‘Thank you, West. You turned out alright.'

‘The government wants you to shut up, by the way. You'll probably be visited by a spook. They don't want Amir's story getting out.'

‘Well, they can try. But I happen to think the story should get out.'

‘I'll drink to that.'

I went to the fridge and grabbed the bottle of Dom Pérignon, the only one in Port Augusta and possibly the entire mid-north. Half a glass of ridiculously expensive champagne later she was mine. At least for a while.

We lay comfortably side by side. I was stroking her hair and looking at her in the dim light that the room's thin curtains were letting in from the motel's neon sign outside. Somehow she had become beautiful to me now, even in neon. She opened her eyes and smiled when she saw that I was looking at her, and then languidly closed them again. The night was cool and getting cold but we had temporarily abandoned the blankets. The sheet was draped over our lower halves, but I could admire her perfect small breasts and even more her petite hands, one of which was cupped in mine. I was stroking it with my thumb and feeling pleased with myself.

She opened her eyes again. ‘Can I ask you a question?'

‘Sure.'

‘It's just that you seem to have abandoned Lucy pretty quick. She's been sexually assaulted, for God's sake. She needs support. What are you doing here with me?'

I stopped feeling pleased with myself. I let go of her hand. ‘Do we have to talk about that right now?'

‘Of course we do. It's pretty fundamental, don't you think?'

‘Fundamental to what?'

‘To us. To everything. To who you are.'

It was my turn to close my eyes. I rolled onto my back, groaned, and put my arm across my face. I thought back to my last conversation with Lucy, the hardness in her eyes and the harshness in her voice.

‘Of course I feel guilty,' I said. I turned back to Kara. ‘But what can I do? She told me she didn't want to see me again. So I haven't abandoned her. She's the one who put the space between us.'

She was watching me, her eyes moving over my face.

‘Why did she dump you in the first place?'

‘I guess she wanted some sign of commitment from me.'

‘She's married, right?'

‘Yes. Her husband's an arsehole.'

‘So she wanted out.'

‘Right.'

‘And she wanted to know if you would still be there if she was suddenly available full-time.'

‘I suppose so.'

‘And you couldn't commit.'

‘I suppose not.'

‘Not your cup of tea, commitment, is it?'

‘Apparently not. Don't like tea much, either.'

She stared some more. ‘You know, I think I would like Lucy if I got to know her. I'm sure we would agree on a lot of things, like what a twat you are.'

‘Now it's your turn. Tell me about the wall.'

‘The wall?'

‘You told me you put up a facade. A tough exterior.'

She shrugged her naked shoulders. ‘Doesn't everyone do that?'

‘Maybe, but I'm not interested in everyone. Just you.'

She gazed at me for a while and then shrugged again.

‘I keep my feelings to myself, that's all. Sometimes it probably looks like I'm a cold-hearted bitch, but I just hide my feelings.'

‘Why?'

‘Isn't it obvious? You keep things hidden so that they don't get stolen or damaged or otherwise misused by the arseholes of the world.'

‘What things?'

She made her beer-bottle-top noise of exasperation. ‘I don't know. Your true feelings, your true emotions, your most important hopes and dreams. That kind of thing. You keep them hidden away.'

‘Ever let anyone in past the wall?'

‘Hasn't happened yet, not fully. You've got further than most.'

A truck rattled past on the highway outside, heading south towards Adelaide. ‘So you trust me?'

She sat up and crossed her legs. She took my hand and studied it and used her thumbs to knead the palm. Then she pulled it towards her and placed it on her breast. I sat up too and moved closer and put my free hand on her leg. ‘Obviously I trust you – to a point,' she said, ‘or I wouldn't be sitting here naked with you. By choice.' Our eyes met again in the gloom. ‘But how do I know you will still be here when I wake up in the morning? Do
you
even know?'

I leant forward and kissed her, and she kissed me back. ‘No, I suppose I don't.'

