Wrath (4 page)

Mr Khan went on. “This can be a rapid learning time for you, Luca. Even though you feel cut off from everything you know and love, there is a lot of progress that can be made by you, even within the confines of these walls.”

I frowned instinctively. What the hell was he talking about? He glanced down at the file again. “Your teachers at your high school have all commended you highly, particularly in science and maths, and they all commented on your maturity and intelligence beyond your years—although one teacher acknowledged that it was clear that you were not particularly happy but showed no inclination to let on to her what the problem was.”

That must have been Ms Lake, my English teacher. She had asked me a couple of times to stay behind after class and talk—if I wanted to—about anything that was worrying me, but I had just said that I was fine, and she'd left it at that. I felt exposed—as though a spotlight were on me—just as I'd felt in the courtroom, and I squirmed involuntarily.

“We have excellent teachers here. They are very dedicated and used to dealing with all levels of problems. You've missed quite a lot of school over the past weeks, so you'll be starting again on Monday. I've put you in a class that may be at a lower level than your old class, but you have some catching up to do. The teacher, Mrs Shiels, will assess you and let me know if and when you are ready to go into a higher level.” Mr Khan paused and leaned back in his chair. “But that's not the only sort of progress I'm talking about. The time you have alone and also with the other boys, many with severe problems, may help you come to understand yourself as well as others. You may develop compassion for them as well as for yourself.”

I looked down, and a wave of annoyance flickered through me. “What's the point of any of it? I'd still be locked up. I won't be able to actually do anything in the real world no matter how much I learn.”

“You may not always be in prison, Luca. There is always hope.”

Sneering a little, despite myself, I said, “There was no time set on how long I was to be locked up. I know that I'm here for another two years, and then I go to the men's prison and God knows how long I'll be there for—probably till I die.” My voice cracked and trailed off, my heart thudding. There was a long silence, and Mr Khan frowned thoughtfully.

“Yours is an interesting case. If only you had said something at your hearing in your own defence. As it was, a decision was made based on the evidence alone.” He paused. “And that evidence was very damning. You rang the police and confessed to what you had done and then didn't speak again. The only witness was your sister, and she said very little too, apart from confirming what you had said.” My heart pounded even more at the mention of Katy, but I silently counted slower and slower until it thumped more quietly.

I studied the desk. It looked expensive, maybe an antique, and oak, I think—no, darker than that, maybe mahogany—with a dark-green leather inset on the top and gilt leaves embossed around the border. Dad would have liked it. He used to always show me the different grains and patterns in different types of wood. I studied that pattern, counting every leaf, willing my mind to calm down and get back under control.

“Is there anything you want to say to me now?” Mr Khan asked, his eyebrows raised and his dark eyes never leaving my face. My face twisted in a wry grin. He smiled ruefully back. “Yes, well, I guess if you stayed silent in spite of all the questioning, you're hardly going to confide in a stranger now, are you?” He drew a long breath and then said, “You're not quite 16 yet, Luca. The law doesn't view crimes by minors in the same way it does crimes by adults. Of course, you must be here, and later in an adult facility, because of the nature of your crime, but it doesn't mean you'll be locked up for life.”

I turned away from those dark eyes. “I killed two people. I won't be going anywhere for a long time; I know that much. I can understand you're trying to give me hope so I'll act like a model prisoner and not cause any trouble, but you're wasting your time on me,” I said.

“Have it your own way for now, but you need to start learning again and mixing with the others more. You've needed some time to settle in, but there's a lot you can do while you're in here to prepare for life afterwards.” Mr Khan glanced at me quickly. “You'll be spending more time with the other boys. There are sports and hobbies available. You've been under observation here since you arrived. That's why you've been alone so much. You've behaved well so far.” He straightened the papers in the file—my file—and closed it dismissively. “Of course, if that changes in any way, those privileges will cease. Usually, a case manager is assigned to every boy in here. There seems little point in that while you are so unwilling to talk. We'll review that situation as we go.”

