Vagrancy

by Stacey Mac

  “You ain’t trying,” he growls, shaking his head. “Your being lazy. You can hit it harder than that.”

  I turn away from his stupid, arrogant expression and strike the bag again; harder this time.

  Again, Dean shakes his head. “Your still holding back...again.”

  I strike again, and again, and again, and it isn’t good enough. Is he actually rolling his eyes at me now?

  “I’m not strong,” I spit out at him, frustrated. “We’re both already aware that I’m no good in a fight.”

  But he shakes his head. “What? Are you afraid of the bag, or something? You ain’t in a fight, Tessa. It ain’t going to hit you back. So have at it.”

  I turn back to the bag, fuming. The heat from my neck and face radiates from me. I bring up my forearm and send it flying. I’m anger driven. I put the full force of my body behind it, and I bury the side of my fist into the centre of the bag.

  “Better,” Dean says. “Again!”

  I strike until my knuckles are swollen. The impact knocks them into one another, and despite the knuckle shields, they will bruise.

  “Good,” Dean says. “If you strike someone like that in the right spot, it’ll drop ’em for at least a few seconds,” he says. “The trick is being able to hit a moving target. Come on.”

  I follow him away to a sparring mat, and he stops in the centre of it.

  I linger on the edge. I suddenly realise that he intends to fight with me, and I balk.

  I don’t want to fight him ever again. Not because I’m afraid of him, which I am, but because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of beating me.

  I wonder for a moment what he would do if I refused. I wonder how much of a dick he really is, whether he would push until I gave in.

  He watches my hesitation. “I ain’t going to try and hit you,” he tells me. His voice is not gentle, more impatient, really; like he’s tired of me. “I’m just going to move around the mat. You’re going to try and find an opening to strike. For high-impact, you have four options – ”

  I interject. “The carotid artery, the solar plexis, the groin or the temple. I know.”

  “So find one. Don’t hesitate, and strike as hard as you can.”

  He takes his stance, spreading his feet shoulder-width apart, and holds his hands up in a defensive position.

  Resignedly, I step onto the mat and hold my arms in front of me.

  “Stand strong,” he says, keeping his eyes dead on mine. “You look limp before you’ve even begun to move. Tense your arms.”

  I try, but my muscles automatically object. It’s not my usual style, and it hasn’t been for the last nine years. My body doesn’t tense to strike, it tenses to run.

  I come gradually closer to him as we shuffle around in a small circle. I see his arms suddenly rise ever-so-slightly, leaving his mid-section uncovered, and I close the gap between us. My right fist flicks out, but his arms block its path, and he grabs my wrist to stop me moving away.

  “Your too obvious, darlin’,” he says, “which can work, if you know what to do next. If your opponent anticipates your strike, and blocks you like this, be ready to take advantage of it.” He picks up my left hand in his, and his face is merely inches from mine. “Strike to the temple,” he shows me, “and then back off.”

  The contact of our skin, our breaths colliding, feels too close. I get the sensation that I’m suddenly treading water, out of my depth.

  His eyes shift to mine for just a second. He grins, releases me, and the tension dissolves.

  “Try it again, just like that.”

  He instructs me like this for a while before I’m back on the punching bag again, practising a different strike. We alternate between that, and the sparring mat until the two hours are up, and I’m dead on my feet.

  Usually, I would need to stand at attention, and then leave immediately once dismissed, but as we have abandoned proper conventions I drag myself to a bench and sit down, bending over so my forehead touches my knees.

  Dean follows me over, but takes a different bench, and we just sit for a few seconds, getting our breath back.

  The silence is too heavy, and my body is trembling too much for me to stand and leave without falling. I decide to speak.

  “Where were you today?” The question falls out.

  He takes a towel from his bag and rubs it over his face and the back of his neck. “Believe it or not, you ain’t the only rebel in this place,” he says calmly. “I was supervising some Resolute novices cleaning up the dorms after they’d trashed ’em.”

