Whitey's dad had been a long-haul truck-driver. Sydney to Melbourne, Sydney to Cobar, Sydney to Brisbane. Sydney to anywhere on the eastern side of Australia - some of the destinations sounded more like they were in Africa, or India. Whitey knew the names of places even his primary school teachers hadn't heard of. It was cool when his dad would bring one of the rigs home. The cabin - it wasn't anything like a car up there; it was like the control room from that show on the telly, Time Tunnel. And the dog-box in the back - Whitey had asked if they could put one on the side of the house and he'd have it as his bedroom. He'd gone on a couple of trips with his dad, but it was really only exciting for the first few hours; then Whitey would wish he was back at home, out in the yard, or riding his beat-up old BMX. His dad would wish Whitey was back at home too.

-Ya doin' me head in with that b.l.o.o.d.y moanin', kid. Put a sock in it, hey.

But really, Whitey didn't see much of his dad other than when he'd come home for a few days every couple of months. And the house would change when he was there. Whitey would be shocked to see this man, his dad, walk out of his mum's bedroom, or out of the toilet. And Whitey and his little sister would lose their mum while Dad was there. Instead of being the mother, she'd be more like another child - playing up to Dad, acting a bit silly, giggling, and spending too long in the bedroom with him. But then his dad would leave again, for Gunnedah, or the Gla.s.shouse Mountains, and Whitey's mum was back for him and his sister.

He couldn't remember ever really getting in trouble from his mum. Couple of times for letting the dog maul the towels on the line or for teasing his sister. But life was calm and uncomplicated until that morning; or maybe it just seemed that way looking back because of how everything slid into a different world from then on.

His mum had just gotten them up for school. Whitey was in the toilet, and hadn't even heard the phone ring. But he heard his mum scream. Or howl. And he knew. He was only ten. But he knew. Dad was dead. Killed flying down the highway in his time tunnel.

His mum had held it together at the funeral, at which Whitey and his sister had had to wear clothes borrowed from the neighbours, and he was surprised because seeing the coffin - his big dad in that small box - made him spurt out sobs where he hadn't felt the need to cry at all until then. But really, from the moment they got back home after the strange party at his auntie's house, Whitey's mum was changed. The fussiness over every little grain of dust that used to drive him nuts dissipated. And the mash potatoes were watery, or were really just that: mashed potatoes - no milk, no b.u.t.ter, no salt. And sometimes it was just Weet-Bix for dinner. And then, a few months after the funeral, the migraines. His mum would be crawling - like that chameleon lizard he'd seen on telly - down the hallway, and vomiting and groaning in a voice so low it was like a man's. And then she'd be in bed. And she wouldn't move or answer when they'd ask if she was okay.

But one day she got a job at the doctor's as a receptionist. She was there at home when they went to school, but she wouldn't get home until after eight in the evenings. She'd never taught Whitey to cook, but he'd had to learn. And he learnt pretty quickly, although he couldn't manage more than one thing at a time. So they'd have sausages or mash potatoes, or chops or chips. One night Whitey burned the frozen shepherd's pie to a cinder, so he and his sister had a cup of white sugar each for dinner.

By the time he was in high school, his younger-by-six-years sister was starting to give him the s.h.i.ts. She was so clingy. He had to cook, listen to her talk about this and that girl at school, and explain every little thing about everything they were watching on the telly. Sometimes he'd just take off on his bike, cruise around, and go lie on the cool gra.s.s up at the local sports oval.

Soon he was meeting up with kids from school and smoking pot with them, and not long after he got a job at Hedda's cafe cleaning up after the old ladies, and was able to buy enough pot to sell. He moved out of home one night without telling either his mother or sister. He slept on people's lounges or on mates' bedroom floors. He knew, even back then, that it was a cowardly thing to just p.i.s.s off like that, but time soon filled in the feeling with a numbness, and it was two years before he had any contact with his mother or sister.

It was his sister's birthday. It was a date he always remembered, so he turned up at the house. It was as if they were expecting him. They didn't act surprised at all. Just said hi, let him in. They were having a barbecue, some of his sister's school friends were there, and Whitey offered to cook. Towards the end of the last batch of snags his sister came up to him.

-Happy birthday, he said.

-Thanks.

-I didn't bring you a present. Sorry.

-Thought not.

Whitey hadn't even thought of a present, until he'd seen that there was a table with several gift-wrapped CDs and books.

-I think I've got some money if you want.

He had a single ten in his pocket, which she took.

