Wrath. Part 4

I had done a quick scan of my body. Not my legs or arms; they could be cut off and I'd still be me. "Maybe..." I'd said slowly, "maybe my head."

"Why are you your head?"

"That's where I think, so that's probably where I am."

"Not a bad thought, Luca. In fact, that's the place where all your thoughts are-but you're not your thoughts, are you?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Then what are you?" This was too hard. It seemed like a simple question, but I just couldn't answer it.

Dad had laughed. "Don't worry if you can't answer it now. It's the question we're all born to think about. Time for bed. We'll talk more another time." And we'd wandered back inside, brus.h.i.+ng bits of gra.s.s off each other's backs, and I'd felt comforted but couldn't really work out why.

I lay there, thinking about this memory, when I felt Katy sit down next to me. "What are you thinking about?" she asked, lying back next to me and resting her head on her hands like I was doing.

"Nothing much. Maybe a bit about Dad."

She didn't say anything for a while, and then she said, "You're pretty rude to Ray, Luca."

"What do you mean? It's just that I don't hang off everything he says like you and Mum do."

"No, it's more than that. You hardly even answer him when he talks to you. He hasn't done anything to you."

"He shouldn't even be here!" I exploded. "He should have his shoes under his own table every night instead of having 'em under Dad's!"

"Well, Dad's hardly ever here!" Katy spat.

"That's not his fault," I shot back, rising to sit and face her. "He's away working for us, not having a fun holiday. How would you like to drive a truck all day and part of the night for days and days, unload, and turn around and do the same thing with more stuff every day of the week?"

"I know," she said, turning away from me. "I get that he works hard. But when he comes home, he's horrible. He's not like Dad at all. He hardly speaks to us, and he and Mum look like they can't stand each other."

There was no defence to this. What she said was true. "But Mr Ray b.l.o.o.d.y Reid shouldn't be here just 'cos Dad can't be."

"Mum can have friends too, Luca. And he's really nice to me."

"Yeah, he buys you stuff."

She winced. "What's wrong with that? He's just being kind. Mum says because he's new here, he hasn't got many friends yet, and she's lonely on her own, so it's good for both of them. She's happy when he's around. She laughs like she used to."

"It's just wrong," I muttered, but I couldn't think of anything to say to convince her. I just knew something was horribly wrong and our little four-wheeled machine was heading for a crash.

Dad came home a few days later. It was a Sat.u.r.day, and I hoped he'd come to Geraldton and watch the footy with me. I knew it was a long shot; he usually slept all day Sat.u.r.day. I didn't get much of a chance to even mention it. Mum came out to the truck as he pulled up and waited for me and Katy to say h.e.l.lo to him, and then she moved forward and instead of saying h.e.l.lo to him too, she said, "Dan, we need to talk. You two leave us in peace."

Katy and I looked at each other, surprised, and then we looked at Dad's face, but it didn't look surprised; it looked mean and wary, not like I'd ever seen him before. We slunk off. I looked back once, but Mum and Dad had gone inside. Katy was silent, and I couldn't think of anything to say. Her hand reached across to mine at the same time mine reached out to hers. We hadn't done that in a while. We turned to each other with the same little smile on our faces and then burst out laughing as we realised that we must look like a mirror image.

"Come on!" I shouted. "Race you to the river!"

Katy squealed as I got a head start, and I heard her laughing and running behind me, both of us keen to be fossicking around the river for a couple of hours.

At that time of the year, it wasn't so much a river as a stream, but it never completely dried up, although some years it was just a series of disconnected ponds. Huge old river gums thrust branches from one side to almost half-way across to the other, and we had climbed up and sat in the crooks of their splotched old arms. The bees were buzzing, and we lazily slapped at tiny ants that tickled our bare legs and arms as they dashed about. Neither of us said much. It felt so good there, and it wasn't till the sun had started sliding down behind the trees and turning their silvery trunks a dull pink and cool breezes were turning chilly that we slid down and headed for home.

It was quiet in the house. Usually Mum would be clattering around in the kitchen and getting tea ready at this time, but there was nothing. The door banged behind us, and we trailed down the dim pa.s.sage. Mum and Dad were sitting at opposite ends of the table. Mum looked away as we walked in, but I saw that her face was red as though she'd been crying. She didn't look sad, though-just determined, her lips pressed tightly together.

Dad's face, on the other hand was white, and his eyes were sunken. I'd only seen him look like that once before. I guess it was when I was about eight, and he'd been called out to an accident at the crossroads on the way to Ellendale. He'd been gone a long time, and when he'd come back home, he'd had that same look on his face. He'd gone straight to his and Mum's bedroom, and we'd eaten tea alone.

