Wrath Page 5

  “Luca, what’s wrong with you? How can you be so rude?” Mum blurted out. “Go to your room and see if you can find your manners.”

  I hurried from the kitchen and closed my bedroom door but not before hearing Mrs Brockman’s voice.

  “Don’t worry about it, Sylvie. It’s just his age. They can be rude little buggers, and it’ll probably get worse before it gets better.”

  “But he’s never like that,” my mother broke in, her voice a little shaky.

  “Don’t worry about it. He’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

  Don’t bet on it, I thought and closed my door.

  That night, as we sat down for tea, Mum was still angry with me, but she didn’t refer to what happened. Instead, she started chattering away.

  “Mr Reid has come from Sydney. Mrs Brockman told him one of the new businesses in Geraldton was looking for staff, so he decided to move across here to be nearer to her now she’s on her own.”

  Katy looked up from munching her chop. “Is he a mechanic like Dad?”

  Mum’s eyes flicked away. “No, he’s an accountant. He’s a professional.”

  “Isn’t Dad a professional?” Katy mused, more interested in getting the last bit of meat from the bone.

  “No,” Mum said slowly, “Dad’s a mechanic. He works with his hands, like a tradesman. A professional person usually works in an office and has a qualification from a university, a degree. He works with his head more than his hands.”

  I felt somehow that Mum was saying Mr Reid was cleverer than Dad just because he was in an office. “How about a doctor?” I piped up. “He’s gone to university, but he wouldn’t be much good if he couldn’t work with his hands, would he? How could he set a broken bone or operate on someone?” I felt pleased with myself.

  Mum sighed. “Yes, you’re right, Luca. Anyway, you can ask him about the difference tonight. They’re both coming over for tea.”

  Katy and I both groaned. Mum slapped her hand on the table.

  “That’s enough! I treat your friends well whenever they come over. Do the same to mine. You forget that I get very lonely.”

  “But Dad comes home when he can!” I protested. Mum regarded me coolly but said nothing.

  Katy dropped her bone on the plate and said, “That was yum, Mum. What’s for sweets?”

  The moment was over. I wanted to say more, but I didn’t really know what I was trying to say. We ate our tinned fruit and ice-cream, Katy chattering on about some birthday party she was going to on the weekend and Mum promising to take her to town and buy a new dress for her. I cleaned my plate and went to my room.

  *

  Ray Reid was a frequent visitor at our place now. Mrs Brockman didn’t always come, but one Friday night, Mum said, “You two are old enough to be on your own for a few hours. I’m going out tonight with Mrs Brockman and Ray.”

  “Where to, Mum?” Katy asked.

  “Just out for a few drinks and a meal. I won’t be late. Just stay here. If there’s any big problem, go and call Mr Woolhouse next door or just ring my mobile. I’ve bought pizza for your tea.”

  Those Friday nights became a regular thing. Mum would dress herself up, looking and smelling beautiful. She had this one dress Dad loved. It was black and fitted her tight—that’s all I remember—but the first time I saw her go down the drive with Ray Reid, wearing that dress, all I could see was his big, freckled hand stretched out across her back. Mum, you were so happy.

  Katy didn’t seem to worry. She mostly got on Facebook on those nights, and I would read a bit or do some homework to take my mind off the waiting, always waiting for Dad to come home.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  That life seems so long ago. Here, life has freed up for me a fair bit. After sport on Saturdays, we have lunch in the afternoon, we clean our rooms and wash our clothes, and then we can go to the common room, or rec room as most people call it. There are chess sets, scrabble boards and computers to use, and the first day I wander in with the group, and Archie comes over to me.

  “How’s it hangin’, Luca? Come to the gym?”

  I hesitate for a moment because I know that, next to Archie, I am a runt. Still, I nod and follow him through a door off the main room. There are weights, treadmills and some gymnastic equipment in there—quite a lot, really. There are three guards in there, which is more than I’m used to seeing in a small area, but they’re pretty relaxed and stand chatting and lounging about, throwing a medicine ball to one another every now and then.