And when he was leaving - he would have to walk, as he now had no bus fare - his mother grabbed his forearm.

-We knew you weren't dead. We're just waitin' for the call though.

Whitey didn't know what to feel after that. They were his family, but he treated them, and they treated him, like a former neighbour or less. That was the last time he'd seen them. He'd wondered, while in jail, if they knew he was there. But he hadn't even thought of them until now. Until Sonja had asked him.

He held Sonja, and hoped that she'd never leave him the way he'd left his family.

SIXTEEN.

Dad's a f.u.c.kin' loser, Abdullah thought. Lives by all those rules; rules that don't apply to life. Like the religion. All that devotion. Devotion to things outside your life. Putting things first, things you can't see or grab hold of. And all those rules at work. Keeping your mouth shut. Dealing with c.u.n.ts all day. And Aussie bosses telling you about policies and that s.h.i.t. Dad loves all that s.h.i.t. And expects me to too. Disappointed in me, his own f.u.c.kin' son. He's the one who told us how, when he first came to Australia, the Aussies would spit on him at the bus stop, and the factory bosses would tell him they don't employ b.l.o.o.d.y Arabs. Well, he can have the f.u.c.kin' railways. And Allah. My cousins are the f.u.c.kin' lucky ones in my family. Their parents realise how wrong all these big-headed a.r.s.eholes and s.l.u.ts are. Mum and Dad say we're all lucky to be here, things are good here. Dad puts up with it. The Aussies looking down on him, sweeping their c.r.a.p up off the station. Not Abdullah. I'm going to be like my cousins and uncle, he thought, as he drove to their house to have a smoke with his cousin Yift. No Aussies are going to look down their stubby noses at me, no s.l.u.ts are going to laugh at me, tell me there's no way they'd touch a Leb.

Abdullah was born in Australia. As was his sister three years later. His parents had emigrated as refugees, with Yift's parents, in the 1970s after their whole town collapsed from Israeli sh.e.l.ling. Abdullah's father had told him how he and his brothers had helped the Hezbollah - clearing the roads for them, feeding them and giving them water. And how he'd seen corpses left like animal pelts to evaporate in the sun. How he'd seen a friend of his from the town, dragging his severed leg by a still-attached rope of flesh. Abdullah loved to hear the stories. But his father was spa.r.s.e with them. So was his uncle. But where his father had left war behind for good, Abdullah's uncle had identified the war going on here, in this s.h.i.thole country. Not a blatant war with ordnance and jet-bombers, but one where the Aussies, like the Jews, had all the backing, and the Lebs were the freedom-fighters. The Aussies had the pigs and the politicians on their side, but the Lebs had the courage, and the history of war. The Aussies tried to keep you down with their rules and laws suited to their backward Christian ways; made you talk all English with a stupid skip accent, made you stay in school and learn their stupid Abo history, and the blondie, tarted-up girls avoided or just laughed at you. Abdullah's uncle and cousin had both done time. Attempted murder and possession with intent to sell. They never talked about it. Abdullah didn't know the whole story. But it impressed him, and it impressed his mates even more.

Back when he was a little kid, Abdullah and his sister had attended a primary school in the western suburbs because his mother was a cleaner there. His cousins and all his friends had gone to school in the area they lived in, in the Arabic precinct of Punchbowl in south-western Sydney. Abdullah and his sister were the only Lebanese kids in their school. There were some Turks, but they were Christians, and sn.o.bs. There were a couple of boys that Abdullah made friends with, David and Thomas, but, although they were friendly, they were also bookish, and would talk about things Abdullah would get lost in, like some stupid novel they were reading, or that dragons and dragons game or whatever it was, and they'd laugh when he'd try to chip in on a conversation. Eventually they became enemies, like everyone else there, after he jobbed David for teasing him about his b.u.m-fluff moustache that was starting to grow.

Abdullah could handle the boys - they were all scared of him by Year 4 - but the girls baffled him. They'd giggle and flitter around David and Thomas and the other boys, but avoid even eye contact with Abdullah. Some days they'd be hysterically laughing and falling about each other at recess, but then crying their eyes out at lunch. Abdullah's sister, his cousins, none of the girls from his area were like that. They were quiet and gentle, and he never saw them display their emotions as though they were actors on a soap opera; and never engaged in the games with boys that these girls did. There were two he really liked though: Jillian and Liz. Jillian had thick, dark hair, and her dark eyes were even darker because of her milky skin. Liz was blonde, and all the boys liked her. The girls never talked to him, and often moved when he sat next to them. One lunchtime though, when he was in Year 6, Abdullah's sister came to him and told him that Alison, the little sister of one of the girls in Abdullah's cla.s.s, had told her that Liz had a crush on him, and if he asked her out, she'd go with him. Abdullah thought about nothing else for the rest of the week. And over the weekend convinced himself to ask her out. On Monday at recess, he went up to Liz where she was sitting on the benches outside the girls' toilets with her friends.

