Wrath (9 page)

“Nothing could spoil this,” chirps Tim. “This is bloody beautiful.” He grins at us, and we can't help but laugh at him. Apart from the mayo running down his chin, his teeth are festooned with ribbons of lettuce.

“You're a pig!” says Archie. “Shut your gob when you eat.”

So begins my routine: breakfast, class, lunch, options, an hour back in the cells, tea, rec—or most nights for me, study. I keep to myself pretty much, apart from the boys at my table and Archie at the gym and at football training on the weekend.

Sam speaks to me in class sometimes, but the gap between what they are doing compared to where I am widens, so I tend to work alone. The only thing that breaks the routine during the week is rostered duty, which is only a few hours a week. We work in the kitchen, the dining room, the library or the gym. A few boys get to work in the garden and others in the infirmary, but it is a special privilege to work there. We do a block of six weeks and then move on—oh, and of course, the weekends.

There is sport on Saturday as long as there is enough staff available, or there is lockdown instead, rec for longer and visitors and church on Sunday. The month Brown is absent is great. It helps me see how important it is to keep to myself as much as possible. I confine myself to Archie, talking to him a bit when we are alone. As for the rest of the boys, I am nice enough, but I make it clear I have no interest in developing any friendships.

I keep my head down, keep out of trouble, and keep out of Brown's radar. That sharp stab to my ribs reminds me of how important it is to keep myself to myself. I want to ask Archie what had punctured my skin in that neat, four-pronged row, but I keep it to myself.

Never happened.

There is one thing, though, better than all the rest. It makes it easier to keep to myself because it confirms that I'm not as alone as I thought I was.

The afternoon of my birthday, the day I turn 16, I find two envelopes on my desk. One has the centre's address printed on it. I open it, and there's a plain white card from “Mr Khan and all the staff”, wishing me a happy birthday. I know they're probably churned out automatically by some computer, but it makes me feel good all the same. Trying to make the normal feel normal.

I remember something I'd heard something on television when I was watching a doco on Nazi Germany. It was the word Hitler had used for Jews, gypsies, homosexuals, criminals, and other so-called defectives: ‘Untermensch'—the ‘underpeople', the sub-humans—unable to function as they should and unable to fit in with the way society should work. All the cards in the world aren't going to change that. In another world, I'd be having a party tonight, but all that is over.

Picking up the other envelope, I see my name typed on the front. Probably from Mrs Shiels. I rip it open and pull out the card, and a photo drops onto my desk face-down. I flip the photo over and look blankly at it for what seems like a long time, and then realise I'm not breathing. I suck in a deep breath and pick up the photo, drinking it in.

It's a photo of Dad and me when I was about two. I'm in his arms, and it's a side-on shot. I have a hand on each of his cheeks as though turning his head to me, and he is looking back at me with as much intensity as I am looking at him. It's a fairly close shot, but I can see the corner of the shed in the background. Dad's hair is in a weird hairstyle—curly on top and long at the back—the old 80s mullet! But it's Dad.

The birthday card is still in my hand. On the front is a boy who looks vaguely like me with a car filled with blondes in a thought bubble above his head. “Happy 16th!” it says. Inside is a corny little poem, like there always is, but no writing. There's no “Dear Luca” and not even a signature—just the blank card. I look on the back of the card. Nothing there either.

It's Katy. It must be—there's no one else—but why didn't she write something? I close my eyes. I can hear the faint sounds of a television and a guard, heavy-footed, past my door. My eyes ping open, and I scramble for the envelope. There's nothing written on the back, but the front is postmarked Perth. What the heck's she doing there?

Then it hits me. I've been so numb through all of this that I haven't really thought about her. I haven't really thought about anyone but me. Where is she? I'd seen her in the courtroom, but I didn't know where she was living. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I just imagined her living at one of her friend's houses, still at school, life going on.