  “Trashed them?” I sound incredulous.

  “Yeah, you know – messed the place up, turned over the furniture, amongst other things,” he grins.

  I frown. “Why?”

  Dean shrugs. “Just kids running amok...for fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “Yeah, it’s this thing we do with our spare time in Resolute.”

  I sneer at him, but then give the concept serious consideration. Vandalising training compound property? I guess it would be fun, if you’re the suicidal type. I lean my head against the wall. “Trey must be furious.” I say absentmindedly.

  “I don’t plan on notifying him,” Dean says, “and neither should you.”

  My eyes widen. I wonder if he knows how painfully Trey will break him if he finds out.

  “You can go... if you want to,” Dean says abruptly. “Unless you have more questions for me?”

  I have plenty, but none I’m willing to bring up right now, so I stand slowly, and pick up my jacket. “Yes, trainer,” I say, smiling wryly.

  “Actually, before you go,” he blurts out suddenly, “I have a question.”

  I wait for him to continue. Instead he stares me down, burrowing into me. Intruding.

  “Why don’t you fight harder during your sessions?” He asks. “If you don’t hold back so much, you could win sometimes.”

  I turn my head away – to the door – which I’d very much like to leave through.

  “You know that though, don’t you? You choose not to try. Why?”

  I think for a second about how to answer, and I settle for sarcasm. “I’m protesting.”

  “Against what?”

  “Organised violence.”

  “You’re doing a poor job.”

  “Of ending violence, or living in Galore?” Sadness creeps into my voice, though I didn’t mean for it to. I mean to head straight out the door, but for some reason I say: “I should thank you.”

  “For what?” Dean asks, and he looks perplexed. It is, perhaps, the first non-hostile thing I’ve said to him.

  “For keeping your promise this time,” I say turning again to leave.

  “Tessa?” he calls, and the sound of my name in his voice is unsettling. “I’m going to tell Trey that you’ve learnt your lesson. I think you’re done here.”

  I freeze with my hand on the door. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Hopefully I won’t see you back here again.”

  I nod. “Hopefully.”

  I allow the door to swing closed behind me, wondering why I feel abruptly hollow. I walk slowly, tiredly back to the stairwell, telling myself to be happy. I’ve escaped with only having to do two nights of this, instead of two weeks. I should feel like I’ve won.

  Instead, I feel a little more lost than usual.

  Much later, I’ll look back and think of myself and Dean as sadly typical. But reluctant attraction is a gruelling process.

  Chapter Seven

  The rest of the week drags. I go through the motions without really paying attention to what I’m doing, and my body pays for it. Even with Vincent controlling his strength, I slowly become shades of purple, my body continues to deteriorate.

  I have seen Dean only once more, two days after the last time. Since then, he hasn’t been in the Arena with the seniors; another Resolute trainer has been taking his place.

  It was in the corridors before dinner, and I recognised his face amon
g the many Resolute initiates milling around the stairwell. I was just entering the cafeteria when he turned and saw me. His eyes narrowed over the heads of so many others, and he looked displeased or maybe annoyed. I had shifted my eyes away and followed Mia through the doors.

  I have retained a relatively low profile, with the exception of an encounter with Trey. He approached me in the Arena. “Initiate,” he called from the edge of our mat.

  I approached him quickly and stood at attention.

  “It seems that our Resolute friends are a little soft when it comes to girls,” he’d said, giving me a mocking look. “If it had of been me, you’d be hanging by your fingertips for weeks. Consider yourself lucky.”

  I didn’t move, didn’t make a sound until he strutted away, and then I exhaled loudly.

  “Weird,” Vincent said.

  “Yeah.”

  Trey usually lost track of who was being punished and who wasn’t. There is a new name marring his list every day.

  It is the second week. A lifetime since I saw my parents. At night I pull out my father’s playing cards and lay them out on my cot, playing a game he had taught me when I was a child, and I will this place to alight in flames.

