The tension and sense of danger I felt yesterday has completely evaporated, but the riot remains all anyone can talk about. I’m in the office with everyone else. I should leave before I say something that makes my position worse, but I will not be denied the cup of tea I’ve been thinking about for the last half hour.
“I tell you one thing, how many bearded fellers were in it?” says Darren. “It’s ’cause it’s the Muslims. They’re the troublemakers. That’s how you know it’s a put-on when they say they converted to Christianity. If they’ve still got their beard, they’re a Muslim.”
“Jihad,” giggles Scott in a funny voice, though nobody knows why he’s giggling.
“That’s what they think. Their bible says they’ve got to fight the white man and then they go to heaven. The faggots from yesterday are probably counting how many virgins each one of ’em gets,” says Darren.
I open the bar fridge and reach for the milk. There’s not enough room for this many people, especially with Karen among us. The corner of the fridge door stabs into my waist. The radio hitched to my belt falls to the ground for the second time in as many minutes. I pick the prick of a thing up and dump it on the table, then get the milk and finish making my tea.
“I reckon the ringleader was that one who lit a fire the other week,” says Gabriel.
“The one with the scars on his face?” says Darren.
“No no, not him, the light-skinned one. In Brown Compound.”
“Oh, yeah, I think I know who you mean.”
“Isn’t he the guy who lost his entire family in that capsizing a while back?” I ask.
“Yeah, I think so,” says Darren.
“I say we get an extraction squad together and take him down. Put him in isolation. Worked in prison. You get rid of the ringleader and the problem’s solved,” says Gabriel.
“It’s their culture, though. That’s what they do in those places. Riot and guerrilla war. You can’t stop it. It’s how they are,” says Darren.
“I still reckon you put that prick down and the rest pull their head in. Fuck it, put him down anyway. I’ll do it.”
“No no, please officer, me good refugee,” says Scott, again giggling.
Can’t Scott see that Darren and Gabriel are trying to have a serious conversation?
“The moment you riot, that’s it, no visa. Break a law, you’re gone. First plane back to Iran. Solve the problem straight away,” says Darren.
“I’ll cut your beard off, cocksucker!” yells Scott, who, I realise, must still be drunk from the night before. I laugh heartily at the Roy-like irreverence. Gabriel stares at me with contempt. Maybe he thinks I’m laughing at him. Maybe I am.
There’s a knock at the window. No one motions to move, so I go. It’s Ali.
“Hiii, Nick. Can you …?” he says, tilting his head.
“Yeah, hold on,” I say.
I grab my cup of tea and head out. I follow Ali to his room. He’s been writing a letter detailing the errors contained in the initial negative decision he received. He’s finally finished and I’ve agreed to check it over for spelling and whatnot. I take a seat while Ali sits on his bed. He passes me a wad of papers.
“Wow, this looks like a long letter. You must have spent a lot of time on this.”
“Yeees. But it’s ok. I have a lot of time,” Ali says.
I read the letter, making notations as I go to correct grammar and clarify expression. The incompetence and indifference Ali details is stunning. It gels with snippets other detainees have told me, and I have no reason to think any of it untrue. From the outside, you’d think the whole refugee visa application process is performed with the utmost care and professionalism. But it appears to be the same shitshow of incompetence, muddling and petty power trips that characterises the rest of life.
I’m almost through the letter when I hear the hurried footfall of an officer in the corridor outside. Then I hear the distorted crackle of a radio and what sounds like my name. Strange. I reach for my own radio — and that’s when I realise it’s not on my belt.
I remember now: I left it sitting on the table in the officers’ donga. Shit-o-shit-o-shit. I spring from my seat and rush outside.
“Hey,” I call to the back of Scott’s head. He turns around. “What’s happening?”
“Oh, fuck, man. Gabriel couldn’t get you on the radio, so called a Code Black. I’ll let him know.”
Scott grabs his handset and hails control.
“This is Red Four. Ahh, Red Six has been located in Red Compound. It’s all good. Over,” says Scott, then he giggles.
I don’t giggle. I know I’m in deep shit.
I quickly walk back to the office. I open the door as Gabriel is putting the phone down. He reclines in his swivel chair. There’s a smug grin on his face.
I look around. My radio is on the table exactly where I left it. I pick it up and put it on my belt.
“Tried to reach you on the radio,” says Gabriel. “Hailed you three times. You should remember to take your radio. Anyway, that was the big man. Benedict. You’re wanted at admin at your earliest convenience.”
Gabriel smiles at me and I know he did it on purpose. He knew exactly where my radio was. That’s why he hailed me — to trigger a Code Black. To trip me up so I’d receive a formal warning for breaking the cardinal rule: your radio must always be on, and on hand. It’s your lifeline, and you are your workmate’s lifeline.
“Now that I’m here, what was it you needed me for?”
“Like I said, you’re wanted in admin,” says Gabriel.
“Yeah, I am now because a Code Black has just been called for me. But why were you hailing me before?”
“You don’t listen too well, do you? Admin wanted to see you. I can say it all day.”
“Right. Well you look pretty pleased with yourself.”
“Just doin’ my job,” he says.
I stare at him a second, weighing up what I want to say.
“You’re pathetic, cunt.”
Gabriel springs from his chair like he’s been waiting for it. I barely flinch as he rushes forward and closes in till there’s just centimetres separating us. I know he won’t jeopardise his position as a manager; it’s all bluster.
“What’d you fuck’n say, faggot?” he says.
He eyeballs me with his best prison guard gaze, but he’s shorter than me and has to arch his neck, so that he’s looking up like a petulant child scowling at a parent. I smile and deploy my most polite voice as I slowly repeat the words — “You are a pathetic fucking cunt” — then stare him down long enough so he knows.
I am not some anaemic Iranian refugee. I am not his prisoner.
I turn and walk away.