Wrath

by Anne Davies

  I stop short. Early morning dew on the grass, everything sweet and fresh, pulling on my old running shoes and just going for a run, jogging down the road past all those silent houses—lazy slobs in their fusty beds, everyone asleep but me and the birds. Jogging off the slip of gravel, carefully over the top rung of barbed wire and into the paddock, my shoes sinking slightly into the rich loam of the firebreak, and then off I’d go around the edge of the paddock, past the wheat—sometimes just green spikes above the surface, other times stiff and straight, and best of all, golden and waving. Around I’d go, one full circuit when I was about 11, but then an extra lap every six months, and after that, I’d time myself from one corner of the paddock to the next.

  Katy knew I snuck out early, and one day, she’d said to me, “Wake me in the mornings, Luca, and I’ll come too.”

  It had only taken a half-breath of hesitation and she’d quickly jumped in with, “Oh no, don’t worry. It’d be too early for me.” She’d smiled to me, her freckled nose twitching, and I’d felt bad—but those runs were my time, just me and the earth and the sky. I couldn’t share them, not even with her.

  Now, here, in this high-roofed, crowded building that I can’t escape, the urge to run, to be outside, is so strong that I wince. Archie sees it and looks away for a second. “Bet you want to be out there running again, don’t you.”

  I nod quickly, unable to meet his eyes.

  “I know what it’s like. Not the running bit—just being out in the bush, the dirt under your feet, the sun on your back… where you belong.” His voice trails off, and I look at him then. His eyes are half-closed as though he is in a dream, but the sadness in them! He shakes his shaggy head, and his grin reappears. “Don’t think about that now. There’s a bit of athletics, so you can run if you want to, but they seem to go for team sports here. You should try footy. You may be a bit small, but if you’re quick, you might make a good rover.”

  “Is that what you play?”

  “Yeah, I love it.”

  I look at his broad chest with a twinge of envy. “You didn’t get those muscles kicking a football around.”

  “That’s right. I got them in the gym. Hey, that’s it!” he says, “Sign up for the gym. You work hard and you won’t be skinny no more. When afternoon lockdown is finished, you get an hour to do some sport or extra work on anything you’re doing in workshop. Most guys just slack off and watch television, but you can do a lot of work in a gym in an hour. And,” he adds, lowering his voice, “no one gives you much shit in here if you look like you could flatten ’em.”

  “Maybe,” I shrug.

  His wry grin darts up one side of his face. “What’s the matter, white boy? You got something better to do with your time?” He laughs, and I have to laugh with him. I have no control over much of my life in here, but maybe I can control my body.

  A whistle blasts shrilly, and there is immediate silence. A short, muscular man with white, close-cropped hair stands on the stage at one end of the gym. “Right, boys. Drop and give me 20.”

  The boys step apart quickly then, almost as one, and begin doing push-ups. I’m a second or two behind, but soon I too, with muscles burning after long weeks of inactivity, am down on the floor. The white-haired man picks up the count a few seconds in. “Six, seven, eight.”

  I feel myself rising and lowering to his count, as though I am part of a strange inhaling and exhaling beast. At 20, we collapse, groaning and laughing, but the whistle blows again and there is an instantaneous hush.

  “Petrilli, Adams, Pickett, Johns. Ten more. I saw you all slacking off.”

  They drop to the floor as the rest of the boys laugh and shout, “Slackers! Pussies!” They get to their feet, grinning and puffing, and fall back in place when they are done.

  “Okay. Into your sports gear. Football teams to the oval. Basketballers onto the court. Anyone left over, stay here. Five minutes!”

  The boys disappear through doors to the side—into change rooms, I guess—and then there is just me and five other boys. The short man walks towards us. It is an unusual walk. He must be 60, but he doesn’t move like any 60-year-old I’d ever seen. I’ve seen old farmers climbing stiffly up onto tractors and trucks or leaning against fence posts and just generally moving slowly, but this man seems to bounce lightly from foot to foot as though the muscles in his legs are taut and ready for action. His whole body radiates health, from his pale blue eyes to his clear, ruddy face. I must be 45 years his junior, but still aching from the push-ups, I feel like the old man.

