Disharmony

by Leah Giarratano

  ‘What’re you doing, man?’ said Fonso. ‘That’s not cool.’

  Others moaned, injured by the reminder of reality that streamed into the room with the sunlight.

  Birthday banged furiously at the lock on the window with the heel of his hand. It looked to Samantha as though her friend would break his arm before the mechanism budged. She reached down. Parallel to the skirting board a dull silver pipe was mostly hidden by a pile of rags. For some reason it had been one of the first things she’d become aware of after they entered the room. She picked it up.

  ‘Here, try this,’ she said, passing it to Birthday.

  He did a double take, his eyes wild, panicked. He snatched the pole from her.

  ‘Stand back,’ he said.

  Samantha grabbed Mirela by the arm and dragged her away from the window. Like a baseball bat, Birthday raised the pole up over his shoulder and swung. The window smashed on the first blow and the crash fractured the dazed stupor of the room. Dark shapes rose up from the floor around her. Samantha wondered how many people she had stepped on as she and Mirela had made their way across to the windows.

  ‘Sam, Mirela, get up here,’ yelled Birthday.

  He used the pole to smash out the rest of the window, glass spraying everywhere. Then he picked up wads of filthy clothing from the floor around him and threw them out the window by the armful.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ said Mirela.

  Samantha didn’t know either, but Birthday was obviously freaked out, so she quickly shovelled up another mound of rags. He snatched them from her and spread them over the windowsill. Then he stood back, waving Mirela forward.

  ‘Go!’ he said.

  ‘What! Are you crazy?’ she said. ‘We’re one floor up.’

  ‘There’s an awning,’ he said. ‘It’ll hold you. I’ve used it before. Just drop down. Now.’

  Mirela faced him, hands on her hips. ‘Why can’t we use the stairs?’ she said.

  From across the other side of the room, the doorway darkened. Samantha swung around. She could see only one new arrival to the squat, but she sensed there were others behind him. Then they locked eyes and the world suddenly shuddered by in blink-by-blink frames. She’d never seen or felt anyone like him.

  She tried to focus through the gloom. At first glance, he appeared to be wearing a white vest over a long-sleeved, multicoloured shirt. With another blink, she realised that he wore only a singlet, and his arms were completely covered, shoulders to wrists, in blazing multicoloured tattoos. A strip of spiked black hair stood at attention along the crest of his otherwise shaved head, and a livid, puckered scar gouged its way through his bottom lip and down under his chin. Something dark and narrow protruded from behind his right shoulder, like a single, sheathed black wing.

  ‘Sam! Now!’ yelled Birthday, breaking her from her trance.

  As Mirela began to climb gingerly over the rags, Birthday leaned down and with his shoulders shoved her, squawking in protest, through the window. Samantha didn’t have to be told twice. She could feel the man coming towards them, a boiling wave of violence. Without even looking, she turned and dived headfirst through the window. Right now, she didn’t care what was on the other side.

  Just as she felt half of her body clear the window she saw, directly below her, Mirela scrabbling in the fabric awning suspended over the road. And then Mirela sat up and her head and shoulders hooked in under Samantha’s diaphragm and propelled her forward.

  Samantha flew over the edge of the awning.

  It took a couple of blinks to realise that time hadn’t actually stopped, but that she swung upside down, two metres from the ground, her ankles gripped painfully from above.

  Blink. Staring up at her, a woman with a pram met her eyes and screamed.

  Blink. The shopkeeper with the broom spotted her, stopped sweeping, and smiled widely, evidently immensely entertained by her sudden appearance.

  Blink. The original Nordic jock, leaning against a wall, swung his eyes upwards; froze. His cigarette fell from his lips.

  Blink. The concrete pavement rushed up to meet her as the awning gave way.

  ***

  Samantha knew that she owed her life to the lady with the pram and to an older Romanian woman. Without any thought for themselves, they’d rushed to stand beneath her and caught her, all of them crashing to the ground.

  For maybe a second, the world was silent, peaceful, as she lay shrouded with her rescuers under the heavy awning. And then her hearing exploded into life again as the canvas was wrenched away from them by shouting passers-by. She struggled to her feet with the young mother, both of them desperately scanning the street for the pram. Another shopper rushed forward, pushing the baby towards them, and Samantha burst into tears. Thank God the child was safe.