-Can I talk to ya? he asked her.

-Um, why? she said.

-Just wanna aks ya something.

She laughed, but said -Well, go, I'm not stopping you.

-Um, would you like to go out with me?

-Go out? With you?

-Yeah.

-Yuck! She burst into laughter, and her friends followed. Other kids heard and scuffed over to see what was so funny.

-But my sister told me you liked me, he whined, anger and nausea boiling up in him.

-Your sister's a woggy freak like you. As if. Keep away. Please, Liz said, and the swelling group laughed, and Abdullah just wanted to cut sick and thrash out with arms and legs and make pies out of their stupid skip heads. But he went up to the back of the sports oval and sat with his back against the football posts. He found out later that week that it had been a set-up. And he'd gone for it like the dog they thought he was.

He hated Liz then. He just wanted to bash her. She was ugly. And fake. And a s.l.u.t for all her Aussie boys. Jillian he fell more in love with. But he would never talk to her. He would never talk to any of the b.i.t.c.hes here. But he would fantasise. He'd dream of getting Jillian alone. Just the two of them. Lifting her skirt. Seeing her undies. Pushing her down. Lying on top of her. Pinning her down. Making her love him for his strength. And then leaving her half-naked, or fully naked, and letting everyone see her how she was. Weak and small, and defenceless without her confidence he'd so easily overcome. And she would want him. Because no one else would like her. But back in the reality of Plumpton Primary, everyone loved Jillian and hated Abdullah - whispering and snickering and carrying on in that language and manner that had always eluded him.

But then thankfully Year 6 was over and he was at high school. Punchbowl Boys' High. Back with his boys. He felt tough. He'd started to fill out a bit. And his uncle was in prison. He was one of the main boys at the school. Kids wanted to hang out with him. They wanted to know what it was like at the skip school, out there with all the s.l.u.ts in miniskirts. They wanted to hear it so he told them. How many f.u.c.ks he got. How they all f.u.c.ked out there. Their parents let them do anything, he told them, they f.u.c.k in the dunnies, in the drains behind the school, anywhere you wanted. And they deserved it. Flashing everything. Legs, t.i.ts. No shame, no pride, nothing like Muslim girls. And it became legend. It became truth. Those miserable, isolating years out there had paid off. He was able to construct an experience that reversed, he thought, their impact on him. It became so true that even one of the dumb skip teachers at Punchbowl Boys took him aside and asked him why he boasted about that sort of thing. Abdullah laughed.

-Where's your daughter go to school, sir? he taunted the teacher. If it wasn't for the princ.i.p.al being a Leb, he thought, he would have gotten suspended.

High school was good. There were no girls, but that was an advantage. You could be yourself. No b.i.t.c.hes around to laugh at you, make you feel stupid. And Abdullah was respected. Amongst boys, Arabic boys, what he said was funny when he meant it to be, tough when he meant it to be, and his ideas were valued. There were a couple of groups who didn't like him and his boys - the d.i.c.kheads who got into studying, were full-on into the religion, who played skip-ball, or were too wimpy to stand up for themselves and were happy to become Aussies. But Abdullah's gang, although small in number, were undisputed as the toughest.

Where it was just talk in the early years of high school, Abdullah and his boys all shared the intensity of their frustration by the last two years. At home, there was no talking about s.e.x. But at school, and hanging out after school at the pinnie joint, or at Bankstown Mall, it was the whole world. Abdullah was the core, and all talk would gravitate to him - because he'd had so many b.i.t.c.hes, knew what it was like to hold a girl, and put his c.o.c.k right up in her. He could easily imagine what it would be like, he thought, so the stories came easily to him.

In fact, he shared his mates' frustration and confusion. The only girl he really knew was his sister. And she was into mosque and the Koran and gave him absolutely no clue into the psyche of what girls thought about when it came to s.e.x. And he could never ask. That would be one thing his parents would go to war about. One time his father had severely beaten him when he found a copy of Barely Legal behind the bed-head. So the stories stayed stories. But turned to plans. How were they going to get laid? Sure, you meet a Muslim girl, and if you're lucky she'll let you get a taste before the wedding, but what do you do now? There's so much h.o.r.n.y p.u.s.s.y out there, and a man needs to be a man.