  “Right, boys, a couple of laps of the oval and then meet me at the high jumps.” The boys turn and leave, and I am alone. “Well, Luca, isn’t it? I’m Mr Robinson, the sports coach. The boys call me Robbo. What sport do you like?”

  “I like to run,” I say, “but maybe I could have a go at football.”

  “Good. Join the boys and do a couple of laps and then come over to the bench where the footy team is. I think basketball might not be your sport—at the moment anyway. You might grow more inches. How old are you?”

  “Sixteen next week.”

  “Mmmm. You’ve got a bit of growing to do yet. Unlike me!”

  I laugh politely.

  “Right. Grab your sports gear from the tubs in the change rooms and then join the boys for a run. Remember to grab a pair of footy boots too.”

  The boys are coming out of the doors now, and I push against the tide and find some gear, pull it on and hurry out through the big doors at the other side of the gym.

  I’m out! It hadn’t really registered that I would be out! Out in the sunshine! The smell of grass, the wide stretch of the sky after having been inside for all those weeks! I didn’t know fresh air could smell so good. I stand there, the warmth of the sun soaking through my skin like a hug, my eyes drinking in the colours, the shapes, but mostly the light and space.

  “Move on,” says a gruff voice behind me. “Join your group.” It is a guard.

  I jog off without responding, following the path the small group of boys is taking. The joy! I can’t help it. I don’t deserve to feel good about anything ever again, but I feel like I’ve just been reborn, out of darkness and into the light. I feel… I feel… How can I explain it? I know. I feel alive. Every part of me tingling, heart racing, muscles pumping, lungs dragging in that beautiful, beautiful air.

  Alive—everything they’re not. I slow my pace, not just because that realisation has cast a shadow over me but because I’m so unfit. Those months of lying around on my bed have left me weak, and I pull up, gulping air, and Aaron catches me up.

  “You run pretty well,” he pants and runs past me. He runs with such grace. His legs are long and lightly muscled, and he moves so effortlessly, like he could go on for ever.

  The rest of the boys are already in two teams and milling around, kicking the ball to one another. I take a seat on the end of a bench. I can see Mr Robinson—I think it’ll be a long time before I can call him Robbo—and the five boys who were running lined up and jumping over a bar. Mr Robinson raises it before Aaron begins his run at it. Even at this distance, I can recognise that lovely, graceful lope. He’s propelled by smooth springs, over the bar and back on his feet almost as soon as he touches the ground, leaping and shouting and punching the air, his whoop of victory drifting above the footy teams’ chatter. The bench creaks beside me, and with shock, I see it’s Mr Owen—Owen, I mean—and he’s sitting next to me even though there’s room all the way along the bench.

  “Nothing like a game of footy,” he says, almost to himself, as the game begins.

  I say nothing, and we sit silently, but after a while I’m not uncomfortable anymore, and I begin to watch the game in earnest. They’re not bad! I can see that big boofhead Brown lumbering around, using his body as a battering ram to punch kids in the back and elbow them in the face whenever the ref’s back is turned. What a shit. I can hear Owen breathing hard every time it happens, but he says nothing.

  Despite myself, I can’t
help but cheer when Archie kicks a goal. He seems to be everywhere. If there’s anything wrong with that team, it’s that they rely on him too much. But who can blame them? His shiny brown legs streak off away from the pack, and he seems to have some instinct that lets him know exactly where to kick the ball even though he appears not to be looking at where it’s aimed.

  Archie’s legs are long with muscular thighs but no obvious calf muscles at all, and yet they are so nimble! He’s like a cat, able to change direction on a pinhead, and he dances around the fumbling Brown, snatching the ball and whipping it away. It’s not like he’s playing football; it’s like he’s a ballet dancer, leaping onto the backs and shoulders of the other team to effortlessly cradle the ball in his hands and then hitting the ground running till he’s ready to kick—straight to another player or through the open jaws of the goals.

  Owen says, “He’s going to be a legend one day. The AFL teams will be frothing at the mouth to get him.” He pauses. “Soon as he straightens himself out.”

