CHAPTER 2 — BOOK II
The Weeks After
(September–October 2001, Sydney)
The days did not fall apart.
They thinned.
Time became something Geoffrey measured by small, repeatable actions: waking, washing his face, eating what was placed in front of him. The television stayed on more often now, though he rarely watched it. The headlines changed hourly. The tone did not.
At school, the first week passed in fragments.
Teachers spoke carefully, as if words themselves might break. Assemblies were held. Silence was observed. Notes were sent home. For a while, no one said anything foolish.
Then the second week began.
It started with jokes that pretended to be clever, with questions that asked too much, with glances that lingered longer than before. Nothing overt. Nothing that could be formally reported. Just enough to make a room feel less neutral.
Embong noticed it. He always did.
Geoffrey noticed something else: how quickly he moved now. How instinctively he placed himself between Embong and whatever was forming.
Once, a boy asked, “So—what do you think about all this?”
Geoffrey answered before Embong could.
“I think my parents are dead,” he said, evenly. “And that’s the end of the conversation.”
The boy did not try again.
On Fridays, Embong continued to leave early.
Nothing about the routine changed. He packed his bag the same way. He walked out the same gate. He returned with the same quiet composure. The world outside the school gates, however, felt different.
One afternoon, as they walked home, Embong said, “Someone followed me today. Not close. Just… watching.”
Geoffrey stopped. “Did they say anything?”
“No.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
Embong shook his head. “I didn’t think it would help.”
Geoffrey nodded once. “Next time, you tell me.”
Embong looked at him. “I always do.”
That evening, Awan listened without interruption.
When Embong finished, Awan nodded. “You did nothing wrong,” he said. “But you don’t walk alone now. Not when you don’t have to.”
Delima Galang did not add commentary. She adjusted routines instead—dinner earlier, lights on longer, keys placed closer to the door. It was not fear. It was attention.
The paperwork began quietly.
There were meetings Geoffrey did not attend and decisions he did not need to make. The trustee lawyer handled what needed handling. Forms arrived, were signed, and disappeared again. Nothing dramatic occurred.
The house next door remained empty until the sale went through.
Geoffrey packed in stages, carrying boxes across the fence rather than down the street. The distance was short. The meaning was not.
No one marked the moment.
Inside Awan’s house, space was assumed. Geoffrey’s school shoes found their place by the door. His mug stayed where he left it. His presence did not require explanation.
Sometimes, late at night, Geoffrey woke with the sense that he had forgotten something important. He would sit up, heart racing, then wait for the feeling to pass.
On one of those nights, Embong appeared in the doorway without knocking.
“You okay?” he asked.
Geoffrey hesitated, then shook his head. “No.”
Embong sat down beside him.
They did not speak.
Later, Geoffrey said, “Everyone else wants me to explain things.”
Embong nodded. “You don’t have to explain anything here.”
That was when Geoffrey realised what had changed.
He no longer measured safety by distance from danger.
He measured it by proximity to Embong.
At school, the weeks continued.
Some teachers tried too hard. Others pretended nothing had happened. Both approaches missed the point. The point was that life was different now, and pretending otherwise only made it harder to breathe.
Jenny visited once, staying just long enough to check in and not long enough to make it an event. She brought nothing but herself.
“You’re thinner,” she said.
“I’m fine,” Geoffrey replied.
She smiled slightly. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
They sat in the kitchen, talking about school, about mutual acquaintances, about things that did not require fixing. When Embong passed through, she greeted him easily.
“I like him,” she told Geoffrey later. “He doesn’t hover.”
“He stays,” Geoffrey said.
“That’s better,” she replied.
By October, the news cycle had found new angles. The language had hardened further. Security became a word people used often and defined rarely.
Inside the house, there were fewer words.
Awan began to speak to Geoffrey about ordinary things—banking, timetables, expectations—without ceremony. Delima corrected Geoffrey’s posture when he slouched at the table. Hijau teased him for folding towels the wrong way.
“Careful,” Hijau said. “You’re also part Aussie now, Geoffrey. You’re required to pretend you hate both.”
Geoffrey blinked—then smiled.
No one corrected her.
These were not gestures of charity.
They were claims.
Lachlan later brought two of his closest mates from UNSW: Mark, a wiry Liverpudlian with a quick tongue, and Alarico, a Milanese student with impeccable hair and espresso always in hand. Within minutes Mark and Lachlan were arguing.
“Man United’s finished,” Mark declared. “Done. Washed.”
“Rubbish,” Lachlan shot back. “We’ve got Beckham, Giggs, Scholes. Legends.”
“Legends who dive,” Mark scoffed.
Alarico sighed, gesturing with his espresso. “In Italy, we play football with art. You two — you just kick it like farmers.” The room roared.
“I only follow baseball,” Geoffrey said. “I just play football at school.”
Even Auntie Delima laughed.
Years later, Geoffrey would realise this was when the house stopped being temporary.
One afternoon, Geoffrey realised he had not thought about leaving in weeks.
The idea no longer made sense.
Grief did not leave him. It shifted. It became something he carried without needing to show. Some days were heavy. Others were not.
What remained constant was this:
When the world pressed in, Embong was there.
When words failed, Awan spoke.
When routines threatened to unravel, Delima restored them.
Geoffrey did not replace what he had lost.
He anchored it.
Only then did he understand what shelter had never been.
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