Raw

by Scott Monk

  ‘Yer, okay.’

  Brett reached behind him and placed it on the floor. He didn’t want to put it on the backseat. The whole car looked like it had just rolled off the production line.

  ‘I like your car,’ he said. ‘What is it? A ’68?’

  ‘’67,’ James corrected. ‘And yep, she is great. They don’t make cars like Mustangs any more.’

  ‘Where’d you get it?’

  ‘I bought it. I’ve loved classic cars since I was a kid and always promised myself to buy one when I got my first job. Well, I got my first job.’

  ‘You must take good care of it. It looks brand new.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. I do. I was a bit worried about taking her north with me though. The stones and bugs and all that. I thought I might damage her. I’ll be glad when I get her back in the garage.’

  ‘It’s a “she” is it?’

  ‘Yep. And I treat her just like a girlfriend. She’s sexy, looks good in blue and knows all the right moves. What’s more she doesn’t complain when I come home late.’

  James laughed and Brett smiled.

  ‘You got a girl?’ James asked.

  Brett looked out at the dark countryside. ‘Used to. She left me for some country hick a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Well, we weren’t exactly going out anymore. It was kind of an on-again, off-again relationship. We kept going out then breaking up. We really only got together when we had no one else to turn to.’

  James waved his free hand. ‘Forget about her. You’ll meet another one — or three.’

  Brett grinned. ‘This week, I hope.’

  A green road sign slipped past. MOREE 95 km.

  ‘Oh-oh,’ James said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  He tapped the dashboard several times with his finger. ‘It’s the engine light. It’s blinking.’

  ‘Is that good or bad?’

  ‘Bad. I’ll have to pull over.’

  James slowed the Mustang down before stopping in an empty truck rest bay. There wasn’t a property in sight.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said, opening his door. Brett watched him as he walked to the front of the car, his face lit up by the headlights. He lifted the bonnet and Brett heard him say, ‘Oh man. I knew this would happen.’

  ‘You need a hand?’

  ‘No, I’m okay. The engine just needs a couple of minutes to cool down, that’s all.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

  James tinkered with the engine for a while, jerking his hand back and wincing in pain as he burnt himself again and again. Finally, Brett couldn’t watch the guy cook himself any more and got out. He walked round to the front just as James closed the bonnet.

  ‘Is everything okay now?’

  James hissed, tucking his burnt hand under his armpit. ‘She should be cooled down enough by now. Hop back in. We better go find a petrol station.’

  The Mustang rocked as they jumped back in. James turned the keys but the engine just rrr-rrr-rrred and died.

  ‘What now?’ James said, slumping back into his seat.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It must be the water valve. I didn’t see it anywhere. It must’ve fallen down inside the engine.’

  ‘I can find it. Do you have a torch somewhere?’

  ‘Er, yeah. I think so. It’s in the boot. I’ll open it and the bonnet if you like.’

  ‘If it gets us going again — yer.’

  Brett opened the door and stepped out again. He walked round the back and called out to James to pop the boot. But James didn’t hear him. He was too busy starting the engine. And it sounded fine.

  ‘Hey! What are you doing?’ Brett shouted as the car started driving away. He grabbed the side of the Mustang until the pull became too great and he had to let go.

  ‘Hey! Come back here! What about me?!’

  The Mustang blazed away at a hundred k’s an hour. Brett ran after it screaming. But it was no use. Conned, he watched his bag and wallet disappear into the night.

  Brett slept badly, if “slept” was the right word. He’d crashed behind some trees hidden from the main road. (He didn’t want the cops or some pervert cruising by while he was catching some z’s.) The ground had been hard and lumpy. Rocks and twigs and roots kept poking into his back. And he could have sworn that something had been watching him for most of the night. It was about four o’clock when he did get to sleep and then only out of exhaustion. Two hours later the sun was up and so was he.

  So he felt more miserable than ever. He was cranky, tired and hungry — a pain he wished would go away!

