Wrath (2 page)

Her name's cute and soft too—whereas mine…! What were they thinking? Mum says there was a song she used to like which had the first line ‘My name is Luca' and then when she met Dad, he told her he'd gotten his black curly hair from his grandfather, whose name was Luca, in Italy. That clinched it for her. She thought it was a sign. Kids at school called me ‘Lucy'. Great.

Dad was a mechanic, and he had a big workshop out the back. The back yard wasn't too pretty, with cars and trucks waiting to be repaired and car parts spilling out of the shed, but I loved it. Just walking outside and into that shed made me want to hurry and grow up. It smelt like man stuff, and Dad smelt that way too. Kind of an oily, tangy, slightly sweaty smell with a mix of a whole lot of stuff I can't really name. Dad went out to the farms to fix the tractors, trucks, generators and pumps. He did okay even though most people on the land are pretty handy.

Mum was always trying to get some flowers to grow out there, but with all the customers' boots and greasy water sluicing out over the ground, she had no hope. She'd say, “Just a few roses for the house; just a spot for some vegetables,” and she'd work away, trying to keep the sun from shrivelling those little plants to death if they'd made it past everything else. But they'd all die, no matter what. It seemed to be such a big thing to her.

I'd said to her once, when she was down on her knees pulling out all those dried up little plant bodies, “Don't worry about it, Mum. Just buy some veggies and flowers,” but she'd turned on me, her eyes filling with tears, and she'd said, “You just don't understand! I've got to get something to grow.”

Then in a day or two, there she'd be with a new packet of seeds, down on her knees in that gravelly red dirt, planting each one and tucking it in like it was a newborn baby. Her face would be all smiley and soft, and she'd look up at me and say, “Maybe this time, Luca. I feel like these ones are going to grow.” 'Course they never did.

I found out a lot later why she was so upset. One night, when I got up to go out the back, I heard her snuffling away and Dad murmuring soft, and then her voice rose and she said, “But Dan, even the cow in the paddock can drop a calf. I've done it before. Why can't I do it again?” I couldn't hear what Dad said, but I went back to bed a bit stunned. I'd never thought Mum would want more than just Katy and me. Any other kid would be the odd one out here. I shook my head and rolled over. A pity those plants wouldn't grow, maybe then she'd forget about growing more kids.

Apart from that, life rolled on, one day pretty much the same as the next. Katy and I would play together, with her making up stories and mud pies, and me building cities, roads, bridges and wharves out of all the nuts and bolts, bricks and odd tins that littered our yard, near each other but rarely doing the same thing.

Sometimes, Dad would shout, “Luca! Come and give me a hand,” and I'd drop what I had in my hand and run to the shed. I really didn't do much, just clean up or sort screws into their different containers, but what I loved was the talk. Dad would start, and I'd just open my ears and brain and suck it in. He'd always talk about his family. I can see it now, the light slanting in through the clear panels he'd put in the roof, dust dancing in the rays. He'd lean back on the bench and file away at some rusty old bit of metal till it was just the shape and size he wanted. I'd see the dust streaked in the sweat down his forehead, his olive skin gleaming.

“Have I ever told you about my brother Peter?” he'd say, and though I knew it all by heart, I'd shake my head. “No, Dad, not really.”

“He was the eldest in our family. First Peter, then Anthony, then Philippa, then me. He was eight years older than me, but he was the one I loved the most. He used to take me with him whenever he went out with his mates. They would get a bit sick of me tagging along, I think. We'd go down to the river and swim, and if any of the boys got too rough with me, Peter would grab them and threaten to flatten them. His eyes would flash, and he'd grit his teeth as he spoke, and even I got frightened.

“One day, one of the boys, Jeremy Muir, said, ‘But Peter, why don't you leave him home sometimes? He's just a little pest.'

“‘He's my brother,' Peter said flatly.

“‘I know, but we're your friends.'

“Peter smiled at him. ‘I know that, but you may not always be my friends. He will always be my brother. He wants to come, and I want him here. If you don't like it, swim somewhere else.'

