by Scott Monk
‘Sam’s an old fool.’
‘No he’s not. He’s smart. He’ll find you.’
‘Oh, I’m scared,’ Brett said, lighting another cigarette.
‘You should be.’
‘Well while I’m shaking here in fright, you can tell your friend I’m not going back to his stinking class.’
‘Tell him yourself,’ Josh said, leaving.
When Sam finally turned back to the table to finish his meal, Brett dropped into the sink the biggest, greenest ball of spit he could cough up. He stirred it into the dishwater with the plastic scrubbing brush, then, risking getting caught a second time, added another one.
He was mad.
He got the longest lecture of his life when Sam busted him hiding behind the garage. After bailing out of history, he’d skipped music and computer studies too. As punishment, Sam grounded him. No free time. No dinner. No arguments. “If you want to break the rules, you have to face the consequences,” he’d said. And to set an example to the other inmates, Sam ordered Brett to wash up every plate, bowl, fork, knife, spoon, cup and oven tray used for cooking the night’s meal. Alone. And he wasn’t allowed to go and sulk in his room until every one was scrubbed, cleaned and dried.
When Brett heard this he went ballistic. He and Sam had a major fight in front of everybody. Brett said he wasn’t going to wash up any stupid plates. Sam said he was. Brett said he wasn’t. Sam said he was or else he’d call the cops that night and make them come back. Brett said he wouldn’t. Sam said he would.
They stood there, staring each other off, until Brett gave in. Sam had fought a million fights before and winning an argument against him was impossible. He meant what he said about calling the cops and that’s what scared Brett the most: he didn’t want to share a cell with some pervert in a real jail. So he ended up doing the stupid chores. But he wasn’t beaten. No way. He was going to sabotage this job by slagging in the water and accidentally breaking as many plates as possible.
Only a handful of inmates remained in the mess hall along with Sam, Mary and some of the teaching staff. Most guys had finished their meal and were enjoying their last half hour of spare time or grabbing a shower before bed. One interesting thing Brett had noticed though while scrubbing the oven trays was that Josh sat with the staff some of the time and with the inmates the rest. He didn’t go to class either, but got private tuition. He wondered how the jock had scored that deal. Probably through a lot of crawling. Seeing him there, laughing and joking, he knew Josh had to be Sam’s pet. He was too polite and friendly to be an inmate. The cops had probably arrested him for jaywalking. Brett hated him.
Not that it mattered any more. When lights out was called that night and everyone was asleep Brett was leaving this hole once and for all. Escaping, right? He couldn’t stay here any longer because he wasn’t welcome. The inmates hated him. Sam hated him. And he’d never felt more alone.
There was no chickening out. He’d made up his mind. His bag was packed and his escape plan simple: run and don’t stop. He could be in Sydney in a couple of days. Escaping unnoticed wasn’t going to be a problem. The only staff members still on the property were those sitting in the mess hall at that moment. And they’d be heading home soon. That only left Sam and Mary and they’d been up all day. Brett would be a hundred k’s from this place come the next morning. Easy.
A kid walked into the kitchen and dropped his plate next to the sink. Brett didn’t look up. The times he had, the look from the other inmates had been less than friendly.
‘Sam caught you, huh?’ Brett looked up. It was Frog.
‘Yer, out behind the garage.’
Frog glanced at the man. ‘He must’ve been really mad. I’ve never seen Sam lose his temper like that.’
Brett winced a smile. Somehow that victory didn’t sound as comforting as he thought it might.
‘You hungry?’
‘Definitely.’ The only things Brett had eaten all night were the Violet Crumble and the gum he’d nicked.
‘I can try and get you some fruit. For later, I mean. Matthew Hill’s got an orange and banana on his tray. He’ll give it to me for nothing.’
‘Robbie!’ a deep voice boomed from the mess hall.
Frog shrank. It was Sam.