"What's wrong with Dad?" I'd asked Mum.

"It was a bad accident, Luca. Maybe one of them didn't stop to give way to the other one or they'd been drinking, but it seems like the driver of one car and the pa.s.senger of the other were killed." Her voice had shaken a little. "That pa.s.senger was Daisy Farrell. You know, Mrs Farrell's daughter who works in the chemist shop."

"But she's only young!" I'd protested. Young people weren't meant to die! I'd tried to picture Daisy, and though I must have seen her heaps of times, all I could think of was her long, blonde hair and the way she laughed.

"I know. She was only seventeen. It's terrible." Mum's voice had cracked, and she'd put her face in her hands. "Poor Mr and Mrs Farrell. Dad went there to get the cars off the road so they wouldn't cause any more accidents. Just leave him be tonight."

That's how his face looked now. His hands were flat on the table-those blunt, square fingers always with a bit of black grease around the nails no matter how much he scrubbed them-and as Mum turned back towards us, I saw those hands tremble.

"Sit down, kids," Mum said quietly. We slid onto our chairs, and she took a deep breath. "Dad and I have been talking, and he's going to be going away."

"He always goes away," Katy said, her brow crinkled. "He has to drive the trucks."

Mum swallowed. "No, more than that, Katy. Dad isn't going to live here anymore."

I felt panic rising in my chest. I had my friends, school, running and Katy, but nothing was as important as having Dad here. Without him, we'd just grind to a halt like a car running out of petrol.

"But Dad," I protested, but he'd turned away from me.

"You're horrible, Dad!" Katy burst out. "You just like being away from us!" She ran to her room, slamming the door. I wished she hadn't done that. She was just making things worse.

"But where would you live?" I whispered.

He turned and looked at me. "I don't know, mate. I don't know anything. But it's what your mother wants, and it's what's going to happen."

"When will I get to see you, then?"

"Maybe not for a while. Let's just take things easy."

Pus.h.i.+ng my chair back, I walked as steadily as I could to our room. I didn't want to cry or yell like Katy had. Round the corner I could hear her sniffing away, but I didn't want to comfort her or have anyone near me. I sat on the end of the bed and watched the light fade out of the room. Somewhere in that time, I heard Katy's breathing become deep and even, and then darkness fell. Still, I sat.

Finally, I got cold, sitting in the dark. I lay down, suddenly desperate for sleep, but I needed to go to the toilet. Inching the door open so they wouldn't hear me, I crept outside and piddled off the edge of the veranda into the lantana bush. The air was crisp, and the sky was that dark mix of blue and black just before night is completely here.

The front door light flicked on, and I pushed myself back against the wall into the shadows. Dad and Mum stood in the doorway. I could tell Mum was crying. "I don't know what to say, Dan," she said. "You've done nothing wrong. It's just finished; that's all. We're too far apart to get back again. It's been a long time coming..." Her voice trailed off.

There was a long silence, and I held my breath in case they could hear me. The crickets started up, and O'Brien's old kelpie started woofing away as he always did when the moon came up. Dad used to say he must have a bit of werewolf in him.

"That's your decision, Sylvie, but the kids..." His voice choked off, and I heard the door creak as though he'd leant against it.

"Maybe," Mum mumbled, "Luca could live with you. You know what you mean to him."

"No. How could you separate him and Katy? They're twins." Dad moved clumsily through the door. I could see he had a large case at his side. "I'll come past tomorrow and get the rest of my stuff when the kids are at school," he said, and then he stepped off the veranda awkwardly and out through the gate.

The light flicked on as he opened the truck door and heaved his case inside. He walked around the other side, his boots crunching the gravel, swung up into the driver's seat and the pulled the truck down the road. I stood there in the darkness, watching the red of his tail-lights growing smaller before he turned the corner and was gone. My ears strained, but within a minute, I could hear nothing-just the dog baying at the moon. Mum sighed, a long, shuddering sound and then switched off the light and went inside. I snuck in through the back door and slid into my bed.

A few minutes later, Mum pushed open the door and stood, framed there, for a long time. I breathed as lightly as I could.

"Do you want some tea, Luca?" she whispered. I didn't answer. She must have known I was awake somehow, but I couldn't speak. She stepped back and closed the door, and soon after, I heard the shower running. Still no clear thoughts came to me, and I didn't want them to. This numb feeling was the best way to feel right now, I knew, and I hoped it would last for a long time.

