Wrath (17 page)

There's a scraping of feet on the mat, and then the door swings open.

“G'day, Mr P.”

“Hi, sir; how's it hangin'?”

“Very well; thanks, boys. I can see you're hard at work already.” Mr P drops a couple of folders onto the bench and ambles over to the first computer—Jason's—sticking his hands in his pockets and leaning forward eagerly. While they talk about the work, I turn and scrutinise him.

He's a strange-looking guy. His shoes look like they're from the 80s—slip-ons, scuffed and split here and there. God, does he have odd socks on? It sure isn't meant as a fashion statement judging by the rest of him. No, one is just inside-out, so they look different. His trousers are too short for his long legs, they are made of that shiny stuff you don't have to iron and they're pulled up too high around his gut. His shirt is light blue—no ironing needed as well—and there is a button missing, so I can see a singlet! Who wears a singlet unless they're 100? His collar is crumpled, and I can see elastic underneath it, which his tie hooks into. Whoever this guy is, he doesn't give a crap about how he looks.

He moves from boy to boy, his voice low but warm, encouraging. He points to a maths problem Norbert must be stuck on and laughs out loud, slapping his leg. “That's why it's wrong, you silly bugger!” and Norbert laughs back, shaking his head ruefully. Each time he finishes with one boy, that face that had eyed me off so hostilely is grinning with pleasure before the boy gets back to work.

I wonder if he is deliberately avoiding me as he comes to the last boy and then steps across to the window, arms folded, legs wide, rocking slightly forward and back, his head sunk deep in thought. He isn't tall, but there is something dynamic about him that I can't fathom given the random way he dresses.

Then he turns, and his eyes fall on me. They're blue and piercing and deeply set into his craggy face. His nose is large and slightly hooked, and his mouth is a thin, firm line, but it's the eyes that hold me. There is an intensity in them—as though he's sizing me up, gathering me in—a thick crease forming across his nose as he focuses. A smile crosses his odd face, and it morphs into a delighted grin, his eyes softening. He leans forward as though in a rush to get to me, as though his legs are too slow.

“Ah, sorry, mate. I've forgotten your name. Bloody hopeless with names. Wish I could just call everyone ‘mate' all the time, and then I wouldn't have to worry.” His smile is infectious, and I smile back.

“Luca, sir.”

“Course it is. Interesting name. Italian, isn't it?”

I nod.

“Good workers, the Italians. Look at all those roads they built through England when they conquered it. All straight, solid buggers, still there. And the way they build their houses! Built to last. Love their concrete.” He stands, musing for a moment. “Righto! Well, my name's Karl Pietrowski. I'm Polish—well, my parents were. I was born here, and whenever I said I was Australian, my father would say…” Here all the boys interrupt him and chorus raggedly, “So if you were born in a stable, would that make you a horse? You've got Polish blood on both sides, a Polish name, a Polish face. You just happen to be lucky enough to live in this beautiful country.”

They all laugh as they finish, and he says, “Yes, well, they've heard me say that a few times before. Just call me Mr P.” I nod. “So, you want to do your TEE. Think you can do it?”

I shrug uncertainly. “I hope so. I'd like to have a go at it.”

“That's the way!” He slaps me hard on the shoulder. “So let's get started.” He shows me what I'll be expected to cover in maths for the year. I can see there's a lot to do, but it isn't really daunting. Hell, I have the time. It isn't like I have anything else to do. He sets me up at a computer and starts me on the first chapter. Everything is pretty much online.

“If you get stuck, just sing out or else email me if I'm not here. I'm only here a few hours a day, so make the most of me.”

I nod and start working my way through. It's tougher than I've been doing, and the time goes by quickly. I am deep in the questions that follow the first chapter when I feel a shove in my back. A cracked mug full of Milo slams on my desk. “Wash your cup when you've finished. You can make 'em tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I croak at the receding back of the basset hound. I lean back, and the other boys swivel in their chairs to face each other, stretching their backs and slurping their Milo. Mr P stands there and throws his head back, and I watch his throat jerk as he swallows the whole mug in three gulps.