  Delilah comes to sit on my cot one night after dinner. Her long blonde hair fans out around her shoulders. Most of the other initiates are getting ready to sleep. The lights will black out in a few minutes and we aren’t permitted to wonder the dormitory after that.

  “Can you teach me that?” Delilah asks politely. Her normally dominating voice is quiet.

  “Sure, here.” I teach her the rules and steps of my game and then surrender the cards to her. “You try.”

  She sets out the cards the way I showed her. “Can I ask you something?” She says unexpectedly, flipping the cards down onto the mattress.

  “I guess?”

  “What do you think it will be like? The warzone, I mean. Sometimes I’m excited to leave here and finally do some real fighting, but other times I’m fucking petrified. I’m not good at the wilderness survival stuff. I don’t think I’d like the woods.”

  I grimace. “I wouldn’t worry about that yet,” I say. “You have two years left, right?”

  “Yes,” she says quickly. “But you could be called out as soon as you get back home. Do you ever think about that?”

  I don’t want to talk about this, but I don’t want to be rude to her either. “I try not to.”

  “Are you frightened?” She tilts her head to the side.

  Easy answer. “Yes.”

  She nods. “But we have to, to protect each other. Right?”

  “Right,” I lie.

  “I just think too much sometimes. Everyone we know has lost someone during a deployment, and I keep wondering if it would hurt... to die.”

  God forbid a soldier who thinks too much. I watch Delilah’s blank face. It is emotionless. Delilah has lost her father and two brothers during various campaigns. But loss is rife. Everyone has had someone taken from them. Vincent lost both of his parents a few years back; Mia’s older sister died during a scouting mission; Tilly is now orphaned as well, and lives with her Aunt. Everyone fights, no one is safe. Too much death to go around. Yet I’ve been immune. I haven’t lost anyone I’ve loved: a miracle. It is so that I am loath to tempt fate and speak about it.

  “I think it hurts more to be the ones left behind,” I tell her. And though Delilah’s resolve is impressive, I watch her eyes glaze over.

  “Del,” I say gently, taking her hand. “You’re tough as shit. You’ll be an amazing soldier.”

  This is what she wants me to say, so I say it, and she squeezes my hand in thanks.

  *

  “Do you think I have a shot this time?” Vincent asks me, biting absentmindedly at his nails. We are walking back from the Arena, heading straight to the cafeteria.

  “A shot at what? Winning a fight against me?” I ask, incredulous. “I’d say there is a pretty good chance.”

  “No, idiot,” he says, flicking my ponytail. “A shot with Mia. Do you think she’s noticed me this year?”

  It is strange to hear him sound so unsure of himself. Vincent is usually annoyingly over-confident, and as for his flirtations with Mia, she’d have to be mentally retarded to have not noticed him at this point. He hasn’t been subtle.

  I don’t tell him this, though. Not when he looks at me with those hopeless, big, brown eyes.

  “I think you’ve got a shot,” I tell him honestly. “Though maybe you should just come out and tell her that you’re in love with her, instead of dancing around it. It’s getting boring.”

  He scowls defensively, “I’m not in love with her,” he whispers as we pass a group of senior girls, “And thanks for the advice and all, but you’re about as romantic as Tuberculosis. Which, by the way, my brother has. It involves a lot a phlegm. Not at all sexy.”

  I’d defend myself but he’s right. “This is your last year,” I remind him, “And Mia will be back here next year without you. What if this is your last chance?”

  That gets his attention, and he frowns at the floor as we join the line in the cafeteria.

  “Sorry about your brother,” I add on. He shrugs.

  The line leads to covered serving trays. As people take their turn to approach them, they load their eating tray with a piece of bread, a scoop of stew, and a cup of water. There is generally a trainer standing by, supervising everyone’s portion sizes – making sure no one takes more than their ration. Tonight it is Flint, and he leans against a concrete pillar, looking as bored as usual.

  When Vincent and I reach the front of the line we take our share and retreat towards the tables. We are heading towards our usual spot when I stop. My head snaps around at the sound of a familiar name.