Sometime in the small hours of the morning I lay awake, restless. Kara was asleep by my side. She was breathing deeply but I knew I had no chance of sleeping for hours. I extracted myself from the bed without waking her, threw on some clothes, grabbed the car keys and closed the door quietly behind me.

I drove north for a couple of hours. I didn't have any particular plan but I did have Nick Cave's ‘Into my Arms' on repeat. I was in a melancholy mood and Nick made sure I stayed that way. Just south of Pimba I pulled off the road, cut the engine, and sat until the song finished its umpteenth repeat. Then I got out and walked into the prohibited area.

I didn't go far, maybe a couple of kilometres, but far enough that I couldn't see headlights on the highway. I lay on the ground and stared up. The moon had already set and it was just the universe and me. The stars were so loud I could almost hear them humming. It was bitterly cold. So many stars in so many galaxies. Some of them were already dead, we just didn't know it yet. My friend Baz was dead, Amir was dead. Why had they struggled? Why had they bothered to fight against the cold, implacable hate of the universe? Why do we all? We are all just spent bullets, ricocheting around at random until we finally run out of energy and come to rest at absolute zero. Baz had understood the absurdity of life and the stupidity of our species but, in the end, he had shown that he had loved both as well. He had been scared of himself, of what he was capable of doing, of what he had done and of what he might become. And he had walked deliberately into danger, and into a bullet, to cleanse himself, to take responsibility for his deed and his flaw. In some sense, I guess, he
was
a hero.

His example would be lost on most of us. Instead, we would continue to struggle, to fight and spit and screw and rape and scream and torment each other. To go to war. To let hate fester, to plant spores of discontent in the bellies of countries and to sit back and watch them grow. Inevitably the anger would burst, like hydatids cysts, and unwanted people would spill over the political borders that we, in our collective wisdom, have drawn on the ground. By and by, boatloads of these people would arrive on foreign shores, on Australian shores. As any normal human beings would do, we would greet them with fear and loathing, as if they were maggots, make laws and prisons to keep their evil contained, and exploit their women. Especially their women. And, all the while, as we all fought for space and riches and the ownership rights to God, we would go on being lost in this big, brainless, vacant, fucked-up universe, go on as if we were all on our own. As if we could all have the universe to ourselves.

I lay on my back for a long time, gibbers pressing into me, slowing absorbing the night until my core temperature had sunk by several degrees. Did I really want the universe to myself?

When I could stand the cold no longer I got up and pulled from my pocket the gibbers that Baz had clutched as he had lain dying. I threw them as far as I could into the desert air, aiming for the stars. Then I walked back to the car, stumbling over the plain. I could feel something stirring within. Maybe it was just the blood returning to my extremities. Maybe it was a decision about what to do next.

I had two options. I could head north, to Roxby Downs, and go to work. Or I could head south, to Port Augusta.

If I took the second option I would make it just before dawn, just before these stars, these gibbers in the sky, faded from view. Kara, I was sure, would still be sleeping. I could get into bed behind her and put my arm around her, resting one hand on her bare stomach and stroking her hair with the other. I could nudge her gently; maybe she would start to complain about my cold hands. I could hush her and, when she was hushed, I could whisper to her: ‘I'm still here.' Maybe she wouldn't say ‘big deal'. Maybe, if I was lucky, she would turn to me and warm me and put her lips on mine, and life would stir in the empty universe within me.

Maybe. I got in the car and drove.

Acknowledgments

T
HE FOLLOWING PEOPLE
provided encouragement and advice: Adam, Alistair, Angelee, Anne, Cal, Candy, Catherine, Coimbra, Deborah, Greg, Hakim, Hana, Ian, Jacqui, Jane (x 2), Julia, Margie, Nancy, Neil, Pauline, Pippa, Sarah, Sobral, Tom, Tony and especially Judy, who believed in this more than anyone, including me. Wakefield's Ryan Paine was excellent and Michael Bollen a pleasure to deal with. Thanks to you all.