“That's how he was, Luca. Family first—always. You remember that.” And I'd nod and sort some screws, and we'd both be silent. I loved those times.

Got to stop now. Meal time. The siren's just gone, so in a minute the door will swing open, and there will be the guard. I can hear doors opening and the sound of footsteps getting louder as he gets closer.

The door rasps open, and I look up, expecting the guard to put a tray of food on the small desk in the corner. Instead, he says, “Right, sport. No more room service. Time to join everyone else in the dining room.”

I look up at him, taking in the grey, clipped hair, the blue eyes, the blank expression and the name tag on his shirt that says ‘Owen'.

“Come on, look lively!”

I jump off the bed and move towards the door.

“Wait till I'm outside!” he barks, turning and leaving my room. I walk to the door and step outside. To my left, I see a row of boys, mostly a bit older than me, I think, stretching back to the end of a wide corridor. Across the gap to the other side, there is another row of boys in a line, shuffling towards a pair of large swing doors at the end of the building. The boys are all dressed like me, in navy-blue track pants and T-shirts.

One of them is staring at me, his face hard. His orange hair clashes oddly with his red face, and he glowers at me as though he hates me. Then I realise that he is at the head of the row and they are all waiting for me to get in line and start walking. I turn to the right and step in behind the guard. He strides off towards the doors, which open with a loud whirring noise as we get closer.

Beyond the doors is a large room so brightly lit that I wince, with rows of tables and benches. On the back wall is a line of older boys standing behind steaming pots of food, large ladles ready in their hands. The boys in the long line I had seen on the other side of the corridor are grabbing trays, and as they file past each upraised ladle, food is tipped onto their plates. As the line moves along, there is no talk, just the sound of the plates rattling and shoes scuffing across the grey linoleum floor.

I follow the guard to the end of the first line, and then he steps back, motioning me forward with an impatient wave. I take a tray from the pile and step back to the line to wait my turn for the food. He nudges me and mutters, “Table Five.”

I turn and see numbers in metal holders in the middle of each table, and then it is my turn at the first counter.

“Soup?”

I nod, and a quick ladlefull is dropped in a bowl and pushed towards me. I put it on my tray and then move along. The food looks watery, but there is plenty of it—boiled potatoes, beans, carrots, sausages—and I nod for all of it. At the end of the counter are tubs of yoghurt and small dishes of jelly and custard. I load up, shoving the plates close together to make room, and then, eyes straight ahead, I walk to Table Five.

Boys sit on the benches lining the tables all over the room, and low chatter and the odd laugh merges into a low, swelling undercurrent of noise. I put my tray on the table, step over the bench and sit down, trying not to hunch over too much, and then I start eating the soup slowly even though I want to slurp it down fast, grab the tray and run back to my room.

“What ya' in for, Skinny?”

I force myself to count to five and then turn and look straight at the rat-faced boy next to me.

“Flattening arseholes with big mouths,” I say quietly and then keep eating my soup. I will my hand to keep steady, but my heart is jumping.

A laugh bursts out of the dark boy opposite me. “Good answer, kid,” he says.

I look up, keeping my face blank. He's about 17, with a snub nose and warm, deep-set eyes, his round face split with the white grin of his teeth. The only thing really memorable about him is his build. I could only see him waist up, but man, is he a tank! The T-shirt he wears isn't baggy like mine or that of any of the others at the table, for that matter, but stretches taut across his swelling chest, the bands of the arms and neck straining around the bulge of his muscles.

“What's your name?” he asks.

“Luca.”

He nods, not making any comment, and then smiles. “Luca, the smart-arse next to you is Tim, next to him is Johnno, then Aaron—he's the brains around here—and there's me, Archie. I'm the brawn.”