Abdullah left Punchbowl Boys at the end of Year 11. He wasn't doing well at school, and his dad had gotten him an interview at the railways. The interview was p.i.s.s-easy, Abdullah thought, walking out of the office - three Lebs whom his father had had 'round for dinner a few times. He started a month later at Macdonaldtown Station, collecting tickets and sweeping up the platform. The job was a bludge, and there were plenty of hot chicks from the performing arts high school in the morning and afternoons. He was also able to get a car loan, and bought the 2001 WRX, fully worked and detailed. The freedom fight was fully under way. Man, the chicks really paid attention when they heard the turbo! And he'd begun to look better in the mirror. Working out. Shaving his head. Buying cool clothes. Tight white T-shirts and Hugo Boss jeans. But then the cops. Twice in one week pulled him up for speeding. Ha.s.sled the f.u.c.k out of him, searched his car, searched him, and made him wait while they checked for non-existent warrants. Asked him at least three times if he was Lebanese. f.u.c.kin' a.r.s.ehole skips. And then, just a week later: he'd started to notice a group of girls from the performing arts school smile at him. One was hot. Really hot. Long, curly black hair. And her skirt sitting nice and high on her thighs. She never had her student ticket with her, so one morning late that week after the cops had ha.s.sled him, he waited. When she was coming through the turnstile he locked it.

-Ticket please.

-Um, I left it at home, she said.

-That's too bad, miss, you'll have to go home and get it, he winked at her.

-You're kidding, right. I've got to get to school. I have a composition exam this morning.

-We'll, maybe we can work something out then, he said, and unlocked the turnstile for a second, and then re-locked it, smiling at her.

-Look, mister, are you going to let me through or not?

-Depends, honey. What's your name?

-Princesse de b.l.o.o.d.y Lascabanes.

-Princess, hey?

-Are you going to let me through?

-For a kiss.

Abdullah leant down to her. But she jumped the barrier, so he grabbed her hard on the a.r.s.e. She screamed and ran off with her friends who'd been waiting for her. There'd also been, Abdullah suddenly noticed, quite a few other pa.s.sengers waiting to get through the turnstile.

The railways suspended him, without pay, until they completed their investigation. What a load of f.u.c.kin' s.h.i.t, he thought. Well, f.u.c.k them.

-Abdullah, you m.u.t.h.af.u.c.ka, his cousin Yift said, coming into the lounge room. Let's get f.u.c.kin' goin', huh?

-What took ya so long? Puttin' on ya f.u.c.kin' make-up? Abdullah taunted, and winked at Sakine, Yift's little sister.

They put ciggies in their mouths and lit them as they crossed the threshold of the screen-door. They smoked them in silence before getting in the car. Abdullah liked this: it showed that his cousin had respect for him - not smoking in the car - and as Yift was the person he probably respected most in the world, apart from his uncle, Yift's father; this was a big thing.

-Did I tell ya I'm f.u.c.kin' a cop's daughter? Abdullah said.

-Nuh. What are ya doin' that for? Cops are f.u.c.kwits, mate.

-She's not a f.u.c.kin' cop. Her father, mate.

-You're a f.u.c.kin' idiot, mate. You can f.u.c.k yaself up. f.u.c.kin' cop; don't get involved with those c.u.n.ts. Me and me dad have f.u.c.kin' done time, and you're f.u.c.kin' cops. Disrespectful, ya d.i.c.khead.

This wasn't the reaction Abdullah had hoped for. He was hurt. But wouldn't show it. He loved his cousin and his uncle. He'd adopted them as brother and father. And he thought that he'd been adopted too, as a brother and a son. But this reaction made him feel he was back at Plumpton Primary - on his own, unable to understand why, what was fully formed and perfect in his mind was so wrong to others. Couldn't Yift see? This girl was an advantage; f.u.c.king with the enemy. He thought Yift would love it. It's like taking a prisoner, or something.

-Let's get whacked, Yift said.

Yift smoked the gear until the bowl was clean and then said he wanted to go home. He didn't talk at all for the duration of the session. Just packed the cones. Smoked one, offered one, smoked one, offered one. But Abdullah only had three. He wasn't in the mood. He'd wanted to tell Yift about the s.l.u.ts he and his boys had been getting. Get him in on the next one. Show him that he'd started out on his own with his gang. Started something mad. Yift didn't want to talk though. Just packed and smoked. And looked out the window on the way back to his place.