But of course that couldn't be true. I'd killed her mother and her stepfather. What was I thinking? Not thinking, more like it. Too caught up in what was happening to me to think about her. What sort of scum am I? That's why there was no message on the card. What is there to say? Why would she want to say anything? …Still, she'd sent me this! She thinks about me. I still exist out there.

Afternoon lockdown is nearly over. I usually read in that time, but today I just lie on my bed, liking the feeling of being just a little bit happy.

*

Archie is in the gym before me, as usual. I go quickly through my routine, skipping a few repetitions, and then I sit on the bench at the side, watching Archie lift weights. He doesn't seem to sweat much, and the only sign of strain is the crease between his eyes. He glances across at me when he sits up, wipes his hands and bounces lightly, punching the air, and makes his way over to me, plonking himself down on the other end of the bench.

“Lazy today, bro?” he says.

“Birthday. Slacking off as a present to myself.”

He raises his heavy eyebrows. “Happy birthday. Sweet 16 and never been screwed?”

I laugh, trying to make it sound like he's said something ridiculous rather than absolutely, tragically true, and Aaron wanders over. He's been on the bike, reading a book while he pedals. “What's the joke?”

“Luca's birthday.”

Aaron grunts. “Guess we can rule out picking up a few chicks and getting shit-faced.” We sit in silence for a few moments, thinking, and then I pull up my shirt. They both look at my scabbed red dots and nod to each other.

“Get a bit too up-close and personal with the snake, did you?”

“How did you know it was him?”

“That's one of his little tricks. He picks up the ring pulls off the tops of cans and then he clips down the pull part till it's a sharp point. He does that to a few of them, lining up and sticking together the sharpened bits so they're strong, and then he opens up the ring part to fit over a finger. He puts one over each finger, and there you have it—prison knuckledusters. We've just about all felt them. They hurt like hell, and I guess they'd do real damage if he went for your eyes or throat, but he keeps it to where the guards won't see.”

“Just keep away from him,” Archie breaks in.

“I do!” I protest. “I don't know what I did to piss him off.”

“You don't need to do anything,” Aaron says. “You're new, so he's just letting you know he's Mr Tough Guy around here.”

“Which is his cell?” I ask.

“He's four down from you, but he's not there at the moment. He's in Riley House.”

“What's that?”

“It's like a sort of prison within a prison. Great, isn't it, Arch?” Aaron says. “They bring you into this place you're going to be stuck in for years, and they don't even bother to show you over it on the first day.”

“You're so shit scared on the first day that you probably wouldn't take much in anyway.”

“Still,” Aaron goes on, “it's just basic decency, really.”

Archie rolls his eyes at me. “He thinks he's in a flash private school here.”

“No, I don't, but anyway, have a look next time you're on the oval. You'll see that the buildings are in three clusters or blocks. Each one has four wings, and there are eight cells in each wing. That's 32 of us in each cluster, so when it's full, there are 96 of us. They're just called Block A, B and C.”

“And we're in A Block,” I break in. I feel a bit stupid not having taken any notice or asked any questions about this before. My cell is 5A, so it's a fair guess.

“Yep, that's right. Apart from that, there is the gym—which you've seen—a rec room in each block and the infirmary, which is attached to Riley House.”

“Which is…?” I prompt.

“It's like a solitary confinement-type setup. There are usually about two or three kids there, so it's not really completely solitary. When you do something wrong, they take you over there and keep you apart from everyone else except for school. If you've done something really bad, you don't even get to come to class; you just do your work in your cell. It's isolation, really, but instead of calling it that, they call it regression, like you've gone backwards. Brown got regression for a month because of what he did to that kid's ear.”

“Hope he doesn't regress any further. He's a Neanderthal now,” I mutter darkly.

They both smile.

“What other things get you put in there?”

“Apart from assault, there's bullying—although the guards look the other way a lot of the time for that—and there's fighting, abusing the staff, doing drugs, smashing up the place… Anything else, Arch?”

“Mmm. Having a weapon. That's about it. Oh, yeah, the worst thing you can probably do is assault staff.”

“What do they do in Riley House?”