I look in turn at each face. Tim squints back at me with that shy, eager look of a weak kid whose only hope is to attach himself to someone stronger by ingratiating himself. That's what he was trying to do with his comment to me—ingratiate himself to Archie, who looked to be the boss man of this little group, by making him laugh. Johnno sits next to him. He gives me an unsmiling, appraising stare, nods almost imperceptibly, and then turns back to his food. Aaron sits opposite him, next to Archie. He looks at me coolly through clear blue eyes. He has the face of an angel—short blond hair, firm mouth, strong jaw and nose—but it's those eyes, deep and searching, that hold my gaze.

He smiles, says, “Hi, Luca,” and holds out his hand across the table. I take it without hesitation and nod. What the hell could he have done? Whatever it was certainly didn't show on his face. I knew though, instinctively, that asking that question would be a mistake, just as it had been when Tim asked it. Nobody's business.

Archie is leaning back in his chair, a smile on his face, and he looks at me expectantly. “Anything you want to know about the place?”

I hesitate and glance around the room, which is now noisy as the boys use their mouths as much for talking as they had been for eating. “I guess you're the main man around here,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow. “You applying for the job?”

I shake my head. “Nuh. Just figured you were by the way you're built.”

“Size doesn't make a guy the boss,” says Aaron, shrugging. “No real bosses amongst the guys here. Just people who are okay and people who are dangerous bastards.”

“Well, who's the most dangerous here, then?” I ask.

“Don't turn around real obvious, but three tables across, there's a big guy with tats on his face they call ‘King'—not 'cause he's a boss but because his real name is Neil Brown.”

I look blankly around the table, and they laugh.

“Never heard of a King Brown?”

“What, the snake?” I answer, puzzled.

“Yeah, the snake,” says Aaron quietly, glancing across at the other table. The others look at him, forks suspended above their plates. “Did you know it's got more venom than any other snake?”

I shrug. “I know that if you get bitten by one, you're pretty much dead.”

“Well, unless you happen to get bitten by one right outside the hospital, you're pretty much right. The thing with them, though, is they just won't get you once; they'll keep striking you over and over, more venom pumping in each time.” Aaron pauses, spears a piece of sausage with his fork and then chews on it slowly. “That's why we call him ‘King Brown'. You cross that mongrel, and he won't let up. He'll make it his sole mission in life to make your life hell. His brain isn't big, but man, once it latches onto something, he doesn't let go.”

The table is silent apart from the sounds of the boys' eating. I am interested, despite myself. I had come in here determined to sit down, eat up and shut up, but I want to know a bit more. I open my mouth to speak, but the siren blasts and everyone shovels and slurps the last bit of food down. A guard moves to each table in turn, and the boys stand and take their plates and cups to a long bench at the back of the room, where they scrape the crumbs from each plate into a bin, place the plate in a stack, and then line up at the double doors where the guards are waiting. It's all so smooth.

I flick my eyes across to that King Brown kid and notice that even he goes through the motions quickly. He might be called King Brown, but he's still just a trapped worm in here like me.

We file back to our cells. I notice that the boys pretty much all go into their cells in pairs except me and a few others. That Brown kid goes in alone, I see. The guard closes my door, and I lie down. I start thinking about the kids I talked to. Had any of them done anything as bad as what I did? I don't really want to know, do I? I just don't want to get connected to people again—just you. I know you'll always be there. But my mind is jumping around. I'm not in the mood to write. I just want to go over everything that happened. Does it mean all my meals will be out there now? Can't write now, mind too jumpy.

*

I've calmed down a bit now. Guess it was just being amongst people after being alone for so long. Better that I'm on my own.

I guess when I was about seven or eight, things changed. Not so many cars came to our place anymore, and Dad didn't get many calls for work. He got quieter and quieter and stayed out in his shed longer but didn't seem to want to talk when I hung around. He and Mum didn't seem to talk together anymore either.

One night, we were sitting silently at the table eating soup. Mum sat at one end of the table, Dad sat at the other, and Katy and I sat in-between them. There were no jokes, no talking—just the slow ticking of the clock on the wall and the sounds of us eating. Each time I swallowed, I made a strange gulping sound. My throat seemed to be closing instead of opening to take in my food, and the sound seemed so loud in the quiet room.