  Birthday Jones wrenched her by the wrist, dragging her off-balance. And she remembered that man. Up there.

  ‘Wait!’ she cried, as he started running, pulling her along.

  The older woman sat dazed on the pavement, people bending over her to try and help her to her feet. The young mum still had not looked up from her pram. She had to thank them. And where was Mirela?

  Arms suddenly wrapped around her, almost tackling her back to the pavement.

  ‘Are you okay?’ yelled Mirela.

  ‘RUN!’ shouted Birthday Jones.

  They took off again, the tears on Samantha’s cheeks drying as she ran. Pain smashed against her skull with every step she took. Her shoulder throbbed in rhythm with the pounding from her head, and she tried to breathe through the pain, open-mouthed. To distract herself, she sent a prayer to Goddess Gaia to bless forever the lives of the woman still on the pavement and the mother and child, and she pushed her legs harder than she ever had to get away from what she had seen up there.

  They bolted along the footpath of the busy street, shoppers clearing a path. She was vaguely aware of whistles and shouts, and of bare feet slapping the pavement as members of Birthday’s crew ran with them – in front of them, behind them, flanking them and then dispersing. They turned right onto the next road, also busy with lunchtime traffic.

  And then a terrible, paralysing dread reached into Samantha’s innards and squeezed. They were closing in. An image of the tattooed man with the scar almost tripped her and she screamed in fear.

  ‘Birthday! They’re coming!’ She didn’t recognise her own voice.

  She tried to push her legs harder, but the ruthless intent emanating from those chasing them was an emotional lasso, looping around her ankles, drawing her to a stop. It was pointless anyway to run. She felt that for every step they took, the creatures behind them took at least two. She could sense no desperation or anxiety; only their focused objective. The cold certainty invaded her lungs, freezing the air as she gulped desperately, sapping her strength. She stumbled. They wanted her. For some ridiculous reason, they wanted her, and they were going to catch her within moments. Maybe if she just stopped running they’d leave Mirela and Birthday alone. She slowed.

  Mirela was by her side in an instant.

  ‘No!’ Samantha yelled. ‘Just keep going!’

  Ahead of them, Birthday Jones skidded to a halt. Whistles and hoots from his crew bounced around them like bat signals. He bolted back to her side.

  ‘You idiot!’ he said. ‘I hope you can fight.’ He turned to face their hunters, the pole from the squat in his hand.

  Samantha tried to tell herself that things would be okay. Surely one of the staring shoppers would call the police if these people tried to hurt them.

  They rounded the corner, loping like cats. Three of them. They were Asian, heavily tattooed and utterly terrifying. Like Scarface, his friends’ heads were buzz-cut bald and they held something dark in their hands.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Mirela gasped. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘They’re carrying nunchuks,’ said Birthday.

  ‘What do they want with us?’ said Sam.

  ‘Nothing good,’ said Birthday.


  Sam tried to calm her racing thoughts. Maybe we can talk this out? Give them money? Find out what they need?

  Mirela took a step to her right towards a garbage bin. She rummaged through it, came up with a beer bottle. Held it, ready. Sam put her fingers to her mouth and gave out three sharp whistles. Hanzi, Luca and Tamas were in town today. If they heard the whistles they’d come. Other gypsies might also follow the sound.

  Scarface caught her eye and smiled. And then everything happened at once. His right hand flashed up across his chest and suddenly, in his hand, silver and shivering, was a four-foot-long sword. He opened his ruined mouth, shrieked, and sprinted straight for them.

  ***

  When the tattooed strangers had first skidded around the corner, nearby tourists and shoppers stopped and stared. A couple hurried their two children from the sidewalk and into a shop. Two elderly Romanian men, playing cards at a table outside a cafe, glanced up indignantly, offended by the ruckus during their lunchtime ritual. A battered hire car screeched to the kerb, front doors flying open, and a couple of backpackers scrambled out, phones pointed at the action, recording the scene.