‘Give Brett your tray then go to your dorm, please. There’s still half an hour before lights out. You could use the time to finish your maths homework.’
Frog nodded glumly then left, dragging his feet behind him. Sam and Brett watched the kid leave then looked at each other. Brett snarled. Sam turned away.
When Sam finally let him go — not without another lecture — Brett still had ten minutes before lights out. He grabbed his smokes and headed for the toilets. He couldn’t care less any more if Sam caught him. He was leaving.
He locked the cubicle door behind him and took a seat. He lipped the cigarette then checked out how many he had left. Only fifteen. He’d have to save them until he could buy some more.
Lighting up, he went over his plan one more time. He’d wait until everyone was asleep then grab some food from the kitchen and break out of here. Simple really.
There was one problem, though. Where was he heading?
At first, he assumed Sydney. But the more he thought about it, the more hesitant he became. The first place the cops would look for him would be home. Holing up with his mates was out of the question too, because, being the great friends that they were, they’d dob him in the minute he fell asleep. Normally, he’d stay with Rebecca but she was no help to him. She was shacked up with some cowboy a million miles away. So he’d have to give Sydney a miss and lie low in the country until all the trouble went away.
That was a problem too. He didn’t know the local area too well. Sure, he’d passed through plenty of small country towns on his way to Mungindi in the back of the paddy wagon, but he was barely conscious enough in the heat to see them, let alone remember their names. One town name he did know, however, was Moree. Josh had mentioned it earlier. It was less than two hours’ drive from Mungindi. Maybe three or four days by foot. If he could make it that far he’d be set. He could hitchhike a ride south, north, east or west — wherever he wanted to go.
That’s if he didn’t get caught.
He suspected that once he left the Farm, there’d be a manhunt. The cops would regard him as an escaped felon. His face would be shown on the six o’clock news nationwide, making people choke on their steak and vegie dinners. Running away would make him a wanted fugitive. Yeah! He liked the sound of that.
The toilet door swung open and, startled, Brett nearly choked on his cigarette. The stub hit the floor in a burst of orange cinders, bounced away then stopped. Frantically, he scooped it up and flicked it into the dunny bowl. He just knew Sam would be checking up on him.
‘— should win this year,’ the first voice answered. ‘They’re due.’
‘Sure, sure,’ the second voice said. ‘We’ll see at the end of the season.’
With a thin sigh, Brett relaxed. For the first time ever he was glad to hear the voice of Josh. Still not wanting to give himself away though, he stayed hidden. He sat back down and leaned towards the bathroom’s entrance. He wanted to hear what Josh and his friend were talking about. And whether it involved him.
Their shoes squeaked against the white tiles as they walked towards the urinal. The friend dropped his guts and Josh punched him one for finding it funny.
‘What’s that smell?’ Josh sniffed.
‘This morning’s baked beans.’
‘No, not that. It smells like cigarette smoke.’
‘Darren was in here earlier. It was probably him.’
‘Or that new kid,’ Josh spat.
‘Who, Dalton?’
‘Yer, him. The one they brought in at lunchtime. The troublemaker.’
‘I don’t like him. Especially after what happened between you two today.’
‘Nobody does. Rick thinks Dalton’s been through his stuff. He got back from Moree
and found ten bucks missing.’
‘And Dalton and you were the only ones here.’
‘Right. And I caught him in my room. He said he was looking for a tissue.’
‘As if,’ the friend said.
The urinal flushed and Josh and the friend moved over to the sink to wash their hands. Brett stayed put, tucking his legs up through his arms so as he wouldn’t be seen. That was interesting. So nobody liked him. It was a fact. Even more reason to leave.
‘He’s not going to be here much longer anyway,’ Josh added. ‘He’s got an attitude problem and Sam hates anyone with attitude.’
‘Did you hear him tonight? Him and Sam yelling at each other?’
‘Yeah,’ Josh said. ‘Sam was really riled. I’ve been here three years and only seen him that mad once before.’