  “Shut up, Tilly.”

  Tilly. I haven’t seen her in a while. I look around for the source of the voice until I find her. She is sitting at a table with a group of novices. They tower over her even when they sit. Her choice of company is strange; she should be with the other minors. I lose my train of thought once I see her properly.

  Tilly is, it seems, crying.

  Her chin touches her chest, and tears dampen her cheeks again. It is then that I notice those cheeks. The little Snow White with permanent red patches along her jaw now looks more bruised than I am. A mixture of sickly yellow and purple marks all over. This tells me that she has spent the week being knocked around. A lot.

  Only she hasn’t been fighting, like I have. She’s been in survival training. There isn’t much cause for bruising when you are learning to build fires and tie knots.

  I approach the table, coming to stand behind Tilly. The large girl – perhaps fifteen years old – sits to her left and doesn’t notice me. She is shovelling down a larger than normal portion of stew. And it is then that I notice that Tilly’s tray is empty.

  “Tilly, where’s your food?” I ask her loudly.

  She turns, startled. When she sees me, her tears only come quicker, and she screws up her small face.

  Mine must resemble stone. “Did you eat it already?” I ask her coldly. I don’t intend to be harsh, but fire is burning in my throat and the more she cries, the more it aches.

  Almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head.

  I look at the other girl then, the pig, who, incidentally, could probably stand to eat less. Large for her age, but obviously younger than I am, and the look she gives me is a mix between guilt, and hostility. “What?” she asks aggressively. “She had the chance to fight for it. She conceded.”

  For some reason, I smile. I don’t snap in my rage. I say nothing to the pig. For the first time, I’m not hesitant. Instead, I look at Tilly’s bruising, her empty tray, and I place my own tray onto the table.

  And then I lunge…

  …and my fist slams into the girl’s mouth…

  …and stew and spit and blood spray across the table…

  …onto her friends, who stop laughing.

  She is coughing
, spluttering. She grabs hold of her mouth and stands. Like an animal, she screams something at me from behind her hand which I don’t make out.

  I step up so that I’m an inch from her face – the way a Trainer stands over an initiate.

  “Come near her again,” I say calmly, “And I’ll knock all of your teeth out.”

  I turn to Tilly, who looks stunned. “Come on,” I grab the back of her jacket.

  I haul her off the bench just in time before the pig launches herself towards me… and crashes into Dean.

  He holds the girl up before she can fall, and then shoves her back. “Enough!” he says loudly, the ring of authority evident in his voice. “Both of you,” he looks back over his shoulder at me.

  Pig fumes, but stays in her place.

  “You two,” Dean says to Tilly and I, “Get out of here. Now!”

  I start hauling Tilly again, away from her tyrants, and through the tables of rubber-neckers who whisper, snicker or stare slack-jawed as we pass. Initiates aren’t permitted to engage in physical confrontations outside of training and this rule is not usually broken so blatantly. There are fights, of course. They break out constantly in the dormitories and bathrooms, but never in view of the trainers.

  My friends are waiting for us. They scoot along the benches and make room.

  Vincent is on his feet. He looks appalled. “What the fuck was that?” he says, exasperated.

  “I don’t know,” I say, “They were taking her food, okay?”

  I look past him to Mia, Delilah and Adriel. “Guys, this is Tilly.”

  Delilah looks at me like she thinks I’m insane, but Mia jumps up and grabs hold of Tilly’s hand. Her expression becomes motherly. “Don’t worry about them,” she says gently. “They’re cowards. Come and take a seat.”

  “Initiate?”

  I turn at Dean’s voice, and he is already standing over me, looking expectant. His breath touches my face. “A word?”

  I sigh, “Here,” I say, putting my food tray down in front of Tilly. She looks to me with desperation, like I’m throwing her to the dogs.

  “Don’t worry, they won’t bite,” I tell her.

  As I turn away to follow Dean out of the cafeteria, I hear Vincent say “Hard.”