  “Been in a gym before?” Archie asks. He’s raising himself on a chin-up bar, his muscles taut across his stomach and his arms hinging powerfully up and down like it’s easy.

  “Not like this,” I say.

  He swings his body forward, letting go of the bar and landing lightly by my side. “Well, let’s give you a few things to do. Build up your arms, strengthen your back and shoulders, toughen up your gut,” he laughs, punching me lightly in the belly.

  Fifteen minutes later, I have a piece of cardboard ripped from the back of an exercise book in the pocket of my track pants. On it, Archie has written me a program—so many lats, overhead curls, whatever. I go through it, watching furtively to see how the others do them. My muscles burn, but it feels good to punish my body, make it hurt. Even though some part of me has died because of what I’ve done, my body is alive. I would push it till it hurt, make it strong. My body would be a wall, a fortress that no one could get inside. The vision of those filed teeth ringed by that bloody, grinning mouth pulses through my mind. No one.

  That night, we have pizza and a DVD! I can’t believe it! I had imagined that being kept in my room for most of the day would be how life was in a juvenile detention centre. I sit on a plastic chair, munching on my slab of pizza and waiting for the movie to start, and I say to Archie, “Is this how every Saturday night is?”

  He looks at me, pausing mid-munch. “Yeah, pretty much. Sometimes weekends are crap because there isn’t enough staff on. Maybe on holiday or sick or something, so if the numbers aren’t there, they keep us locked up, no sport or anything. It sucks, but mostly it’s like this. Sometimes there’s some sort of group that comes and puts on a play or sings or something, but not often.”

  “Bloody hell! Not bad for prison.”

  He laughs at me, throwing his head back. “You dummy! Did you think this was Alcatraz or something? We’re all juveniles here. They treat us pretty good. I guess they think we’re still young enough to change.”

  He munches silently for a few minutes, and I look around the room. Boys are licking fingers, burping and laughing, their chatter good-natured. It could have been any canteen in any high school. Weren’t we here to be punished?

  As though he has read my thoughts, Archie says, “It’s not like this is meant to be a terrible punishment; it’s more like retraining. As though we’d ‘gone off the rails’, as Mr Khan says, and needed to be guided back on them.”

  “That Brown kid would take a bit of guiding,” I mutter, finishing the last bit of pizza. “He’s an evil bastard. Why did he rip that kid’s ear off?”

  “Felt like it, maybe. Jimmy probably got the ball off him or bumped into him. Who knows?”

  We’re silent for a minute. “I hope he never tackles me,” Archie says, more to himself than me.

  “You could take him,” I say quickly. “He’s heavier than you, but you’re quick and fit.”

  He shakes his head. “I dunno. The thing is I don’t really like hurting people. He loves it. That’s what makes the winner, I think. It’s not how big you are as much as how willing you are to hurt the other guy.”

  A silence falls between us. Dad used to say much the same thing. It’s an old saying, I think: ‘It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.’ I knew what it meant now. Archie, for all his muscles, was somehow gentle. I sit there as the lights go off and the movie starts. I want to get tough and strong quickly, not for myself so much, but I’d hate to see Archie hu
rt. He was being kind to me. Sure, he doesn’t know what I’d done—he might not want to be so kind then—but he made me feel human again, a little bit anyway, even though I didn’t deserve it.

  *

  Sunday mornings are pretty relaxed even though we have to get up at the same time as we do the rest of the week. The time is pretty much our own, and as long as we’re doing something productive, the guards keep a pretty low presence. Some kids play cricket if there’re enough guards on duty to supervise; others stay in the rec room and read or play board games or table tennis. I go through the program again in the gym, but my muscles are screaming from yesterday. There are church services for the kids who want to go, but I keep well away. Not for me.