-Take it easy, mate, he mumbled, as he shut the pa.s.senger door of the WRX.

Abdullah called Mia on her mobile. He needed to gauge what he was doing with her. He was doubting and needed to shift blame. He'd thought that telling Yift about her would build something. He'd imagined a handshake and some long laughter and hard shoulder-punching. But here he was. With Mia as his girlfriend, but wondering what her worth to him was.

-h.e.l.lo, she said.

-Hey, Mia. What're ya doin'?

-Not much. What are you doing?

-f.u.c.k all. Can I pick you up? Go for a root or something.

-Abdullah. Don't talk to me like that please. Look, I don't know. My dad will freak if I ask him if I can go out. And also, we need to get condoms if we're going to do that again.

-Huh? Well, what's ya brother doin'? Does he wanna hang out?

-My brother? What do you mean?

-Just ask him if he wants to hang out.

-All right. Hang on.

He could hear her talking, but not what she was saying. It p.i.s.sed him off.

-Yeah, he wants to hang out, she replied. He'll wait for you out the front of our place.

Between eight and nine pm on late-night shopping nights, the fever of teenage behaviour changed Rooty Hill Plaza. It became a meeting place, and more importantly, it became a blueing place, and a pick-up place. The families and older couples were forced out by the swearing and spitting and tiny denim skirts, and were lined up to pay for their parking by eight o'clock.

Abdullah and Charlie hung at the top of the escalators. They'd headed out west again in the WRX because, Abdullah insisted, this was where the s.l.u.ts really were.

-Hey, babe, Abdullah called out to all the girls who came up the hungry metal stairs. Most of them rolled their eyes, told him to shut up, d.i.c.khead. There were also plenty of westie guys around, and as Abdullah had little faith in Charlie's abilities as a half-decent bluer, he'd have to be a little bit careful. Sly.

-Hey, babe.

-Hey, a chick with blue eye-shadow said. What're youse doin'?

-Just hangin'? What're you girls doin'?

-Same.

-Smoke pot? Abdullah asked, and shifted his hand on the banister so it b.u.mped Charlie's. There were two of them. Both Aussie, and both pretty hot.

-Sometimes.

-What about tonight?

-Why? Ya got some?

-Of course, babe.

Abdullah called Fadi on one of the chicks' mobile phones. It was one of the new Nokias. He'd be keeping it too; put his own SIM card in it.

-Fadi. It's Abdullah. I'm usin' a s.l.u.t's phone. Can ya get ya dad's car?

-Maybe. Why, what's up, mate?

-Mate, s.l.u.ts, s.l.u.ts. We got s.l.u.ts down at Brownthistle Park at Mt Druitt. They wanna suck ya d.i.c.k.

These guys had seemed okay. A bit woggish, and the older one a bit c.o.c.ky, but pretty cool and undemonstrative; and willing to blow them out when it seemed that no one had any pot at all. Tennille Baxter had reasoned that it would be okay to go for a ride with them up to the oval for a smoke. But after that first wrong turn, and then him locking the car doors and telling them to shut the f.u.c.k up, things had gone from something just a little out of the ordinary to something that was quite sharply threatening - something with potential teeth, but which she'd never thought she'd have to try to placate. She and Melissa had gone for plenty of smokes with boys before. But none had acted anything like this. A joint had been pa.s.sed around, but the locked doors, and the total silence of the younger guy had stripped the mood entirely, leaving only unwanted paranoia. And then, as if he thought he was in a p.o.r.no or something, the older guy said: -So, do you girls wanna f.u.c.k or what?

Tennille wasn't sure what to say. Or do. But she was quite aware that there were two guys here, both much bigger and stronger than she and Melissa, and they didn't intend to just smoke a joint and take them home, like they'd said. Melissa was silent. Her posture was one of total fear: her hands between her legs, her body a nervous sh.e.l.l. But Tennille was still acutely aware. They could get out of this. They could survive this. She remembered a novel she'd read in high school, an autobiography, about a young woman who'd been raped. Despite her fear and disgust, the woman had done what the sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d had asked her to do, and she'd lived through it - where other victims had not. The absolute last thing Tennille wanted to do was have s.e.x with these guys. But she didn't want to die. Jesus. Not now, like this. While the threat was still just words, she thought she would try reason first.