  After a long drink from a creek, he flicked his hands dry and stood up. He walked back to his “bed” and grabbed his bag. He’d found it and his clothes scattered by the roadside three kilometres from where James had robbed him. The wallet was empty. That was predictable. But stealing his cans of food was really low.

  “You can put your bag in the back if you like.”

  He’d been an idiot!

  “It must be the water valve. I didn’t see it anywhere. It must’ve fallen down inside the engine.”

  “I can find it. Do you have a torch somewhere?”

  How could he have fallen for such a simple trap?

  Brett closed his eyes and hung his head. He still couldn’t believe what had happened. Just thinking about it made him sore. It made him feel stupid, angry and …

  And?

  Scared.

  There! He’d admitted it! He was scared of what would happen to him now that he had no money, and scared that something worse could have happened last night. James could have had a gun or a knife or —

  Stop!

  He was spooking himself. The thought had bugged him a lot since the robbery. But he couldn’t shake it. It wasn’t something that happened every day. It hadn’t happened to him ever! And he wished it hadn’t now.

  He felt —

  (the same way the people he robbed did?)

  No, not that.

  (Liar.)

  No!

  (Yes!)

  ‘NO!’

  A herd of cows to Brett’s left bolted as he yelled out. He suddenly became conscious of where he was again and pushed his way through the trees towards the main road. Within seconds he was walking along the dusty bitumen, a large sunbaking lizard the only traffic.

  A peeling billboard loomed above him. It advertised bed and breakfast in Moree 89 k’s away. It had a picture of a well-groomed family sitting down at a table loaded with plates of hot food and bowls of salad. Sharp hunger pains flexed their claws in his stomach again. He desperately needed to eat — and now. The only chance of that round here was to beg or earn some money.

  To his right, sat a white weatherboard house with a truck and a set of kids’ swings out front. A fresh load of washing drip-dried off a Hills Hoist out the back, indicating someone had hung it out recently. Brett walked faster. This was a family. They’d have pity on him.

  ‘Sorry,’ the lady said from behind the screen door.

  ‘I’m a hard worker. Really.’

  ‘I’m sure you are but the drought’s left us with no money. We can’t pay the bank and the only food we eat we grow ourselves. I’m sorry but we can’t help you.’

  ‘Then do you know anyone here who is looking for help?’

  ‘Mummy, who’s this man?’

  ‘Sssh, Philip. Mummy’s talking.’ Her snot-face son kept pestering her until she sent him bawling to his room. ‘Um, you could try the Nicholas property. It’s the biggest one round here. The owners occasionally hire extra staff.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Four kilometres south. On the other side of the road.’

  The property was easy to find. A steel milk drum painted red and used as a mailbox was marked NICHOLAS.

  ‘Dad!’ a girl in her twenties shouted after answering the doorbell. ‘There’s someone here to see you.’

  A tall man wit
h a sunburnt neck and face filled the doorway and stared down at Brett. ‘Morning,’ the man said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Er, well, I was wondering if you have any spare work at the moment. I was passing through the area and some people down the road said you might need someone to help you round the property. I’m a hard worker and I’m good with my hands. I’ve got a bit of experience working on a farm so I thought you might —’

  ‘Whoa, son. Stop. Take a breath,’ Mr Nicholas said. ‘Let me save you a whole lot of bellyaching. I do need some help —’

  All right!

  ‘— but —’

  Please, no buts.

  ‘— not until late March. There will be a few jobs on offer then.’

  Mr Nicholas waited for a response and Brett mumbled that he’d think about it. He needed money for food now, not in two months.

  ‘Well you think about it and tell me soon if you want the job,’ the man called out as Brett walked back towards the main road. ‘If you don’t I can always get some of those Mungindi boys from Sam Fraser’s farm to help us out again.’

  Brett flinched at the name and weakly waved back. It was his best offer yet but just as useless as the last one.

  He tried the next property he came across.

  ‘What do you want?’ a squat middle-aged man demanded from behind a closed window.