  I say nothing, but then he asks me a direct question, so I have to answer. “So what do you play then, Luca?”

  “I don’t play anything much.” I pause. “Archie thought I might be okay as a rover.”

  Owen nods slowly and then says, “I think he’s dead right. I saw you run, and you’re pretty quick. You’ll be able to duck in, grab the ball and be away before they know what’s hit ’em. Just keep away from the big, mean mongrels.”

  Something’s happening on the ground, and the game has stopped. The boys are in a big knot in the middle. Owen blows a whistle and runs toward them. Several guards sprint from their spots around the oval and wade in, and the boys grudgingly get out of their way, craning to see what’s going on. I can just see through the tangle of legs that three guards are on top of someone on the ground who is trying to get them off with such strength that they’re heaving and slipping as though they’re trying to hold down a calf for branding. Owen stands to one side, making a call on his mobile, and then two guards run out from the gym doors, carrying a stretcher.

  I can’t see anything as they push through the crowd, and then a boy is lifted onto the stretcher and they jog back towards the gym. I can’t see the boy’s face, but whoever he is, there is blood running down his neck. I can see a gory mess where there should have been an ear. What the hell?

  They’re gone, and I turn my attention back to the group. It’s breaking up now, and guards are shepherding all the boys into small groups and then back to the gym. As they clear the ground, I see that the three guards are still holding someone down. He must be tiring now because as he lashes out with an arm or leg, a guard grabs the limb, and finally Owen steps forward to catch a flailing arm. They lift him clumsily and carry him towards me.

  It’s Brown, and I can hear him swearing at them, but as they turn to go towards the gym, he catches sight of me and grins. I gasp and shudder. His top four teeth have been filed into points, and blood is running down his chin. Owen glares at me.

  “Get to the gym,” he snarls, and I jog, shaken, ahead of them into the almost empty gymnasium. The guards inside have most of the boys in rows now, with a few stragglers still hurrying from the change rooms. They’re disappearing back towards the cells. I grab my clothes from the lockers, peel off the sports things and dump them, and within three minutes, we’re all back in our cells.

  I wash my face and am surprised at the shakiness of my hands when I lie on my bed. What a morning! But that taste of having been outside is stronger than anything else that’s happened today.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dad kept working away, and though we had new carpets in the house and Mum bought a new washing machine and was planning a whole new kitchen, it didn’t really seem to make her happy. In fact, the only time she really seemed her old self was when Mrs Brockman came over.

  She’d send us kids outside ‘to play’, and they’d huddle together over cups of tea and biscuits and lower their voices and talk about… what? I wondered.

  We were eleven now and really a bit past the ‘to play’ thing. Mucking around in the dirt with toy trucks didn’t really cut it anymore, and though Katy and I still talked about things and felt good when we were around each other, something had changed a bit. I knew she loved it that she had Mum to herself now and she felt a bit guilty about that because she knew I didn’t have Dad, but I also knew that her girlfriends were her main focus now.

  We’d go outside sometimes and maybe walk down the road and talk a bit, but before long she’d say, “I might just nick over to Amy’s and see if she’s home. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m fine,” I’d say. “I’ll find a few of the kids and kick the footy around for a while.”

  “Okay, good. See ya.” And she’d be off, her hair bouncing up and down on her shoulders. She’d changed. Even the old chubby, round little body was changing. I saw, as she walked away from me, that her legs were longer and she was thinner around the middle, and I couldn’t help noticing when she wore a T-shirt that she was growing tiny boobs. God, that was weird. Then she’d turn around and grin, calling to me, “Let’s go for a swim later, Luca.”

  I’d answer, “Sure,” feeling happy for some reason. No matter how different she was starting to look, she was still my old Katy. I’d jog up to the oval behind the school. There was always someone hanging around up there to muck around with.