He stood. There was no warm look in his eyes now. Probably I hadn't responded quite in the way he intended. I looked as disinterestedly as I could at the bookcase behind his desk, my eyes no longer meeting his. I glanced over the titles I could make out. They all dealt with juvenile crime. A bit one-dimensional, the old Mr Khan. The interview was over. Mr Khan's smile seemed a little forced as he said, “I'll speak with you again in a week or two, Luca.” Then he nodded at Owen, who opened the door behind me. I stood and walked ahead of him without speaking. I just wanted to get back to my room to go over all of this and get back to feeling in control of myself again, away from people.

Dad was away for a month before he came home the first time. Mum had told me he'd be there by the time we got home from school, but part of me didn't really believe her. Nothing had seemed right since he'd gone. It was like he, Mum, me and Katy were four parts of a machine that belonged together, worked together. With one part gone, we just didn't work. It was like we were holding our breaths; real life had somehow stopped—for me anyway. Mum hardly spoke to us. We'd drift in after school through the wire door, letting it slam as always, but she never called out, “You kids have a good day?” More and more often, she just looked up and said, “Say hello to Mrs Brockman.”

Alma Brockman was always there now. Neither Katy nor I liked her. She was tall and kind of hefty with big arms covered in pale-orange freckles. Those arms were leaning on the table where Dad always sat, a pot of tea and Mum's best cup and saucer in front of them.

Mrs Brockman turned to look at us and smiled in that corny, fake way some adults do when they're talking to kids. “Hi, kids. How do you like being the man of the house, Luca?” She laughed without waiting for me to answer, lips peeled back, showing small, even teeth covered by too much gum. Crossing her fat, freckly legs awkwardly in her tight skirt, Mrs Brockman turned back to Mum and said, “Well, then he said…” and we took the chance to grab a couple of apples and headed to our room.

“Can't stand her,” said Katy when the door was closed, and she started strutting around the room as though she had on heels that were too high and a very tight skirt. We both laughed, and Katy farted, a querulous
brrrp
of a sound that sent the pair of us into screams of laughter punctuated by long, silent painful gasps. I flopped onto the floor, holding my stomach till I could control myself. How can such a basic function never fail to get the same response even though we've heard it hundreds of times?

We sat there in silence for a while, and then I blurted out, “I hate it without Dad here!”

She put her hand on my arm and rubbed it. “I'm getting used to it. Dad doesn't really talk as much to me as he does you.”

A pang of guilty delight swept over me. It was true. Although I wished sometimes that Dad would throw me around and tickle me like he did Katy, I wouldn't have swapped that for the things we did together, the things he talked to me about. He never would have talked down to me like Mrs Brockman had just done.

“Mum talks to you a lot though,” I mumbled.

She nodded, smiling a little, and then she lay down next to me on the floor, still sighing now and then from her attack of laughter. Her smile made me see something I'd never seen before. In our little four-cornered machine, Dad and I were kind of paired, Katy and I were, Dad and Mum were, and Katy and Mum were—but not me and Mum. I loved her and she loved me, but not the same way she loved Katy or I loved Dad. It was hard for me to put into words, but I felt Dad's absence much more strongly then. I felt alone and rolled over and hugged Katy's back. She curved into my belly and chest automatically like we'd been doing since we'd been born, even before probably. I lay there, smelling her slightly musty hair, curving around her back, my top arm lying across her shoulders. How strange that we fitted together so comfortably even though she was a bit taller than me and quite a bit plumper. We even knew somehow when we needed to move, and we both changed positions at exactly the same time, reforming into another perfectly comfortable spot.

I'd slept with Mum once when I had tonsillitis and couldn't sleep. She'd come in with a glass of water in the dark and climbed in with me, but I'd lain there awake. Her knees had stuck into me, her arm had crushed me, and I was too hot. I'd listened to her even breathing, not wanting to hurt her feelings by getting out and going in with Katy, where I knew I'd be asleep in a second. I'd lain as still as I could till the birds started twittering in the trees outside and a pale grey line rimmed my blind, and then I'd fallen into a half-sleep, waking up groggy and bleary-eyed a couple of hours later. I could hear Mum in the kitchen, and I had stretched, relishing the space I had till it was time for breakfast.