  ‘Do you have any work available?’ Brett shouted.

  ‘No! Now go away!’

  The bearded man snapped the curtain back.

  ‘Can I have some food then?’

  There was no answer for a full minute. Lifting his hand, Brett was about to knock on the door again when it opened.

  ‘I said go away!’ the man shouted, pointing a rifle.

  Brett didn’t need further encouragement. He ran straight for the main road, not looking back.

  Panting hotly, he hid behind a big gum miles from this last house. He took deep breaths to slow his pulse. Only when he realised he was safe again did he allow himself to relax. He slumped to the ground tired, afraid, rejected, miserable — and still hungry.

  He’d failed. Sam was right. He wouldn’t make it.

  Sam. Always Sam. Why couldn’t he get the guy out of his head? He’d fallen asleep last night with the old goat’s wisdom bleating at him. He just wished he would shut up! He hadn’t given Brett anything but hassles. He didn’t owe him a thing. He could survive by himself.

  “Just remember, Brett: only you can change your life.”

  He scooped up a handful of rocks and pegged them at a road sign.

  ‘Get out of my head!’ he yelled.

  Missing the sign by metres, Brett ran over and kicked it instead. Exhausted, he collapsed back onto the ground in a heap and buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t …

  Oh man. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

  ‘Hey kid,’ a deep voice said, waking Brett from his daze. ‘Here’s your stop.’

  Brett wiped his eyes and looked out the windscreen of the semi-trailer. A red sun bloodied a fenced property cut in the middle with a dirt track. He shaded his face and recognised the entrance. It was the right place. There was the homestead in the far distance.

  The semi-trailer’s cabin shook as the driver waited for Brett to get out. Drowsily, he pushed the door open and dropped down onto the ground. ‘Thanks,’ he said with a quick wave. The driver nodded, closed the door then crunched a dozen or so gears. The semi-trailer grunted down the road until it disappeared.

  Brett checked his watch. It was later than he thought. How long had he been out of it? He hadn’t even heard the truck stop.

  But that wasn’t important. What lay ahead of him was. At the end of the dirt track was The Farm. It promised to be the longest walk of his life. He was reluctant. Nervous. And uncertain. He felt like a lost son coming home. He didn’t even know if he’d be welcomed back. Or if he could make the distance.

  While The Farm was only ten minutes away, it took a lot longer to be forgiven.

  The cattle dogs Blue and Grey chased the worn tennis ball across the courtyard. They both snapped as it bounced past the garage and into the long grass. Blue reached it first, then triumphantly padded back to Josh at the homestead, her head and tail high in the air. The stablehand tried to reclaim the ball from her but she wouldn’t give it back. He made a few lunges for it without success before chasing after her laughing, Grey on his heels. He was about to yell out to Sam to help him when he casually glanced right and stopped. His smile disappeared and his body tensed. He never expected to see Brett again, obviously.

  Sam didn’t react, however, which was bad. Brett couldn’t gauge his mood. The old man leant over the railing of the verandah; his eyes shaded from the seven o’clock sun. Brett sauntered towards him, not knowing what to say or whether Sam would even listen. All it would take was one argument and that would give him an excuse to run away forever.

  Blue and Grey padded up to him, their tails wagging and their tongues dropping down from toothy smiles. Brett scratched their necks and slapped their shoulders. At least these two were happy to see him.

  ‘Evening,’ Sam said dryly.

  ‘Evening.’ Brett dropped his gaze.

  ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’

  That was Brett’s cue. With a thin, unsure sigh, he tried remembering the speech he’d practised walking here. But he couldn’t recall a single word. ‘Sam, look I, er —’

  ‘It’s seven o’clock. You know what time that is, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  Sam breathed out. ‘Dinner time. Any later and you would’ve missed out. Next time you will.’

  The old man emphasised the last part, which left Brett wondering. Once again, he’d expected a lecture or, at worst, Sam calling the cops. But what was this about food?