“Loss of all privileges—like no TV, no rec, extra work, no sport and no pay.”

I jerk my head back in surprise. “What pay?”

“Don't get too excited. You get just over three bucks a day while you're in here. Your family are only allowed to give you $20 for your birthday or Christmas, no more, so you can use your account to buy stuff at the canteen.”

“There's a canteen here?” I squeak. Wish my voice would hurry up and finish breaking.

“Yes,” they both squeak and then slap each other on the back, laughing like fools. I can't help but laugh with them.

“Very funny,” I say when they stop laughing and repeating the squeaky “yes”. “Now where's the canteen?”

“Come on,” Archie says, getting up from the bench. “It's only open for another 10 minutes. I'm not going to get anything done in here, so we may as well nick off.”

The three of us leave the gym and walk to the end of the corridor, past my cell and around a corner. I do the calculations as we walk. Remand centre plus the time I've been in here at $3 a day… That's over $200!

“Do they pay you while you're in the remand centre?”

They both hoot with laughter at me. “You greedy bugger! Remand's just a holding pen. They can't give you an allowance as an inmate because you're not one yet.”

Aaron nods in agreement. “Remand's kind of like Limbo. You know, that place you go after you die where you wait to see if you're going to Heaven or Hell. Same concept. If you're set free—Heaven; this place—Hell.”

Archie shrugs. “Only Limbo I ever heard of is where you dance under a stick and try not to touch it.” His brow wrinkles. “Must be a bit hard for a girl with big tits. She'd fall flat on her back trying to get under the stick.”

Aaron breaks in. “Any chick with big tits can fall flat on her back in front of me any time, don't you reckon, Luca?” We all laugh loudly like we really know what we're talking about—or more to the point, live in a world where there even
are
any girls.

There is a murmur ahead of us as Archie pushes a door open to the right side of the exit at the end. There are about a dozen boys crowded around a counter. There isn't much to choose from on the shelves at the back, but there are two fridges full of cans and bottles of cool drinks, a small ice-cream fridge and stacks of potato chips in a steel basket. Apart from that, there are some chocolates and a few rows of magazines and comics on the shelves. A couple of guards are laughing and chatting while an older boy I hadn't seen before is serving the boys and another boy is putting the stuff on a computer. I figure I have a fair bit in the account they told me about even without any money while I was on remand, so I turn to Archie and Aaron and say, “What do you want? I'm buying.”

They both look a bit stunned. “You don't have to do that.”

“I want to,” I cut in. “Just this once maybe, but I want to.”

“I'll have a Coke,” Archie says.

“Me too,” grins Aaron.

I walk to the counter, and the boy flicks a look at me and asks my name. He taps it in, waits a few seconds and then says, “Yep. What'll it be?”

“Three Cokes and three packets of chips.” I hand the goods to the boys, and we wander back down the corridor to the rec room. We sit in a corner and pull the tops off our cans, glugging for a few seconds. Aaron is the first to let out an almighty belch, and then Archie and I try to out-do him. We sit there munching and crunching, and just for minute, it's heaven. I don't think I'll ever enjoy knocking back a can of Coke as much as I am now.

“Happy birthday, mate,” Aaron and Archie say, toasting me with their cans.

I find I can't answer. I nod and look away, and luckily, the siren goes for clean-up before tea. I wave quickly and hurry back to my cell.

That night, as I lie in bed, I can't help but smile. Not such a bad birthday.

It's strange that, on the outside, nothing seemed to have changed when Dad left. Katy and I still walked to school each day, mucked around with our friends, did our schoolwork and walked home. Something was a bit strained between us, though. We chattered away—same as ever—finishing each other's sentences, but we carefully kept away from the subject of Dad.

As far as Mum went, I could see she looked happier. That hard, angry look had gone from her face. She and Katy were the same as ever, but with me, it felt like she was putting on an act. She was too bright and too chirpy around me, buying me new clothes and making my favourite food for tea. I smiled and thanked her, but it was all false. She'd blown my life apart for no good reason that I could see.