Sam this. Sam that. They were treating the guy like a king. Then again, Brett would too if he was Sam’s pet. And by the sounds of it, Josh had been his pet for some time. “I’ve been here three years and only seen him that mad once before.” Why had this guy been here so long? The normal stay was three months. If he had served his time and was here “on his own free will” as he said earlier in the day, why was he still sticking round?
‘Lights out!’ echoed down the corridor and was answered by a tap being turned on. The friend flicked water into Josh’s face and, after a quick rumble, said to his mate, ‘C’mon. We better get out of here.’
‘In a minute,’ Josh replied. ‘I think I’ve got a zit.’
‘Don’t pop it. What would you do for a brain?’
The friend laughed and slammed the door behind him, fast enough to avoid being hit by a bar of soap. The bathroom settled into silence again except for the final groaning of pipes and the swishing of the urinal. Josh was still squeezing the blackhead on his chin when he looked up and saw Brett’s reflection in the mirror.
Slowly, very slowly, the stablehand stretched to his full height. His eyes rabbited towards the door long before his legs. Brett reached it first and blocked it with his arm.
‘Careful with your face,’ he said. ‘It might end up bloody.’
Josh backed into the metal sink behind him. He wanted to run, but there was only one exit. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t want any trouble —’
‘Too late, because you’ve got it.’
‘Lights out!’ came the second call.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Josh said, opening the door.
‘No you don’t,’ Brett said, slamming it back shut. ‘We ain’t finished yet.’
He shoved Josh against the sink. Josh bounced on the metal then slowly stood up, fighting the pain. His eyes said he wasn’t going to give in — and that Brett would regret what he’d just done.
‘I’ve got an attitude problem, do I?’
‘It was a joke, okay?’ Josh said, rubbing his arm.
‘It didn’t sound like one.’
‘Then you should listen more carefully.’
The first smart remark. Excellent. There was a good chance of a fight. Just Josh and him. No spectators.
‘Think you’re a big shot, don’t you?’
‘It’s better than being all talk,’ Josh spat back.
‘All talk am I? I don’t think so.’
‘Then prove it.’
They were exactly the words Brett wanted to hear.
He threw the first punch and hit Josh on the chin, following it with a second but the stablehand ducked and retaliated with a jab to Brett’s gut hard and fast. Brett staggered back then lashed out with another two quick punches of his own. They connected and Josh banged into the wall.
Brett threw another but this time Josh defended himself. He dodged the first then the second punch and hit back with a double whammy. The air from Brett’s lungs burst like a balloon as one fist crunched into his centre and the other into his jaw. Shocked, he smacked head-first into the door of a cubicle. Pain filled his mouth where he’d bitten his tongue and he didn’t have the energy left to stand.
‘C’mon, tough guy!’ Josh yelled into Brett’s face. ‘You wanted to fight! Now fight!’
Dazed, Brett forgot the pain and lunged clumsily at Josh. He had to win! He tackled Josh and they tumbled onto the tiles. He laid into him with a left then a right then a left again. But Josh was stronger. He pushed Brett off him and machine gunned him with what seemed like a hundred punches. The next thing Brett remembered was the door slamming open and someone yelling, ‘What’s going on in here?!’ Then what seemed like a million hands were punching, grabbing and pushing him at the same time. He realised he was standing again and that someone was holding onto him. He tried to break free but his arms were pinned against his chest. At first he thought it was the friend coming to Josh’s rescue until he felt two breasts jabbing into his back. Mary!
‘Stop it!’
And Sam!
‘Josh! I said stop it!’
Brett’s vision cleared enough to see what was happening. Josh kicked and strained to make Sam let go of him but the man was holding him fast. The stablehand was cursing and saying let go. He wanted another shot at Brett. Sam said no.
‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, singling Brett out.
‘Don’t look at me!’
‘Josh?’
Josh snarled at Brett. ‘Nothing.’