  But when Scarface drew the huge sword, the street erupted. Everywhere, people screamed and ran. Car horns honked and shopkeepers ran out onto the road to shout and watch.

  Scarface and his friends ran straight for them. Samantha froze. Mirela screamed.

  Birthday Jones dragged Samantha into the street, pushing her down behind a parked car; Mirela huddled in next to her. Birthday stepped in front of them, the pole from the squat held high. Samantha could feel fear pouring from him like kerosene fumes from the old heater at home. But now, dropping from shop awnings, running from doorways and ducking out from behind parked cars, street kids, gypsy and Romanian, abruptly surrounded them. They were everywhere: climbing up onto the car bonnet and roof, armed with rocks and bottles, they pelted the tattooed attackers who were now almost upon them.

  All of a sudden, into the middle of the chaos, spilling out of the alley across the road, four Nordic jocks wielding wooden posts came running at Birthday Jones, shouting obscenities. They hit the hail of rocks and bottles and became even more enraged.

  And then they saw the ninjas. A little too late.

  Samantha moaned as the tattooed ninjas mowed down all four of the blond giants with blurred flicks of the nunchuks. Then they turned on the street kids, sending them flying. Samantha watched in terror as Birthday’s pole swung and connected with a tattooed shoulder. Off-balance, the warrior flicked the jointed black bludgeon, catching Birthday in the chest. Her best friend dropped to the road.

  Mirela screamed again. Samantha, tears streaming, stood up from behind the car.

  ‘STOP!’ she yelled as loudly as she could. She stepped into the street and faced Scarface. For the third time, he smiled at her. She followed his obsidian eyes into his mind, searching for mercy. She found murder, torture, death.

  A silver Mercedes sports car screeched around the corner into the street, mounting the gutter and taking out the table at which the old men had been playing cards just moments before. Scarface reached out and gripped Sam painfully by the bicep. He dragged her, dry-mouthed and sweating, towards the car. She felt completely numb, powerless, gummy with apathy and defeat.

  Just as they reached the black-windowed vehicle, Samantha registered faintly the sound of glass breaking. She turned her head to see Mirela launch herself onto Scarface, stabbing with a broken bottle at his neck and shoulders.

  Using the elbow of the arm holding his sword, the tattooed man jabbed, hard, with his elbow and Mirela smacked to the ground.

  Still gripping Samantha tightly, Scarface cast his eyes to where Mirela lay, unmoving. Blood pulsed and drizzled from several puncture wounds in his neck and shoulder. Samantha watched, mesmerised, as it formed a ruby road, snaking its way across a snarling, forked-tongue devil tattoo and then down over his unmarked hand, onto his sword. Samantha knew that he too watched the blood. She felt his arousal, his delight, his insatiable craving for more blood. He lazily swirled the tip of the sword over Mirela’s unconscious body.

  Samantha felt a flood of love for her friend that was so powerful her knees buckled. Scarface yanked her upright, but she barely noticed. Rushing through every cell in her body ran a liquid energy, golden and sweet like honey. It shot tingles from the very centre of her heart out through her extremities. She’d never before felt anything like it.

  Scarface loosened his grip.

  ‘Please,’ she begged, her eyes locking with his. ‘Please, don’t hurt her.’

  The stench of his violent hate suddenly became less rancid in her nose and mouth. His sword dropped to his side. Without knowing what she was doing, she sent more of the honeyed light through her skin and watched her captor’s face. The hard angles slackened and he stared at her, amazed. His grip loosened further.

  She heard sirens, but she knew they’d be too late. The street was already littered with bodies, moaning or out cold. Bystanders brave enough to remain in the open stood, hands over their mouths, watching as she was herded towards the car.

  Tensing carefully, she tested Scarface’s grip on her arm and found it tentative, almost gentle. She looked up again into his face, and this time his eyes reflected light and he actually saw her. For some reason she knew that if she ran now he’d let her go. She turned her head slowly, trying to spot a place to run to, to hide. She readied herself to break free. She figured that with the police on the way she could run until someone stopped her – the goodies or the baddies. It had to be better than getting into that car.

  And then the rear door of the Mercedes cracked open and a girl stepped out.

