superiority. And it struck the Doll as a particularly humiliating thing for any woman to have to get about in gear as bad as a burkah. But then the Doll remembered the television creep telling her how humiliating it must be to be a pole dancer, and she felt strangely confused.
29
When the Doll got home, she was relieved to finally get out of her clammy Versace jeans, shower and change into old shorts and a singlet, split the coke Tariq had given her, putting one portion in with her bag of cash, and wrapping the other in some tin foil and putting it in the Gucci handbag that she had hoped to no longer need, ready for whenever she might want it.
She put some music on loud and the tv on low. There wasan ad for the new Toyota Prado. Everything in the ad—men, women, roads, and skies—looked beautiful and at peace. It calmed the Doll.
She went and cleaned her bathroom. When she came back a quiz show was on. A reality show. A sports show. She dozed off. She woke to see the screen filled with armed police taking up position around Tariq’s apartment block. The Doll grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.
The newsreader was talking about a failed police stake out of a notorious Islamic terrorist—at which point the vision changed, as before, to the same bad photograph of a bearded man in Arabic dress. The newsreader read out an Arabic-sounding name, the only part of which she recognised was the word Tariq. Then the picture changed again, this time to grainy, dark images taken from on high.
“To assist with their enquiries in regard to yesterday’s attempted bombing of Homebush Olympic stadium, police have tonight released security camera footage,” the newsreader said, “showing the terrorist suspect entering an apartment building last night with a female accomplice.”
The grainy images showed a couple hugging each other as they entered a building. The footage was slowed down so much that she could see the frames clicking through. In contrast with their dark surroundings, they had used some digital effect to spotlight the couple’s faces.
“It is not yet known,” continued the newsreader, “who the woman is.”
The Doll felt her mouth go dry. The man was Tariq. The woman was her.
30
At first, the Doll regarded what she had just seen on the television as she regarded much that she found disagreeable and stupid in this life: irrelevant, and she simply ignored it as she did everything else that she regarded as irrelevant. After all, it was just like all the other crap the journos and shock jocks and pollies carried on with: maybe it had everything to do with their world, but it had nothing to do with hers. It struck the Doll as an excellent idea to simply regard it all as amusing; it arose out of nothing and it would soon all go back to nothing, and none of it was to be taken seriously. She forced a smile, and made herself laugh. What a joke!
“It’s so empowering to keep your skin supple,” the television said in a voice softly American. As the ad break continued, the Doll went and poured herself a straight Zubrowka vodka, skolled it, and poured herself a second. It’s creepy, though, she thought, knowing you’d slept with a terrorist, even one as cute as Tariq.
She rang Wilder, and told her some, though not all, of her story. Wilder, who sounded weary and neither overly interested nor that concerned, told her not to worry.
“Everything blows over, Gina,” said Wilder, who always used the Doll’s Christian name, “and life goes on as ever. I mean, just focus on the good in your life, and in a year’s time we’ll be having a drink and you’ll suddenly remember when you met another hottie on the beach and became a terrorist for five minutes, and all it’ll be is a funny story.”
‘Yeah,’ thought the Doll, ‘and maybe not even a year, maybe just a couple of days, and it will all be over except as a stupid joke.’
“Don’t worry,” said Wilder before hanging up, “you’ll be voted
29
When the Doll got home, she was relieved to finally get out of her clammy Versace jeans, shower and change into old shorts and a singlet, split the coke Tariq had given her, putting one portion in with her bag of cash, and wrapping the other in some tin foil and putting it in the Gucci handbag that she had hoped to no longer need, ready for whenever she might want it.
She put some music on loud and the tv on low. There wasan ad for the new Toyota Prado. Everything in the ad—men, women, roads, and skies—looked beautiful and at peace. It calmed the Doll.
She went and cleaned her bathroom. When she came back a quiz show was on. A reality show. A sports show. She dozed off. She woke to see the screen filled with armed police taking up position around Tariq’s apartment block. The Doll grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.
The newsreader was talking about a failed police stake out of a notorious Islamic terrorist—at which point the vision changed, as before, to the same bad photograph of a bearded man in Arabic dress. The newsreader read out an Arabic-sounding name, the only part of which she recognised was the word Tariq. Then the picture changed again, this time to grainy, dark images taken from on high.
“To assist with their enquiries in regard to yesterday’s attempted bombing of Homebush Olympic stadium, police have tonight released security camera footage,” the newsreader said, “showing the terrorist suspect entering an apartment building last night with a female accomplice.”
The grainy images showed a couple hugging each other as they entered a building. The footage was slowed down so much that she could see the frames clicking through. In contrast with their dark surroundings, they had used some digital effect to spotlight the couple’s faces.
“It is not yet known,” continued the newsreader, “who the woman is.”
The Doll felt her mouth go dry. The man was Tariq. The woman was her.
30
At first, the Doll regarded what she had just seen on the television as she regarded much that she found disagreeable and stupid in this life: irrelevant, and she simply ignored it as she did everything else that she regarded as irrelevant. After all, it was just like all the other crap the journos and shock jocks and pollies carried on with: maybe it had everything to do with their world, but it had nothing to do with hers. It struck the Doll as an excellent idea to simply regard it all as amusing; it arose out of nothing and it would soon all go back to nothing, and none of it was to be taken seriously. She forced a smile, and made herself laugh. What a joke!
“It’s so empowering to keep your skin supple,” the television said in a voice softly American. As the ad break continued, the Doll went and poured herself a straight Zubrowka vodka, skolled it, and poured herself a second. It’s creepy, though, she thought, knowing you’d slept with a terrorist, even one as cute as Tariq.
She rang Wilder, and told her some, though not all, of her story. Wilder, who sounded weary and neither overly interested nor that concerned, told her not to worry.
“Everything blows over, Gina,” said Wilder, who always used the Doll’s Christian name, “and life goes on as ever. I mean, just focus on the good in your life, and in a year’s time we’ll be having a drink and you’ll suddenly remember when you met another hottie on the beach and became a terrorist for five minutes, and all it’ll be is a funny story.”
‘Yeah,’ thought the Doll, ‘and maybe not even a year, maybe just a couple of days, and it will all be over except as a stupid joke.’
“Don’t worry,” said Wilder before hanging up, “you’ll be voted
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