I'd run home straight after school the next day, but no truck was out the front. Mum wasn't home either, and instinctively, I ran straight through the house and out the back to the shed. It was bare. The 44-gallon drum Dad used for rubbish was full of old offcuts of wood, bits of sandpaper and empty oil cans, but the shed was swept clean. My eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, and I saw a large wooden chest-Dad's grandfather's tool chest-which I knew had come from Italy. There was a large sign on it in Dad's writing that read: For Luca.

I opened the lid, and there, laid out neatly in rows, was a full set of tools, Dad's best ones-his screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers-the lot. The numb feeling was gone in a breath, and a sharp pain somewhere in my stomach doubled me over. I sank to my knees, the tears burning my eyes, my breath gasping. It was just the pain in my stomach. He was gone as suddenly and completely as that red brake light going around the corner, leaving only darkness.

I never saw Dad again. A card would arrive each birthday for both Katy and me with two $100 notes inside it, but that was it.

CHAPTER TEN.

The next morning, I wake early and lie there, lifting my head a little and seeing the unfamiliar shapes of the boxes and books on my desk. My head drops back, and I smile. I feel different. I close my eyes and run over in my mind the maths I'd done last night. Yep. Still there. I want to do more, but I'd finished the book. I lie there comfortably, hearing the sounds start as the other boys wake. I'm up and dressed with my books on the end of the bed by the time the wake-up siren rings.

I hand the maths book to Mrs s.h.i.+els as I walk into the cla.s.s.

"What's this, Luca? Too hard?"

"No, I've finished it."

"All of it?" Mrs s.h.i.+els shoots a sharp, disbelieving look at me. I nod, and she smiles. "Well, while the rest of us go on with the section we're up to, which is near the beginning, maybe you could do the test that covers the work done in the whole book." I sit down to wait while she organizes the rest of the kids and finds what she wants for me.

Sam comes over a few minutes after they start, "Give us a hand, will you, Luca?" He pulls his chair over. "I just keep getting these wrong. She explains them to me and it's clear, but when I come to do them on my own, I just get fouled up again." He laughs ruefully. "Bit thick maybe."

He's having trouble with graphing, so I get him to do some simple graphs using footy games and scores so he gets the basic idea, and then we start doing a few harder ones. Mrs s.h.i.+els wanders past a few times to see what we're doing but says nothing.

"They're not hard at all!" Sam says, after getting most of them right.

"Which means you're not thick after all." We laugh, and he says, "Thanks, mate," and goes back to his seat to begin working. Mrs s.h.i.+els comes up to me.

"Here's the test I'd like you to do, Luca. Have a go at all of them." I turn to take it from her and see Neil Brown's blank, cold eyes staring at me. I can't keep my lip from curling in contempt, and then I turn away and start to read. Everything is fresh in my mind, so I find it pretty easy. Mrs Sheils takes my paper, and we all pack away for lunch.

As I walk out through the doorway, I feel a sharp pain in my ribs. Grunting, I swing around, straight into the broad chest of Brown. I jerk back from him, but he shoves against me so I'm pinned against the door jamb. He bends his head to my ear and whispers hoa.r.s.ely, "Think you're smart, do you? You won't look so smart with your teeth rammed down your throat, will you?"

The guard outside in the pa.s.sage appears next to me. "Move along, you two. Back to your cells."

Brown lurches off, twisting the heel of his shoe on my foot as he leaves. I slip my hand under my s.h.i.+rt and touch the spot where I felt the stab of pain. My fingers come back smeared with blood. Brown must have been carrying a razor or nail. I sit on my bed and pull my s.h.i.+rt up, and after I wipe the blood away, I see four puncture marks. I clean them up quickly and tape a folded hanky over them so the blood won't show.

At lunch, I ask as casually as I can, "Where's that Brown kid? He hasn't been at meals since Sat.u.r.day."

"He's on regression for a month," says Archie through the hamburger he's munching. "He only comes out for cla.s.ses. No sport, no rec, no anything. Not much of a punishment for ripping someone's ear half off, but it's great not to see his ugly mug spoiling our food."

"Nothing could spoil this," chirps Tim. "This is b.l.o.o.d.y 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, cla.s.s, 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 cla.s.s 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 friends.h.i.+ps.

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-p.r.o.nged row, but I keep it to myself.

Never happened.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

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", wis.h.i.+ng 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 n.a.z.i Germany. It was the word Hitler had used for Jews, gypsies, h.o.m.os.e.xuals, 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 s.h.i.+els. 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 sc.u.m 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 repet.i.tions, 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.