  A few months later, I came home from school and plonked down on the edge of the veranda to pull my muddy shoes off. Mum was pretty fussy about that new carpet of hers, and she seemed to get angry easily lately. I knocked the worst of the mud onto the ground, rubbed the rest off with an old towel kept on a nail for that purpose, dropped the shoes into the shoebox and pulled my clean runners on. I was in no hurry to go inside because I could hear Mrs Brockman’s voice braying away inside. I leant back against the veranda post and closed my eyes. I felt pretty good. We had a new teacher who seemed to like me, and he was great.

  Today, he’d said, “Right, everyone, gather around and I’ll read you a story.”

  We’d groaned a bit—quietly, because we weren’t too sure what the teacher’s limits were yet—and Glen Jacobs had said, “We’re Grade Six, sir, not little kids.”

  “And this is no story for little kids. It’s got murder, blood, executions, witchcraft and war.” He had us now. “Get comfortable.”

  We’d dived onto a pile of old beanbags in the corner, he’d pulled a beanbag out in front of us and we’d all wriggled down, and then he’d opened a book.

  “The story I’m going to read you happened a long while ago in Scotland. I’ll fill you in with bits of it and read other bits. The language is from those times, so it’s a bit different to that of today, but you can handle it; you’re bright kids.”

  We’d all felt the same, I think, when he said that: embarrassed but pleased, so pleased that we were having trouble keeping the grins off our faces. Old Mr Evans had only ever growled at us and told us how stupid we were.

  “Well,” the new teacher began, “there’d been a war, and three men were riding back across the cold, misty moors of Scotland. One was named Macbeth…” and he’d read on all afternoon, reading bits from the book and then explaining any puzzling words. It was cold outside that day, just like on that Scottish moor, and we’d sat there, leaning comfortably against one another, pulled into the spell those strange, magic words were weaving.

  Three o’clock arrived, but no one moved a muscle. The new teacher stopped and raised an eyebrow, and we’d all urged indignantly, “Go on, sir. Doesn’t matter about the time. You can’t stop there.”

  He’d laughed, clearly delighted with our response.

  “Great place to leave it! What I want you to do tonight… Let’s see—whatever takes your fancy. Either draw a picture of the witches around the cauldron, making sure you include as many of the ingredients as you can remember, or if you’d rather write than draw, you can write about how you think this may end. I promise if you all do y
our homework, we’ll read some more tomorrow.”

  We’d rolled clumsily out of our cocoon of beanbags and run out the door, shouting, “Thanks, sir,” and, “See you tomorrow, sir!”

  “Make sure you do your homework, Bevan,” my friend Martin said to the slackest person in the class as we shoved through the door.

  “No worries,” he’d said, “I love drawing. Fancy not having to write a whole lot of crap for homework.” And that was the best thing really: that a teacher had actually given us a choice, had actually realised that we too liked a bit of power in our lives.

  I was half-drowsing there, on the veranda, with the drone of the women’s voices lulling me almost to sleep, when suddenly I jerked wide-awake. I’d heard a man’s laughter in the kitchen, and it wasn’t Dad’s. I pushed open the wire door, and the voices stopped. They were all looking at me when I came into the kitchen: Mum, looking so pretty and flushed from laughing; Mrs Brockman, her red slash of a mouth wide open and dotted with crumbs of Nice biscuits caught in the fine hairs around her lips; and a man with gingery-coloured hair and ruddy skin. That’s all I took in before Mum said, “Ah, here he is. Luca, this is Mr Reid, Mrs Brockman’s brother. Say hello.”

  There was something about the way she said it, the way she was speaking to me but looking at him, the way she had her hand resting on his shoulder—I disliked him on sight. He’d smiled confidently at me, touching my mother’s hand as he stood up and moved around the table, his hand outstretched to pat me on the shoulder or shake my hand, I don’t know, but I flinched away. Having done it, I couldn’t undo it, so I stood, hardly breathing at my action. I felt rather than saw that he had not moved at all, frozen in that confident move forward, sure that I would allow myself to be touched by him.

  I turned and looked him full in the face. His mouth was pulled back into a half-smile now, his large white teeth bare, his green eyes bland and cold. I heard a sharp intake of air from my mother, and I knew I had embarrassed her. A pang went through me, not simply because I had hurt her in some way but because I knew something had changed. But what?