Raw (4 page)

‘Great,' Frog said, his bony shoulders sinking. ‘Just when I thought I had a room to myself.'

With a deep sigh, he walked over to the bag sitting on the end of Brett's bed. He lifted the zipper, causing Brett to tense at the doorway. Little thief! But instead of opening it and rifling through it, Frog just turned the tag over to see who owned it. ‘Brett Dalton,' he said. Not recognising the name, he dropped it then saw his mess thrown on the ground. He sighed again then picked the bundle of clothes up in one big scoop to dump it on his side of the room. At least he'd got the hint.

Frog, like Sam had said, was tiny. Just under one hundred-and-forty centimetres, he had big round eyes, long fingers, knobby arms and legs, and short, spiky, dark hair that ended in a long sweaty fringe.
He wore a dark blue polo shirt with light blue sleeves and grey board shorts decorated with a jumble of purple and orange shapes that reached his knees (the usual bad clothes every twelve-year-old seemed to wear). But he didn't look twelve. More like nine or ten. He was only a tadpole compared to the fifteen, sixteen, seventeen or even eighteen-year-old guys Brett had seen walking down the corridor. He could see why the others picked on this kid.

‘This Brett better not chuck my stuff on the ground or smoke in here again,' Frog said to himself. ‘Or I'll punch him one if he does.' He shook his head and slammed his clothes shut in their drawers.

‘Frog!' a voice called from the corridor. ‘Hurry up! We haven't got much time!'

Robbie looked up at the sound of his name. And stopped. His big round eyes widened so much, Brett thought they were going to fall out.

‘You gonna punch me one, huh?'

‘No,' Frog croaked through a gulp.

‘That's good then. I wasn't planning on going to hospital on my first day.' Then, pushing himself from the door frame, Brett asked, ‘Can I come in? I mean, that's if it's safe.'

Embarrassed, Frog grinned weakly. He crouched down to pick up the rest of his mess and put it away.
Brett didn't know what scared this kid more: catching him out, or realising his new roommate already knew his nickname.

‘You're Brett, huh?'

Brett sauntered over to his bed and tucked his cigarettes, lighter and Violet Crumble into his bag. He pocketed the gum. That was for later. ‘Yep. That's what it says on my bag.'

The kid paled and Brett half-grinned.

He sat on his mattress as Frog walked behind his own. Once there, he sunk slowly to the ground, one eye on Brett and one eye on what he was looking for.

‘So the rumours are true,' a deep voice said from the doorway. ‘We do have some new raw meat.'

Frog jumped and hit his head against his bed. He emerged rubbing the sore spot while Brett turned round and looked at the stranger.

A big Pacific Islander about one hundred-and-eighty centimetres tall with a shaved head grinned back at him. His thick bulky arms were covered in tattoos and his right ear was pierced with enough earrings to put any woman's jewellery box to shame. His tank-top and shorts hugged his body to show off his muscles, and his face was as square and mean as a boxer's. He was flanked by two lackeys — another Pacific Islander and a white guy with a mane of gold-
red hair who looked like he'd spent most of his life in a gym — whether a normal one or a prison gym Brett didn't want to ask.

So this was the first shakedown to check out the new guy. See if he was a mummy's boy.

‘What's your name, Pretty Boy?'

Brett gritted his teeth. He was no pretty boy. ‘Who wants to know?'

The two lackeys crowed. ‘I told you he'd have attitude,' the redhead said.

‘Don't they all?' the other answered.

‘I'm Tyson,' the leader said. ‘And these are my boys. We're your welcoming party you could say.'

The lackeys laughed.

‘And you are?'

‘Brett.'

‘Brett, huh? Sounds pretty tough. You tough, Brett?'

‘Look, what do you want?' he sighed.

‘Nothing. Like I said, we're just the welcoming party. Except you're not making us feel very welcome, Brett.'

‘I apologise. I'll bring cake next time.'

Tyson stretched to his full height and lost his smile just as the redhead elbowed him in the ribs. The big inmate looked down the corridor, saw something
then pushed himself off the door frame. ‘Make sure you still have a mouth to eat it with then,' he added before leaving with his thugs.