  Then he understood.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ the old man growled. ‘Go on: eat! You’re due for washing up duty in twenty minutes, remember?’

  Brett grinned sheepishly and nodded. He didn’t have to be told twice.

  Relieved, he hurried towards The Boys’ House before he paused and turned round. ‘Oh, and Sam,’ he said, ‘thanks.’

  ‘Get up.’

  ‘Go away,’ Brett mumbled. ‘I’m asleep.’

  ‘Get up!’

  ‘No. It’s still morning.’

  The voice didn’t answer and Brett thought he’d won. He rolled over and hid his face under his arm from the morning light. Now, where was he? Oh yes. The girl with caramel brown hair …

  SPLASH!

  Cold water hit his face, burning his cheeks and nostrils. He sat up spluttering and gaping like a floundering fish. He heard guys laughing at him and he glared at the doorway, expecting to see Josh. Instead, he saw —

  ‘Mary!’

  — standing beside him, holding an empty pot.

  ‘I said get up.’

  Brett wiped the rest of the water from his forehead and snarled as he looked at his watch. Six o’clock! The only time he was usually up at this hour was when he was staggering home after a big night out drinking.

  Mary cleared the guys from the doorway and left. Brett looked round the room for Frog. He was gone.

  After drying himself, Brett padded down the hallway, yawning and scratching his head. Ten hours of sleep hadn’t been enough. After dinner the night before he’d just managed to pull his boots off before crashing.

  The smell of bacon, poached eggs and buttered toast led the way and he heard the guys’ voices growing louder as he approached the mess hall.

  ‘A what?’ he said, when he got there.

  ‘A three kilometre run,’ Frog said, tying his shoelaces in a double knot. ‘Everybody has to do it.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Brett answered. ‘They can ground me if they want because there’s no way I’m doing any stupid run.’

  ‘You won’t get breakfast then.’

  Frog finished with his shoes then pus
hed through the crowd to reach his friends. Left alone, Brett shrugged and promised to steal some food later. He was starving again, but no one — and he meant no one — was going to make him run round a paddock on a stinking hot morning. His mind made up, Brett tried to slip back to his room —

  — and walked straight into Sam!

  ‘Going somewhere?’

  ‘I’m going to the, er, bathroom.’

  ‘Well, hurry up. Mr Andrews is taking the guys on their morning run in a minute. And you are going with them.’

  And to make sure he went, he gave Brett two minutes to meet back with the main group. He even stood outside the bathroom, staring at his watch.

  First thing though was the morning rollcall. All forty inmates lined up outside The House, slouching, coughing and mumbling, ‘Yer,’ when Sam read out their name. Brett guessed that the whole exercise was to make sure no one had done a runner overnight. And he was right.

  ‘Let me remind you,’ Sam said, ‘that if anyone decides to leave The Farm without supervision, everyone is punished. This happened the other night and because no one reported it, all activities are suspended for a week —’

  The guys moaned and cursed.

  ‘That includes no TV or videos. And the planned trip to the pool on Friday has been cancelled.’

  They reacted even more angrily to that.

  ‘It’s the new guy’s fault!’ someone yelled out.

  ‘Wayne’s too for letting him get away!’

  ‘Is not!’ a kid with a black eye said.

  ‘Why don’t you just punish the new guy?’

  ‘Because you all have to look out for each other,’ Sam answered. ‘That’s the whole point here. If one guy steps out of line, the rest of you have to cop the blame too. Everybody has to work together.’ The guys complained again but Sam warned them it would be two weeks if they didn’t be quiet. ‘Now hurry up. Mr Andrews is waiting.’

  Brett tagged along behind the rest of the inmates, but not before someone breathed into his ear, ‘Good going, Pretty Boy.’

  Mr Andrews was the PE-cum-maths teacher. Apparently each morning he led the forty inmates of The Farm on a three kilometre run to help give the guys a “healthy body for a healthy mind”. A healthy body for a healthy mind? Was he for real? The bloke had been watching too many cereal commercials.