  ‘Kirra,’ whispered Scarface, as though beginning a prayer. The warm-glow thing winked out instantly.

  And Samantha knew she had no chance.

  The girl seemed clad in a black rubber membrane. Toe to throat, she wore a single skin-like sheath that slicked across lean limbs and muscles. She wore a high, shiny-black ponytail, a filigreed-blossom tattoo on her neck, and a smile like nuclear waste. Samantha’s first thought was to wonder whether they might be the same age; her second was to decide that she had never seen a more beautiful girl. Her third thought tore at her heart: who or what had created a creature so completely devoid of human feeling?

  The buzz-cut boys flanked her now and she knew that she was going to be forced into the Mercedes. The girl Scarface had called Kirra stalked around to the passenger side of the car and Scarface shoved Sam forward. Where will they take me? I’m never going to see my family again! Am I going to end up like Belinda – stolen and shipped off to Russia, owned by the mafia? Did the gypsy king send these people? Am I going to die? The thoughts scudded through her mind like debris caught up in a hurricane.

  They reached the car and Scarface thrust her towards the back seat. A frantic terror gripped her and she struggled, jamming her feet against the doorframe, screaming.

  And that’s when the shooting started.

  The first bullet caught Scarface. She felt the pain of the impact rip through his body like a lightning strike; the remnants of the fiery energy zapped out through his skin and into hers. He dropped her. And the sword.

  ‘Samantha! Run!’

  She bolted towards the voice, all senses on fire. Gunshots continued to crack and whistle around her. Sirens were screaming now and she thought she might be too, but she couldn’t be sure.

  From the corner of her eye, she caught a dark blur of movement and made the mistake of glancing back towards the car. Kirra had launched herself up and over the roof of the Mercedes, hitting the road in a crouch. And then, in the second it took Samantha to swallow, the cat-girl sprang from squat into flat-out sprint. Samantha pushed even harder. Ahead of her, Birthday Jones and Mirela waved frantically at her from behind a car.

  More gunshots. Samantha reached her friends at the same time as police cars tore into the street. She risked a quick glance behind her. Scarface and the ninjas were no longer on t
he road. But Kirra stood there, a sliver of midnight that had somehow pierced its way into the sunshine. She met Samantha’s eyes and hissed, then turned and sprinted back towards the Mercedes.

  Birthday Jones dragged her forward. Ahead of them Fonso and two other kids held up a grate in the gutter.

  Birthday pushed her through the hole and down into the sewer.

  Dwight Juvenile Justice Detention Centre, Sydney, Australia

  June 29, 7.28 a.m.

  When he opened his eyes Luke found – half-surprised, as he always was – that he’d survived the night after all, and in the shower block before breakfast he realised that he felt better than he had in the past couple of days. Whatever had caused that pain in his head last night seemed to have left him alone this morning. And what with the silent lockdown on all dorms and most of the staff out looking for the escapee, he’d slept like a dead person. Right now, though, he couldn’t wait for a chance to talk to Nguyen about their freaky new friend, Abrafo. Last night seemed like a dream, and he needed to know what the hell had happened in there.

  Turned out, he’d have to wait until after breakfast. The screws in the dining hall maintained the silence rule throughout the meal. Although no one told them anything, it wasn’t difficult to guess that they hadn’t caught Abrafo overnight. Anyone could see from their worried glances and huddled whispers that they were freaking out about having lost an inmate. Curiosity steamed from the boys at the hushed tables, whiting-out the windows of the hall, fogging them in from the icy morning outside.

  Luke absently kicked a foot against his chair, itching to leave the room. Zac seemed to be deliberately avoiding his eyes. He fiddled with a single-serve packet of strawberry jam, flicking the foil lid back and forth, praying that the screws would allow them out to the oval for a run. He glanced up with the clatter of a bowl on a table across the hall to find Toad watching him, brows lowered, top lip pulled back in a sneer. Toad indicated with his chin that his plate was empty, and then pointed his eyes deliberately down to the slice of uneaten toast on Luke’s plate. The other boys watched the silent interaction. You got pretty good at speaking without words when you were in Dorm Four. Holt kept them in silence half the time they were awake.