  It’s also visiting day. After lunch, all the kids line up to see their families or friends. They’re hyped up, looking neater than usual, hopping around, keen to get through those doors and see who’s waiting for them. I go back to my cell and lay on my bed. That panicky feeling I’d had in the courtroom is back, that nightmare feeling like I’m falling into a pit. No one to visit you, I think. Father long gone, mother gone forever, sister— silent. I turn over and face the wall. Why’d you have to get in the way, Mum? If only you’d kept out of it! I clasp my arms over my head, close my eyes and sleep.

  After breakfast Monday morning, Owen taps me on the shoulder as we file out of the dining hall. “School starts for you today, mate. I’ll take you to your class in 10 minutes. Get cleaned up and wait in your cell.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m walking down that corridor again, the one with the windows into classrooms on each side. I can see Mr Khan’s door, but we turn left there and keep going. Owen stops in front of an open door and taps on it. Inside, a middle-aged woman stops what she’s doing and smiles at us.

  “New student for you, Mrs S,” Owen says.

  “Thanks, Owen.”

  Owen saunters off up the corridor and sits down on a bench where I can see two more guards deep in conversation.

  “Come in, come in,” the woman says, pushing back the steel-grey frizz that is her hair. “I’ve been expecting you, Luca. Mr Khan told me about you. I’m Mrs Shiels.”

  My eyes flicker up at her. So she knows too. All about me, what I’ve done, what a monster I am. Ah well, what’s it really matter? Did I think it would be a big secret?

  She points to a desk halfway up the first row. “There you go. I’ll talk to you a bit later. Boys, this is Luca.” A dozen pairs of eyes swivel to check me out. I know most of the faces, and I nod to them quickly and sit down.

  “We’ve just started reading a story. Neil, could you fill Luca in on what’s happened so far?”

  I know without looking which person it is, but I turn in my seat and there he is, grinning at me, those pointed teeth zigzagging across his bottom lip.

  “I’ll fill him in, Miss,” he says, “fill his face in with my fist.” He laughs hoarsely at his joke, and several boys bray along.

  Mrs Shiels waits till they finish. Silence. Her eyes never leave Neil Brown’s face. He looks away uncomfortably. The silence stretches on, and finally she says, “Sam, perhaps you could answer seeing as Neil is being a smart-arse today.”

  The class laughs and even I do too. It’s just so unexpected.

  “Um, it’s about this dude in Alaska who thinks he knows everything about the place even though he’s from the city. He decides to tramp off with his dogsled into the snow even though everyone tells him not to, that it’s much too cold…” While Sam is speaking, Mrs Shiels moves towards Brown and speaks quietly to him, rubbing him on his big, spiky head. I look at that face, ugly sod that he is; he’s smiling, those fangs making him look like a demented Rottweiler. I look more closely at this woman who has reduced him to a compliant lapdog.

  “That about sums it up,” Mrs Shiels smiles. “Well done, Sam.” She’s perched on the table at the front like a chook fluffing itself up for the night, her broad hips spreading out over its surface. Her legs are short and stumpy in their dark-blue slacks and don’t even touch the ground. Her flowing white shirt adds to that chook-like appearance. She opens the book and begins to read. I keep studying her, but pretty soon I’m listening to the story. Though it’s not cold in the room, the description in the story seems to make the temperature drop.

  This poor idiot goes off on his own in the Yukon and makes one mistake after another till he freezes to death. But by the way this guy—Jack London, it says on the cover—writes, it’s the weather that’s the real story. When Mrs Shiels finishes, the boys talk about it for a bit, and then she sets them all to work and motions me up the front.

  “I have some books here for you, Luca. I’d like you to have a go at the maths and science ones later in your room and just flick through till you come to things you haven’t learned before. Let me know tomorrow how far you got, and we’ll see how much work you need to do to catch up. Don’t worry if you don’t get too far. From what your file says, you’re a bright boy.”

  Yeah, right, real bright, I think. You have to be a genius to end up in juvenile detention, to kill.

  I look down at the books that she’s handed to me, and she adds, “Oh, I’ve got some files and paper and pens for you—the stuff you need for class.” She pauses and says very low, so only I can hear, “Life will get better for you.”

