by Scott Monk
Whatever. Ten minutes into the run, Brett was exhausted. He was coughing, his legs hurt and the back of his boots were shaving skin off his heels. He’d take an unhealthy body and mind any day instead of this torture.
‘Dalton! What’s the problem this time?’ Mr Andrews said.
‘I can’t run any further.’
‘Why?’
‘I think I’ve sprained my ankle.’
Mr Andrews stopped jogging on the spot and squatted down beside him. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ he said, feeling the ankle. ‘Do you own any running shoes?’
‘Nope.’
Brett hissed when Mr Andrews placed pressure on it. ‘How bad is it?’ Mr Andrews asked. ‘Can you walk?’
‘Probably,’ Brett said. He stood up with help but winced the minute he put any weight on his foot.
‘Okay, go back to the homestead and see Mary. She’s got a first aid kit. Ask her to have a better look at it, and to find you some running shoes.’
‘Thanks,’ Brett said, screwing his face up again.
He started hobbling back towards the homestead with his “sprained” ankle when Mr Andrews called out, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Brett. You’ll have to run five kilometres to make up for the two you skipped today.’
Brett groaned and looked at the sky. He just couldn’t win.
Alone, he grabbed the chance to shower. He’d seen enough prison movies to know places like this one had its share of bum bandits. It had been humiliating enough back in Sydney having to drop his daks at the strip search and have some female cop drill her fingers up his backside. So he showered quickly and got dressed double-time into a T-shirt and a blue pair of shorts he’d cut from his jeans.
The guys were back by the time he’d finished. A couple of them made sure he knew by thumping into him as he walked past. By the third time, he knew it was deliberate. He spun round, fists clenched, trying to find the perp. But all he saw was the back of people’s heads. Soon, he realised how futile it was and returned to his room to drop off his dirty clothes.
The second he walked in, he knew something was wrong. His mattress was on the floor. His drawers were open. And his backpack had been emptied. He rushed over to check out the carnage.
His clothes were okay — not shredded as he feared. His boots were still there, as was the rest of his gear. What had they taken? Then it hit him. The parcel his mother had given him and the photo. Gone.
Brett thumped his drawers then marched down the corridor, his fists balled up. He reckoned he knew who’d taken them. Who else but Tyson and his two thugs?
‘Hello, Pretty Boy. Come to say hello, have we?’
Brett lashed out and pushed the big inmate backwards. ‘Where is it? What have you done with it?’
‘What have I done with what?’ Tyson answered, returning the gesture. Brett sprawled backwards and fell over a guitar case. He hit the floorboards hard. Tyson walked over to him and pulled him up by the shirt. ‘Huh, little man?’
‘Hey, Tyson, look what I scored,’ a guy said from the doorway. It was the redhead.
‘You and me both,’ the big inmate replied, pushing Brett over to the thug.
‘Ah, the kid who got us all into trouble. How’s it going, pal?’ The redhead squeezed Brett in a bearhug until he finally screamed.
‘Not so tough now, are we?’ Tyson asked.
‘My parcel,’ Brett said, his face red and neck pumping with anger. ‘I want it back.’
‘What parcel? I don’t know about any parcel.’ Tyson walked over to his bed and lifted up his pillow. ‘Unless you mean this parcel.’
‘Give it back! It’s mine!’
‘Nice photo. Mum. Dad. Two sisters. All as ugly as dogs but I see that’s all in the genes, ain’t it.’
Brett squirmed in the redhead’s grip. ‘Just give it back, would you.’
‘You want this, don’t you? Well, let me tell you something. In here, you own nothing. The only person in this place who does own anything is me.’
‘And what do you own?’
‘You.’
‘Hey, Tyson!’ another voice interrupted from the doorway. It was the other thug. ‘Grandpa’s going ballistic wondering why you ain’t serving breakfast.’
Tyson breathed deeply and looked from one thug to the other. ‘Let Pretty Boy off. He’s not going anywhere. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up later.’