‘Somehow I don’t believe you. Now tell me what’s going on.’
Josh squirmed in Sam’s grip as Brett smiled a dopey, half-beaten grin. The kid still wanted to fight him. Maybe one day soon.
‘Josh! Stop it!’ Sam shook the rest of the resistance out of him then let him go. Josh pulled his shirt down and glared at Brett before Sam pointed at him and said, ‘You! Go to your room! I’ll talk to you in a minute!’
‘Next time, huh?’ Brett smiled as Josh left.
‘And you!’ Sam growled, turning on him. ‘Get that grin off your face! I know you started this —’
‘Me? I didn’t do anything.’
‘Don’t lie to me. You picked a fight with Josh and he got the better of you. That’s obvious. What isn’t is why this fight started in the first place.’
But Brett wasn’t going to tell them anything. He just stood there, a cocky grin on his face.
‘Brett, why did you start the fight?’
‘Tell him,’ Mary urged, when he still didn’t answer.
‘You either tell me,’ Sam threatened, ‘or I’ll call the authorities. And you know what that means, don’t you? You’ll spend the rest of your three months in a real juvenile detention centre. Got it?’
Grinning, Brett spat, ‘See if I care.’
Safe, Brett slid out the door, closed the flyscreen behind him and took a minute to pull on his boots. His fingers knotted themselves in the dark, but he steadied his nerves and soon he was standing again. He slung his bag over his shoulder, scouted the property then pressed the light on his watch. 12.03.
It was time.
Moving off the gravel and onto the grass, he dashed from The Boys’ House past the homestead. Stolen tins of canned food clunked together in his backpack and he was sure with all the noise that he was a goner. He crouched down where he stopped. He looked at the homestead but no one stirred. The lights were off and everyone was asleep. He was okay.
Half-rising, he continued towards the dirt track, but slower this time. He stopped at the entrance. Like a few hours ago there was still no gate, no barbed wire, no alarms and no beams to zap him dead if he did pass through. Just empty space. He could easily walk through it like an open doorway. Brett waved his hand through the middle one last time to make sure there was nothing there. But he only sliced air. Shaking his head, he confidently strolled through it. His foot landed on the other side and for a second — and only a second — Brett felt real fear. But the feeling quickly disappeared. He broke into a jog and got out of there.
He’d nearly given up his plans. He’d decided once everyone was asleep he’d then just slip out. But Frog had been an unexpected pest. It seemed the kid needed a
n hour or two just to settle down before falling asleep. Just after ten o’clock Robbie hopped into bed then right out again to make sure the door was closed. It was. When he got back he rummaged round looking for his cricket bat, only to remember he’d stashed it in a friend’s room. At eleven o’clock, he trundled down the corridor to see who was still awake. (Nobody, except one kid who Frog woke up and wasn’t too happy about having a twelve-year-old croak in his ear all night.) Then, once back in bed, Frog bugged Brett with twenty questions about where he came from and what he liked before Brett told him to shut up and go to sleep.
There had been another problem too. Just as he’d reached for the door handle, he’d heard whispering in the hall. One guy had said, ‘Make sure he doesn’t leave or we’ll all cop it’. Brett didn’t understand what that meant and didn’t hang round to ask questions. He jumped out his window then re-entered through the common room to raid the kitchen.
Past the entrance, Brett kept to the dirt track that connected with the main road. He would’ve cut across the paddocks but it was too dark to go exploring blindly and he didn’t know the land at all.
The trek was brisk. The mild night made the journey easier. It was another reason why he was leaving now. The forty degree heat would’ve melted his will come seven o’clock the next morning.
The dirt track spilled onto the back road and Brett headed east towards Mungindi. The town was a good twenty kilometres away. From there, he planned on hitching a ride along the way if one approached. The area was well-serviced by cattle, sheep, wheat and cotton farmers and there had to be a truck or car heading south towards the bigger towns and their slaughterhouses.