‘Oh man,' Frog said, panicking, when he and Brett were alone again. ‘I want a new roommate.'

‘Why?'

‘Because you're dead.'

Just then a bell rang.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Sorry, I've got to go.'

‘Why? What's going on?' Brett asked, hearing the corridor echo with similar groans.

‘Class.'

‘Do you have to go to it?'

‘Everybody does.'

‘What if you don't?'

‘You get into trouble.'

‘What kind of trouble?'

‘Sam makes you do extra chores or you miss out on dinner.'

That didn't sound too tough. If he had to do chores he'd wag them too. Skipping dinner would be hard though. He loved eating. He'd have to raid the fridge when everyone was asleep instead. No problem.

‘You coming?' Frog asked.

‘Yer, in a minute. I've got to go to the dunnies first.'

Brett's “detour” lasted, oh, a good twenty minutes. He drank greedily from the tap again then wiped the sweat from his neck. He chanced a smoke in one of the cubicles when he was alone, then another. Stubbing the last butt out, he slipped into the corridor and headed for the kitchen. He was hungry again. But if he was going to raid the food cupboards he had to pass the classrooms first. That wasn't going to be easy.

There were about forty kids attending class in all. They were split into four years, with roughly ten guys in each. The first year — consisting mainly of younger inmates — wrote notes as a teacher taught them basic maths; maths Brett'd learnt back in primary school. The second year — kids aged thirteen and fourteen — sat before a row of computers learning how to spell words like “hospital”, “camera” and “picnic”! The third year — guys Brett's age — listened to Sam teach history. And the fourth year — kids normally in years eleven and twelve watched a video on health.

Brett stopped at Sam's history class. The door was open so he couldn't get past without being seen. He'd have to wait until the old man turned round or was distracted.

Within minutes, Brett was fighting back a fit of yawns. Boring. This class was as dull as every other one he'd attended. There was nothing special about it. Just the threat of missing out on dinner or doing a few chores. He couldn't see the point of learning this anyway. As he'd once read on the back of a toilet door:
History is everything you were taught at high school.

But two guys up the back of the classroom got his attention. They were reflecting the sunlight off their watches into the eyes of a kid sitting across the room. This kid couldn't take it any longer and shouted, ‘Stop it, would you!'

The two jokers started laughing, immediately giving themselves away. Sam stood up and pointed to them.

‘Darren, Paul — outside!'

‘
Sam
,' one whined. ‘We were only having some fun.'

‘Out!'

Darren and Paul stood up and walked through the doorway, their classmates sniggering behind them. All eyes watched the pair leave before it was too late! Brett realised he'd been busted.

‘Good to see you finally made it, Mr Dalton,' Sam said. Eight faces looked at Brett and quietened. ‘Late because you couldn't find the classroom?'

‘Yer, you know how it is on the first day. A guy can't find his way round the place because he's new.'

‘Newer than his excuses, right?' Sam shot back.

Brett's smirk disappeared as the class cracked up. Slowly, a challenge growled in his throat. The guy had guts. No one was going to make him look bad.

‘Take a seat,' Sam ordered, before the growl became a bark. ‘You can catch up on what you've missed in your own time.' When Brett didn't move, he urged him again. ‘Go on. Darren's desk is free at the moment.'

Scowling, Brett took the corner desk in the very back row. The class started whispering as he dropped into Darren's chair with a thud.

‘Everyone, this is Brett Dalton,' Sam said. ‘He'll be staying with us at The Farm for the next three months. If you see him wandering the corridors next time, show him where his class is.'

Brett burned red as the guys laughed, but Sam quickly brought them under control again and continued with the lesson.

He droned on as Brett fumed quietly in the back row. How dare Sam make him look like a fool. And make everyone laugh at him too. He didn't want to be here. It was a waste of time. The only thing he could do was suss out his classmates. A few
were looking back at him, doing the same thing. Checking out the new guy for a potential ally or enemy.

Brett didn't recognise any of the faces at first. Then he had a better look at the guy to his far right. It was Tyson. Not a problem. He could handle any trouble from that direction.

‘Brett?'