  I take the books and box of stuff and turn and walk a bit unsteadily back to my desk. Christ, it’s not being treated badly that I’m afraid of—I deserve it; it’s kindness that I can’t handle.

  I keep my head down for the rest of the day, which passes quickly. I’ve been out of school for quite a while now, and I didn’t realise how much I missed it. The class isn’t too quick on the uptake generally, but Mrs Shiels teaches well. She explains things clearly and has interesting stuff for those of us who get it to go on with while she goes over things with those who don’t. I notice the boys seem quite comfortable asking her for help. Strangely, they don’t sling off at one another for being dumb, and some of the smarter kids wander over and help the others. The one called Sam comes over to my desk.

  “Just give us a shout if you need a hand. I’m Sam.”

  “I’m Luca.”

  “I know. I’m not deaf. I heard her say your name,” Sam grins.

  “I’m not either. She said yours when she asked you to retell the story.”

  He pulls a wry face. “Yeah, well. See you around,” and he wanders back to his seat.

  I’ve only been here a while, but I’ve seen enough to know that there’s a lot of viciousness around; not just the obvious sort like the chewed off ear, but something deeper, hiding, ready to leap out when the guards aren’t looking or around a dark corner or in a lonely spot. But not in this room. It feels good—like a little island maybe—but around the edges I know the sharks are circling.

  *

  I drop my books on my bed and go to the gym for an hour, mindlessly going through the motions, and then I shower slowly. Some shift is happening inside me. Some tectonic plates of feeling are creaking out of their position, freeing themselves up slowly, and things are starting to flow again as they move. I dress and duck back to my cell. Usually, I’d hang around with Archie till he’d finished and we’d have our meal, but today enough was going on. I need calm.

  I look at my cell with fresh eyes. It looks tidy but soulless, a room for a phantom or a dead man. Tipping the files, paper and pens out of the bag and onto my bed, I sit down next to it all and fish out the books Mrs Shiels had lent me. I’d never really read all that much before. There was a book by a Russian dude, My Childhood, plus a couple of oldies by Wilbur Smith and Leon Uris.

  There’s a study table fixed to the end wall, so I stack the books on it neatly. Next to that, I line up the files and then duck up to the kitchen and ask one of the kids on duty if he could give me a box of some sort. He disappears into the pantry room and comes back after a few minutes with a couple of small white cardboard containers.

  I put one of the boxes next to the f
iles and fill it neatly with pencils and pens. The other one, I stack underneath. It would do for the text books Mrs Shiels had given me. Pulling up the chair, I flick through one of the books—maths. The first couple of pages are pretty basic stuff I’d done last year, but then there is some graphing and algebra I’ve never done before.

  I start reading the chapter and doing the exercises. I keep going like she’d told me, but it’s no drag. It’s really interesting. I’m understanding it! My brain is getting a real workout, and it feels good. I work my way through the whole book, and as I’m finishing the last page, the siren sounds for lights out. How quickly the time has gone! I push the chair out, stand up and stretch. I’m pretty stiff from sitting for so long, but I feel kind of powerful. My brain’s cranking again. My body is waking up too.

  Dropping to the patch of floor between my bed and the desk, I do a few slow push-ups. This is the way to survive: not to sit passively as I had been doing, waiting for my life to seep away—but to fill my time up. I’ll build my body so it is as fit as it can be. And as for my mind, which never lets up, I’ll give it plenty of work to do. All the time I sat there at my little desk tonight, not one thought of anything but understanding and solving those maths problems had filled my mind— nothing! I could control my thoughts through hard work—physical and mental. I could survive!

  I feel so buoyed up that I could even, for now at least, forget that black hole that is inside me.

  I climb into bed, and for a few minutes, I look at the desk, holding neatly lined up books, files and containers. It looks like home—not my old one as that was all gone forever—but this little home of mine where no one can touch me! I flick off the light, and for the first time in a long while, I fall straight into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER NINE