“Thanks, boys. See you tomorrow.” He drops a folder on each desk. In my folder, there are notes on the next chapter and some questions with a scrawled note: To Do Tonight. I glance at the clock. Only an hour to go. I still have a fair bit to do. A couple of boys wander around the rooms, munching on apples, but the rest are glued to their screens.

Half an hour later, I'm done. I glance through the questions Mr P has left me. They're pretty complicated but not too bad. I close the program down. How to kill the next 30 minutes? My brain's too fried to do the questions now, but I sit there with the notes in my hand, pretending to read them.

“Have you finished, kid?” It's Norbert. I swivel on my chair to face him.

“Yep. What about you?”

“Just about. I'll do a bit more later. Going to do your TEE, eh?” He speaks with an accent that I can't quite pin down—Dutch? Swedish? German?

“I hope so,” I shrug. “They seem to think I can, so I'll give it a go.”

“What do you want to be?”

The other boys are silent now, listening openly to our conversation.

“Not really sure. Maybe something medical.” Don't know where that came from. “Hard to really imagine a future.”

Norbert flicks a quick look at me. “Just have a plan for when you get out and stick to it.”

“And don't do the same shit again that got you in here in the first place,” the basset hound calls out. The others murmur in agreement. The hard look is off his face now, and I feel a pang of meanness for the name I've given him. Bruce. Bruce—that's his name.

“No, that won't be happening.”

“Well, just work your arse off and keep your nose clean, and you'll be right,” Bruce says, and the boys nod in agreement.

There's a light tap at the door, and Owen comes in. A knock at the door! These guys have it made. “Okay, sport, it's time to go.”

I gather my things quickly, and as I step through the door, I turn. “Thanks for having me,” I blurt out awkwardly, like some well-trained kid at a birthday party.

There's a mumble of “No worries,” and “See ya tomorrow,” and I'm outside in the fresh air, walking back across the quad. My head is heavy with all that maths, but I feel great. Life can be okay at times, even for me.

The major focus of my days now is the football game just under two weeks away. I've scraped into the team as a rover, and we have training every afternoon until the match, so I'm starting to feel pretty handy. I'm fast and can actually jump quite high, so as long as I don't get flattened by the bigger guys, I'm not too dusty. Nothing like Archie, of course, but I'm better than I was. Nothing can compare with pulling your boots on and getting out there in the fresh air. If you don't look at the high fencing everywhere, you can only kid yourself that you're free.

Aaron's in the team too. The only drag is Brown, but I can see now that he's not out to get me especially; he just hates everyone, and it makes him feel good to hurt someone. Mind you, he's pretty effective. He's slow, but while the other guys are fumbling around in a pack and fighting for the ball, he just wades in there like a bowling ball through a stack of pins, and nothing can stop him. Anyone a bit slow gets knocked down, and he just grabs the ball and boots it—not too straight, but man! So far!

Mr Robinson is working us hard and wants us like machines. No dithering around when we've got the ball, stick to the game plan, play fair. Every day's the same. We have 20 minutes of warm ups, and then he goes through marking, kicking goals, and defending until finally we play a short game. We're stuffed at the end of each day—legs wobbling, sweat everywhere— but it feels good.

“They're a solid team, boys, but so are you. No show ponies here; play as a team.” Mr Robinson says. We roll our eyes behind his back. Archie's so much better than all of us, even if we are playing as a team. “No one person can go flat out for four quarters; nor can they be everywhere at once! Remember that!”

*

Saturday finally comes, wet and overcast with a fine drizzle, which we know will soak us and make holding a ball and keeping our balance pretty hard. No probs. We're really fired up to win. All the boys are egging us on, and I receive quick pats on the back and thumbs up from boys who'd never even looked at me, let alone talked to me, as we queue for breakfast.

I can't eat much, and Archie nods with approval. “Drink plenty of juice to keep you going but not too much food. You won't be able to run, and you'll spew if you cop one in the guts. Do the same at lunch.”

Tim is jumping around, picking at his food too.

“What's the matter, squirt? What are you nervous about?” Aaron says.