We heard the wire door swing out and women's raised voices coming from the kitchen. “See you, love,” said Mrs Brockman. “Thanks for the cuppa.”

“Thanks for the company,” Mum said, and as soon as we heard the front gate close, we knew it was safe to get up and go into the kitchen. Mum came back in, her face serious, a little crease running deep between her eyebrows.

“She's yucky, Mum,” said Katy from behind the fridge, where she was rummaging for another apple. “Why doesn't she stay at her own place?”

Mum frowned, the crease deepening. “Don't speak like that, Katy. She's a very nice lady, and she keeps me company.”

“But she's here nearly every day, Mum,” I whined, something I knew she hated but it was too late to take back.

“Well, I'm lonely every day!” Mum snapped. “Now get out from under my feet and go and do something constructive, or I'll find you something to do.”

We both turned and bolted, Katy to her room and me to the shed. The shed was cool and dim and creaked constantly in the heat, like an old man trying to get comfortable. Even though Dad wasn't there, I still felt good surrounded by all of his things. It made me feel like he'd be back soon and life would be normal again. I pulled out a few old sugar bags from under the bench and lay down. I could hear some bees droning away in the wattle tree outside, and I drifted off comfortably, thinking of how Dad would be home in a few days, and slept.

Saturday came, and I woke early. I slid my feet out from under my blankets, and they hit the linoleum floor. It was cold! But I pushed the blankets off and dressed quickly, tiptoed through the house, and unlocked the front door. Then I was running across the grass, wet and tickly, down the road, my breath following in smoky drifts.

The sun was nearly up. I loved this time of day, although I'd often wondered what the difference was between dawn and dusk. The sky would be streaked with the same colours, and the shadows would be long. Only the birds gave it away. The mudlarks were carolling, the roosters were crowing—answering one another as though saying, “I hear you!”—and swallows rolled and flipped through the sky like fish in the sea.

But now wasn't the time to think about all of that—Dad would be home soon. I kept running till I hit the school, and then I sat on the fence, scanning the horizon for any sign of dust, my ears pulled back with the effort of listening for the faraway rumble of the truck. The sun climbed, the dew seeming to be sucked up by its rays, and it began to get hotter. I don't know how long I sat there, half-dozing in the warmth yet alert in another part of my brain, and then I heard what I had been waiting for—the faint hum of a truck, travelling fast.

Jumping down, I ran to the middle of the road. Sure enough, I could see a faint cloud of orange dust, and the low drone of the truck was becoming higher in pitch as it got closer. I climbed onto the top of a fence-post, where I knew I would stand out and Dad would see me.

And then he was there, the truck's bellow deepening as he changed through the gears to slow down. It came to a halt in a long flurry of gravel and dust, and then there was silence apart from a ticking noise as the truck cooled down. The door swung open, and Dad smiled down at me, his eyes hollow and tired, and I leapt off the post and clambered inside the hot, smelly cabin. Dad's arms were around me, and I buried my face into his khaki, sweat-stained shirt. Ah, the smell of Dad. Everything felt right again, in place.

We drove home, me chattering away, asking questions, unable to shut up. He laughed at me and said, “Slow down, mate; my ears are falling off.”

I grinned up at him, and we pulled up outside the front fence. Mum and Katy were waiting there, and Katy bounded out, but Mum just stood there with her arms wrapped around her. Dad swung Katy up on one arm, and I hung onto the other, and he stumbled, laughing, towards Mum. She smiled, turned and walked back through the front door, and by the time the lumbering beast that was Dad, me and Katy arrived in the kitchen, she had the kettle on and biscuits on the table. Dad sat down laughing, pushing us both away.

“You're worse than blowflies, you two. Buzz off for a minute and let me say hello to your mum. Just wait here for a sec first, though; I've got to get something out of the truck.” He was back in a minute or two, a little grin at one corner of his mouth. “There's a bit of rubbish on the front lawn. Could you kids pick it up?”