State Ward (6 page)

At
nights
here
you
can
sometimes
hear
a
kid
screaming
out
in
his
sleep.
Or
he
might
even
be
awake
and
everything
’
s
got
too
much
for
him.
The
staff
call
it
“break-down”.
They
aren’
t
too
bad
when
a
boy
has
one
of
those
cos
they
know
he’
s
not
fooling
it
as
they
can
do
at
times.
A boy’ll
scream,
he’ll
moan
and
groan,
call
out
names:
and
usually
it’
s
mum
or
dad,
that’
s
what
turns
everyone
here
inside
out
—
hahahah
—
ya
get
it?
Inside
out?
Humour,
Mum
and
Dad.
That’
s
the
other
thing
there
seems
to
be
lots
of
around
here.
And
I
think
I
know
why.
One,
it’
s
the
Maoris
because
they
dominate
in
here
in
numbers
and
toughness,
too.
And
two,
because
even
they,
the
tough
Maoris,
secretly
wanna
be
something
else
but don’t know how. Or can’t, even if they knew where to
aim
for.

They
can’t,
Mum,
and
you,
too,
I
s’pose,
Dad,
as
if you’d be listening, they can’t because I think they’re
cursed. Have I told you about George’s curse? No, don’t
think
I
have.
Well,
George
is
cursed,
it’
s
a
makutu,
a
Maori
curse,
because
his
guardian
uncle
and
aunty
pinched
some
timber
and
used
it
to
build
their
house
when it was s’posed to be for a new meeting house. So the
tohunga, that’s the Maori priest, put a curse on the heads
of
all
those
who
slept
under
the
roof
of
the
stolen
timber.
Which
was
George.
Poor
George.
His
curse
is
a
Maori
warrior
ghost
coming
to
him
in
his
dreams
and
telling
him
to
run
away
from
here.
So
he
does.
Though
not
since
I’ve been here he hasn’t. I’d like to think it’s because he’s
got
a
real
friend.
A
true
best
mate.

But, it’s not just George, it’s everyone. Can you
imagine
it?
A place
of thirty-six boy
s
and
all
cursed?
Why
ya
hear
them,
and
everyone
has
a
turn,
at
night,
even
during
the
day,
breaking
down.
Calling
out
to
mummys
and
daddys
who
aren’t
there,
ain’t
gonna
ever
be
there.
Like
you
two,
Mum
and
Dad.
Eerie
groans
and
callings
at
night
that
echo
down
the
passageway
and
make
your
hair
stand
up
and
skin
burst
out
with
the
goosies,
really
does.

State
wards.
That’s
what
we
are.
Wards
of
the
state.

They
lie
and
cheat
and
scrap
and
steal
and
trick
and
betray
each
other
one
day.
The
next,
they
laugh
and
sing
and
hug
and
comfort
and
take
punishment
to
save
you.
They
even
shed
a
few
tears
if
they
think
no
one’s
looking.
State
wards,
Mum
and
Dad.
State
wards
meant
to
he
the
toughest
of
the
tough,
meanest
of
the
mean.
And
they
are.
Yet
they
aren’t.

And
they
talk.
They
talk
and
talk,
once
they
trust
you,
and
mostly
it’
s
to
do
with
their
life,
growing
up,
how
bad
it
was.
Or
how
good
it
was,
even
though
they
know
and
you
know
they’re
talking
bullshit,
it’s
only
a
fantasy
of
how
they’d
liked
their
life
to
have
been.
Like
Rusty
Bradley
who
claims
they’ve
got
a
fireplace
with
a
solid
gold
cross
on
one
side
and
his
mum
and
dad
read
stories
to
the
Bradley
kids
by
the
fire
most
nights.
Bullshit.
Mr
Wakefield,
he’
s
a
Maori
housemaster
here,
told
us
Rusty
lives
in
a
dreamland.
He’s
never
had
a
proper
home,
he’s
gone
from
foster
home
to
foster
home,
and
now
here
because
he
blew
up
one
day
and
nearly
killed
his
foster
father
cos
he
got
sick
of
being
hit.

Childhoods,
Mum
and
Dad.
It’s
to
do
with
childhood
and
it
being
messed
up.
(But
what
to
do,
what
to
do?)

Charlie turning inwards to the wall and squeezing his eyes hard shut to try and prevent the tears that’d suddenly welled.

Sunday
morning
and
every
second
Wednesday
evening,
at
seven-thirty,
they
give
us
religious
instruction.
Sunday’
s
a
church
service.
Second
Wednesday’s
a
film,
a
Christian
film.
A
different
preacher
comes
in
on
Sunday
to
preach
to
us.
One
week
it
might
he
a
father,
next
a
minister.
I
can’t
tell
the
difference,
except
the
fat
her
smokes,
and
the
cunning
kids
beg
him
for
“just
one
smoke,
father?”
Which
he
sometimes
sneakily
gives.

They
tell
us
of
how
Jesus
loves
us.
And
we
laugh
between
ourselves
in
the
wing
rec
rooms
afterwards
and
say, “That right? Wish me mum and dad did, too.” Or,
“I
didn’t
know
Jesus
was
a
homo!”

“God
is
everywhere,
He’
s
in
the
room,
He’s
even
in
your
hair,
He’s
in
the
air
around
you,
you
only
have
to
open
your
eyes
to
Him,”
that’s
what
they
say
each
and
every
Sunday
morn.

And
we
go,
“Well,
He
better
not
be
in
my
room
when
church
is
over
or
I’ll
tell
Him
to
get
the
hell
out!”
Oh,
laugh
all
right.

“Go
in
peace
with
God,”
they’ll
say.
Then
we’ll
go
outside
round
the
back
of
the
gym
and
go
to
war
with
every
boy
who
gave
you
a
smart
look.

“God
is
all
around
you,”
every
Sunday
they
say
the
same.

“Feel
His
love.”

And
Tommy,
the
cheekiest
kid
in
the
Home,
will
whisper
quite
loud,
“Only
thing
I
can
feel
is
the
bloody
draft
coming
in
under
the
door!”
And
everyone
sniggers.

The
films,
well,
t
hey’
re
pretty
interesting,
I’ll
say
that.
Like
they
had
a
three-part
series
on
rocks,
plain
old
rocks,
except
their
amazing
colours
got
revealed,
somehow,
and
us
boys
just
could
not
believe
they
were
ordinary
old
rocks.
Only
thing,
though,
the
films
always
end
in
saying
this
is
proof
God
exists.
Well
maybe
it
is,
who
are
we
to
say?
But
it’
s
not
as
if
we
even
talk
about
God
existing
or
not.
Hell,
as
Toby
says,
I
wish
I
could
wind back the film of my life so most things didn’t happen.
But
he
doesn’t
look
to
God
to
winding
it
back.