The redhead released his grip and Brett stood there, breathing deeply, figuring out who he should thump first. But he was outnumbered. And even though he hated backing away from a fight, this one he knew he couldn’t win. Yet.
He reached for the parcel but Tyson stopped him. ‘Like I said, it’s not yours.’
Brett glared but it was no good. He was beaten. Reluctantly, he retreated.
‘Oh, and say thanks to mummy when you see her next,’ Tyson called out. ‘The boxer shorts are a bit tight but at least they’re comfortable.’
The three laughed as Brett shot out of there.
There was already a line-up when Brett walked into the mess hall. Twenty-five guys snaked from the kitchen serving window along one wall, holding plastic trays and talking among themselves. Over in one corner sat the staff, including Sam, Mary, Mr Andrews and a couple of other teachers whose names Brett didn’t know yet.
He felt the whole room’s eyes on him the second he made his appearance. Guys looked over their shoulder while others already served and seated whispered across tables — about him no doubt. Brett slid his hands into his pockets, clenched his jaw then dragged his feet to the end of the line. The kid in front of him turned round and scowled but Brett ignored him.
Ten minutes later, he reached the head of the line but not before one more drama. A couple of latecomers behind him had been hassling him. They’d been mucking round by pushing each other to see who was the strongest, and without fail, had accidentally bumped into Brett every time. He was already fired up after his confrontation with Tyson.
And it didn’t take much to rile him. One push by Brett and the skinny kid closest to him rammed into his mate. They crashed onto the ground and everybody looked up from their breakfast.
‘What did you do that for?’ the skinny kid asked, quickly standing again. When Brett didn’t answer, the skinny kid twisted him round to get one.
Brett reacted angrily to the kid’s touch and swung his arm to get the hand off him. For the kid, that was enough to start a fight.
‘Hey! What’s going on over there?’ Mary shouted before the first punch was thrown.
‘Brett? Wayne?’ Sam demanded.
The two teenagers eyeballed each other, waiting for the other to make a move. ‘Just a misunderstanding,’ the kid called Wayne said finally.
‘It looks more than just that. Both of you — go to the end of the line.’
‘Sam,’ Wayne groaned.
‘Go. And if either of you wants to argue about it, you can both go without breakfast. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Brett?’
‘Yer.’
Satisfied, Sam watched as the pair slunk to the end of the line like they were told.
‘How’s it feel to be marked, Dalton?’ the kid sniggered as they did so.
Brett turned round and slid his plastic tray to the serving window. He was expecting bacon, scrambled eggs and freshly buttered toast when he reached it — not Tyson’s smug face smiling back at him.
‘Ah, Pretty Boy, I s’pose you want some food now, huh?’ he said.
The big inmate splattered some scrambled eggs on a plate then fished out from a warming container a piece of bacon which was mostly fat. ‘Eat every last bit of it, won’t you? Especially the bacon,’ Tyson said. ‘Because like you, it’s dead meat.’
Brett snatched away his tray then left. Once again, he felt as if everyone was watching him as he tried to find a seat. He headed towards one on the far side of the room and sat down. The kids on both sides of him stood up and left, taking their half-eaten meals with t
hem. Brett shrugged. So he was marked. Big thrill. He had to stay cool. Worrying about it would only make him look weak. And that was the worst thing in places like this.
He forked some scrambled egg into his mouth as he tuned into the conversations around him. If no one wanted to talk to him, they couldn’t stop him from listening.
‘C’mon, what do you say?’ one kid pushed. ‘Once we’re out of here, it’s easy money. Five grand each. Guaranteed.’
‘I don’t know,’ the second answered. ‘I was thinking of going straight.’
‘Straight? Man, you don’t want to go straight. That’s for losers. Don’t let grandpa brainwash you. Look at him. What do you want to be? Over the hill and poor like him? Or young and rich?’
The second kid laughed weakly.
‘That’s my boy,’ the first kid said, slapping his mate on the shoulder. ‘Just don’t tell anyone though. We don’t want to split the loot three ways now, do we?’
Brett shook his head. See. These places didn’t work.