Tim's good-natured little rat face creases in a grin. “I just want you to win. They'll be thinking they're so much better than us.”

Aaron nods and looks at me. “He's right. They'll be trying to put us off our game. Take no notice of anything they say—'specially you, Arch. They'll be out to get you when they see how good you are.”

Archie shrugs. “I've been called plenty of names plenty of times by white blokes. Don't worry me.”

The siren rings, and we go back to our cells to do our jobs. I finish quickly and try to read to pass the time, but I find I've been looking at the same page for 20 minutes without taking anything in, so I just sit, picking at my nails. What if I play badly? What if the winning goal is down to me and I stuff up? I'm starting to feel sick, and then finally, it's lunch.

We eat quickly, the dining room a hum of excitement—which doesn't make me feel any better. At last, we're taken to the gym, and we sit cross-legged on the floor, Mr Robinson in his usual spot on the edge of the stage.

“Well, boys, this is it. The other team has arrived, and they're in the quad. As soon as all the boys are seated around the oval, we'll go out. I want you to go and do your best. No dirty play, Mr Brown,” Mr Anderson says, shooting a quick look behind me. “Just remember: we've trained as a team, so go out and play like one. After the game, we've invited the guests to a sausage sizzle with us, and I know you'll have enough good manners, irrespective of the outcome of the game, to treat them all well.” He pauses. “I'm proud of the way you've all worked.” The door squeaks open, and a guard nods to him. “Right. Everyone's waiting for us. Let's go.”

We spring to our feet, keen to get started, and as we jog outside onto the muddy ground, all the boys huddled under tarps strung along the fences cheer and clap. We feel like heroes running out there, the shouts and whistling making us all grin.

The other team is sitting on the benches, trying not to check us out too obviously. We run up to our bench, feeling like Roman soldiers coming into battle, and stop when Mr Robinson holds up his arm. “Welcome to our visiting team. Mr Moore will toss the coin.”

None of us, including the other team, can stand still. We're all twitching and jumping up and down. We win the toss, choose our end and run to our positions. The umpire bounces the ball, Aaron leaps up and knocks the ball straight to Archie, and he's off. Within 15 seconds, we have our first goal! The kids watching on the sidelines go wild, screaming, whistling and punching the air. We caught them flat-footed!

We jog back to our spots, not one of us able to keep the grin off his face. I make sure I don't make eye contact with the guy I'm on, but I can see that his face, peppered with a smattering of angry-looking pimples, is sour. “Enjoy the goal, jailbird,” he hisses through his teeth. “There won't be many more.” I grit my teeth and keep my mouth closed.

But there are! We're buoyed up by that first goal, and by the end of the first half, we're six goals seven to their four goals two. We run off for the break, and Mr Robinson crouches in front of us as we sit sprawled and panting on the bench and on the grass.

“Right, boys, you're doing well, but now it's crunch time. You need to calm down and think more clearly. Those seven points are seven times you could have kicked goals. You're playing hard, but you're going to run out of steam if you don't start playing smart. Remember the plays we practised. Straight down the sides. Hand pass more carefully. Don't rush when you've taken a mark. Understand me?” We nod as we slurp water and rub our aching legs.

The siren sounds for the second half. “Aaron, Luca, Martin—take a break. I want you fresh for the last quarter.” The reserves leap to their feet joyfully and jog off with the rest of the team. We flash dark looks at one another. We all feel the same; sitting on the bench when we want so desperately to be out there is torture, but Mr Robinson's the coach and that's that.

The other team's coach joins Mr Robinson at the edge of the oval as the teams get into position. The boy I've been on stops and speaks quickly to a few of his mates, and then they break and run off, grinning to one another. What the heck are they up to? It doesn't take long to find out. They're a bit older than us, and some of them look like men from where we're sitting. They get the ball after the first bounce and kick long and straight towards the goal. We hold our breaths as it soars straight on target, but then out of the pack, those long, brown legs of Archie's propel him up, right in the mouth of the goals, the ball landing sweetly in his hands just like it was aiming for them all the time. We roar with delight, our three voices joining those of the other boys. Good old Arch, always right where you need him.