That meathead couldn't scare him.

‘Brett!'

‘What?'

Sam breathed through his moustache. ‘Do you know the answer?'

‘What answer?'

‘The answer to the question.'

‘What question?'

The class laughed.

‘That's enough,' Sam warned. Then, not finished with Brett, asked, ‘Can you tell everybody here what other animals might have been hunted?'

Brett shrugged. ‘I don't know.'

‘Can't you at least have a guess?'

He looked round, hoping someone would give him a hint. They didn't. ‘Chickens?'

The class howled and the old man stood with his hands on his hips.

‘Go and stand outside in the corridor,' he said finally.

‘What did I do?'

‘Wait out in the corridor.'

‘No, not until you tell me what I did.'

The laughter stopped as Sam slammed a book shut and pointed to the door. ‘Outside!'

‘All right. I'm going.'

Standing up, Brett shook his head in disgust. One kid smiled at him on his way out, but Sam gave him the evil eye.

Good. It was about time. Ten seconds more and he would've beaten his record for staying in a classroom.

He marched outside as Sam had ordered, and kept going. No way he was going to stick round and be lectured to.

After failing to pick the garage's lock, Brett hid behind it where Sam wouldn't be able to find him. He lit a cigarette and sat down on a grooved tractor tyre sizzling in the afternoon sun. The nicotine helped him forget for a little while what the guy might do to him for walking out of his class. That, and steady his nerves. He wasn't spooked or anything. Brett was used to teachers blasting him. He was just worked up.

To Brett, Sam was everything he resented here. The more he tried to change him, the more Brett would resist. Brett wasn't going to follow any rules or become the man's buddy like all the other losers. He was happy with who he was and the way he lived. He'd beat the system before it beat him. In the end Brett would win.

Squeezing out the last puff from his cigarette, Brett swatted away another cluster of flies. Sweat trickled down his back and the glare was burning his eyes. He had to get out of this heat soon. And change out of his jeans.

The sun was frying his butt like pikelets so he pushed himself off the tractor tyre and walked round a bit. He spooked a mouse — (probably escaping from that night's dinner menu) — and chased it to the end of the garage to see where it went. It scurried into the nearby paddock and Brett gave up. Shaking his head, he was about to turn away when he happened to notice a truck parked in the driveway. It hadn't been there before. A tall, bony man with a crescent of black hair was unloading boxes from the back of it. Brett watched him for a few seconds before realising the man must've been a shopkeeper dropping off supplies. Nothing out of the ordinary.

That was until he saw the girl.

She was gorgeous!

She had shoulder-length hair the colour of warm caramel and a long fringe that jutted out in wispy strands. Thin dark eyebrows highlighted a soft face that was sun-browned and naturally beautiful without the need of cosmetic junk. Her figure was shapely though not artificial. She had nice hips, small breasts and great legs. (Brett liked legs.) And a white V-neck T-shirt floated round long, green shorts.

The girl disappeared from view and Brett peered round the garage wall a bit further to follow her with his eyes. She dropped off the box she was carrying inside The Boys' House then returned to the truck. He felt kind of perverted for spying but he was hypnotised. He couldn't believe it.

But a loud metallic noise behind him broke the spell. He turned round. He was trapped. There was only the paddock next to him and he knew Sam would eventually catch him by car. But it wasn't Sam. It was one of the guys. He'd slapped a hoop of wire on a fence post unaware that Brett was hiding there until he discovered to his own shock that he wasn't alone.

‘So this is where you're hiding.'

Brett rolled his eyes. Mr Goody Two Football Boots himself.

‘What do you want?' Brett growled.

‘Nothing,' Josh answered, just as friendly. ‘I'm only getting some stuff ready for a vegetable patch.'

‘Then go and get ready somewhere else.'

‘No, go and hide somewhere else.'

‘I'm not hiding.'

‘Oh yer?'

Brett grinned. ‘I'm having recess.'

Josh snorted, shook his head then left to grab some more gear.

Brett turned away for a second to look for the girl. He searched for her everywhere but he couldn't see her. A trail of dust clouded the track back to the main road. Brett wasn't happy.