He finished off his breakfast when Tyson lumbered up behind him. Brett sighed and just hoped the guy would get out of his face. But the big inmate bent down and breathed into his ear, ‘Like the eggs? I made that batch especially for you. Notice how they were extra yellow? Huh? Like a urinal?’
Brett spat out the last mouthful of his breakfast! Choking, he stood up to try and gorge himself of the rest! Tyson laughed, watching as Brett stuck his fingers down his throat. That was until Brett lashed out with the first punch and the whole mess hall turned into a shouting ring.
‘Get him!’
‘Knock the dog out!’
‘Teach him not to run away again!’
Brett ducked as Tyson swung big meaty punches. It left the Islander’s chest exposed and he crunched into it twice. It didn’t have any effect though. Tyson aimed lower and caught Brett both times in the gut. The hits left him stunned. Tyson was still laying into him when Sam and Mr Andrews broke it up.
Brett stopped sawing for a minute to lift up his shirt. His gut was red, swollen and likely to bruise. It felt like he had a venomous snake twisting inside. Tyson had hit him good and embarrassed him in front of everyone. He was grateful, however, that the big inmate had a bad aim because any higher and he would’ve broken bones.
‘Dalton! Get back to work!’
Brett twisted his head and snarled at Mr Andrews. ‘Try sawing a tree trunk in half when someone’s smashed in your stomach, Sweathead.’
Grabbing the handle again, Brett continued sawing the felled trunk, which was being cut up to be sold as firewood. He’d been doing it for two hours now. By making him saw the tree, Sam hoped he would channel the rest of his aggro into his work. Fat chance. Not while Tyson was twenty metres away doing the same thing.
The big inmate — stripped down to his shorts and enjoying the work — laughed at Brett when Mr Andrews turned away. ‘Get back to work, Pretty Boy,’ he mocked, blowing him a kiss. That riled Brett even more and he attacked the tree furiously.
An hour later, Mr Andrews said they’d learnt their lesson and were dismissed. But on one condition — that they stay away from each other. That was fine by Brett. Well, at least for now. He found a tap nearby, drank from it and washed his hands and face. After seeing that he had another thirty minutes before lunch, he hid behind a large, shady gum then pulled out his cigarette pack. He looked at the last one the truck driver had given him then slowly pulled it out.
‘You’ve finished sawing, huh?’
Brett jumped, dropping his fag. He’d been caught off guard! Tyson could easily finish him off.
‘Hey! Relax! It’s just me!’
Brett lowered his defences and picked up his smoke as Frog sat down beside him. ‘Don’t ever sneak up on me, kid. I usually don’t wait to see who it is.’
‘Everyone’s talking about the fight,’ the twelve-year-old said.
‘Oh yer? What are they saying?’
‘That Tyson should’ve finished you off.’
Brett breathed smoke through his nostrils. ‘Now why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘It’s only because everyone’s afraid of him, you know.’
‘Doesn’t anyone stand up to him?’
‘No way. He runs this place. Everyone does what he and his friends say. Except maybe Josh.’
‘Why Josh? Is he “in” with Tyson and his crew?’
‘No, they hate each other. Tyson doesn’t like Josh because he thinks Josh tries to live like a white man. And Josh says Tyson is the kind of person that gives black people a bad name.’
‘So why isn’t Josh scared of Tyson?’
‘Nobody knows. Maybe because everyone likes Josh, and Tyson knows fighting him would put everyone off-side.’
Yer, everyone liked him except Brett.
‘Tell me something. Josh has served his time, right?’
‘Yep.’
‘He works for Sam now as a stablehand?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘So what was he originally in for?’
Frog screwed up his face. ‘I don’t know. No one really knows. He doesn’t talk about it. We only know he’s been here for a long time.’
‘Why doesn’t he leave then?’
‘It’s got something to do with his family. They don’t want him or they’re dead.’
Brett leaned back and thought about that for a minute.
‘How about Tyson? What’s he in for?’
‘Everything,’ Frog shrugged. ‘Assault. Drugs. Larceny. Shoplifting like me, except he’s not an addict. Fraud. Car theft mainly. One guy reckons Tyson robbed a couple of banks too.’
‘What else do you know about him?’
‘He’s been through nearly every detention centre in the state, including the high security stuff. The courts sent him here because they thought Sam might be able to get through to him.’ Frog snorted. ‘I don’t think it’s working.’
He snapped a blade of grass next to him while Brett finished his smoke. After twirling the blade a bit, Frog leaned forward, looked left then right, before asking Brett a favour.
‘Can you — you know — teach me to fight?’
‘Why?’
Frog hung his head and tore the blade of grass in half. ‘No reason,’ he said.
‘A couple of the older guys have been giving you trouble, huh?’
‘Not a couple — most of them. I’m not like them. I’ve got an addiction to get over. I’m not in here for hard-core stuff like car theft or drugs. Because of that, they seem to pick on me the most.’
‘Don’t worry, kid. I think I’ve just taken that title away from you.’
Frog winced a smile. ‘It’s not just that. It’s hard living here. There are things …’ He shook his head and gave up.
‘What kind of things?’
‘Just things that frighten me. Things that make me wish I was home, you know. It’s not perfect living back with Mum, but here … I, uh …’ He stood up and brushed himself off. ‘I’ve got to go, okay?’
Brett watched him leave. He thought about pushing for an explanation, but let him go.
A bell rang shortly afterwards, and he stubbed out his cigarette before burying it. First was lunch, then what he dreaded the most.
Class.
‘Not again,’ Sam breathed, burying his face in his left hand. ‘What did you do this time?’
Brett punched his fists into his shorts’ pockets then glared out one of the homestead’s windows. ‘I can’t weed,’ he said.
‘You can’t what?’
‘Weed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mr Bronson wanted me to weed the garden, right? So I did. I started ripping out all the weeds and putting them in the bin like he told me too. Then he comes back twenty minutes later and starts screaming that I’ve ripped up all his bulbs. I said, “How am I supposed to know the difference between a bulb and a weed?”. He said, “Read a gardening book while you’re on detention” and he sends me here. Does everyone
have it in for me at this place or what?’
‘Brett.’ Sam took off his reading glasses and rubbed his temples. ‘How many times have you been sent out of class today?’
‘Including this time?’
‘Yes, including this.’
‘Twice. Or is it three times?’
‘It’s three, because that’s how many headaches I’ve had today.’ He shook his head then pushed himself away from the kitchen table. ‘C’mon. Let’s find a class you haven’t been thrown out of yet.’
That proved harder than Sam thought. Brett’s afternoon had started badly. Not that it was his fault of course. Nobody was giving him a chance. Or so he said. In English, he fell asleep. His class had started reading some book about a fifteen-year-old kid who chooses a cheeseburger over a chick — loser! — when he’d started to feel tired. One yawn was followed by another then boom! His head hit the desk and Ms Windsor hit the roof.
After a lecture from Sam, Brett was sent to personal development studies. That wasn’t much better. The Farm employed a social worker, Mrs Reddy, part-time to teach the guys about safe sex, healthy eating and how to deal with their emotions. That day’s topic was dealing with emotions and boy, did Brett ever flunk that subject. Darren the joker was still using his old trick of reflecting the sun off his watch into the faces of other guys to give himself a few laughs. Brett thought it was an accident at first when he became the target and forgot about it. Then he saw Darren do it deliberately and grin. Darren ended up with a broken watch and Brett standing in the corridor explaining to Sam.
Now after being unable to help Mr Bronson with the gardening, he was sent to the radio studio in the hope that he might learn something there.
Ten minutes later …
BANG! BANG! BANG!
‘That had better not be you again, Brett, or watch out!’ Sam called from inside.
When Brett didn’t answer, he opened the locked screen door and stared out. ‘Brett!’
‘Sam, I —’
‘No!’
‘But —’
‘No, I don’t want to hear it. Whatever excuse it is this time, I don’t care.’ Sam unlocked the screen door and stepped outside. He looked round the property trying to find something, then grabbed Brett by the arm. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.