Wrath

by Anne Davies

  “Listen, you little prick, I’m here to stay. I’ve got your mother, I’ve got your sister and unfortunately, I’ve got you. But it’s not me who doesn’t belong here; it’s you. The rest of us get on just fine. You’re the only rotten apple in this particular barrel. All I can say is hurry up and grow up and then piss off. You’re not wanted here. We’re happier when you’re not around.” The weight suddenly lifted from my body as he stood up. I pushed myself up painfully but kept my face blank. I slowly brushed away the dirt that had been ground into the side of my face, clenching my teeth and glaring at his sweating, smug face.

  “So, sonny, get a few things clear. I pay the bills. Remember that. You’re just a snotty little kid who I can’t stomach and who came with the package. Keep out of my way. Stay out as much as you like. You can sleep under my roof and eat at my table, but as soon as you finish Year Ten, piss off and don’t come back. Go off and try to find your loser father, live under a bridge in Perth—I don’t give a damn. I’ll put up with you till then, but I tell you one thing.” He paused, stepping closer to me, pushing that face I loathed so much right into mine, and to my horror, I’d involuntarily flinched away.

  He laughed and then went on. “You raise a hand to me again, and I’ll break your neck.” He turned away then, brushing the dirt from his trousers and tucking in his shirt. Bending to the ground, he scooped up the screwdriver from where it lay against the leg of the bench.

  “I’ll keep this one as a souvenir,” Ray said, and without another word, he stepped out of the shed. I stood there, pain shooting through my hand, my head and my face, but the greatest pain was knowing how powerless I was. For one mad moment, the thought surged through my brain that I would run away, thumb a lift to Perth, find Dad somehow. But the little fantasy dissolved at that point. What if I couldn’t find him? Or worse, what if I found him and also found that he didn’t want me around anymore than Katy and Mum did.

  I stayed for a long time in that shed, so many feelings coursing through me at once that I couldn’t think clearly, and then a shadow flickered near the door and stopped. It was Mum, standing there, peering into the dimness. She never came in here.

  “There you are, Luca! Hurry up! We’re in the car, waiting to go.”

  I lurched across to the tools, bending down stiffly to finish wrapping them up. God, it seemed like hours ago since I’d started this. I picked up the bulky roll clumsily and put it in the trailer and then slid in beside Katy, who just kept reading her magazine.

  “Right then,” Reid said, his voice chirpy, “We’re on our way.” We pulled away from the house, and I willed myself not to look back.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Life has become almost, well… pleasant. I don’t really know if that’s the word, but instead of feeling I’m being tossed around in some wild storm at sea—getting battered, going under, wondering if it might just be better to give up and sink to the bottom—now it’s like I’m floating on calm water. Nothing much really disturbs me like before. I don’t have time to think about what’s happened. I have an answer for every rotten thought that pops into my head: be too busy to think. The dark days and nights going over and over what I had done are gone. Every waking minute is taken up—no slack time, no time to brood, no time to feel.

  Straight out of bed when I wake up, stretches, push-ups, sit-ups, lunges, breakfast, school, lunch, trades, gym, duties, clean-up, tea, hanging out with Aaron and Archie in the rec, lockdown at 7.30, showering, studying or reading till 10, falling into bed, and sleeping like a rock till it all starts again the next morning. I’m getting through the work so quickly that Mrs Shiels calls me aside and says, “You’re moving so far ahead of the class that I think you would do better working towards doing your Tertiary Entrance Exam. I’ve mentioned it to Mr Khan, and he wants to talk it over with you. Would you like to see him now, or do you want to think it over?”

  I’m a bit stunned, really. I know I’m way ahead of the other kids, but I’m pretty comfortable in this class. The idea of actually getting stuck into all the subjects at TEE-level is pretty mind-blowing. But then Archie’s words in the gym that day echo through my mind: “You got something better to be doing, white boy?” Maybe this is something to divert my mind even more. The idea of those exams at the end of the year is scary; it’s one thing to feel you’re doing well in a small group, but it’s different to actually putting yourself to the test against thousands of other kids who’ve been plugging away without interruptions like court and remand centre! What if I totally bomb? I shrug inwardly. So what? Who’d know or care? Only me.

  “Thanks, Mrs Sheils, but how can I be a class of one?”

  “Mr Khan will sort that out,” Mrs Shiels says, smiling. She opens the door and speaks to the guard. The boys in the class are sitting in groups of four, their desks turned in towards one another, reading a play. Some voices stumble, but no one seems to be getting impatient. The group nearest me has suddenly gone quiet, and then a chorus of voices starts up. “Ben, it’s your turn! You’re supposed to be Victor! Keep up, ya knob!” but they all laugh good-naturedly, including Ben.

  The only one in the class who isn’t doing anything is Brown. He sits slumped in his seat, arms folded across his heavy gut, his face set and brooding. What’s going on inside that mind of his? As the thought crosses my mind, he glances up from under that heavy brow and our eyes lock. His lip starts to curl in its customary sneer and then stops. Our gaze holds, and I see a strange expression cross his face. What is it? It’s almost like he is in awful pain, and then Mrs Shiels calls me. The guard nods, and I walk up to Mr Khan’s office alone and tap on the door.

  “Come in.” The door clicks behind me as I step inside, and Mr Khan motions to the chair opposite his desk. His hands are folded on the desk, his nails clipped, his skin smooth and brown.

  Looking him squarely in the face, I say, “Mrs Shiels said you wanted to see me.” I want to take control here for some reason; I feel the need to be something other than another waster passing through.

  Mr Khan smiles slightly and then says, “She is very impressed with you. Based on what I’ve heard about you, so am I.” He looks down, his hands rolling a heavy gold pen backwards and forwards. The clock on the wall behind his desk ticks slowly, and then he shifts a little in his chair, leans back and puts the pen to one side.

  “The only problem I can see is that you have chosen not to take up the option of speaking to a counsel or. It is actually not an option; it’s a requirement for all the boys here. The reason I haven’t forced the issue with you is because I know you refused to say a word to the court-appointed one while you were on remand. I anticipated you would do the same here, and I haven’t staff at my disposal to waste on anyone. Are you ready to speak to one now?”

  I lean back in my chair as he had done and fold my arms. “There’s no point. There is no deep, dark secret in my past. I know what I’ve done, why I did it and that I’ve got to pay for it.”

  He nods thoughtfully, his eyes hooded. “That’s a very heavy burden to carry around alone. Talking to someone about it helps many people.”

  I shake my head, irritated. “Can anyone take the fact—or burden, as you call it—off me that I have killed two people, one of them my own mother?” There is no answer, and we sit there, those hideous words hanging in the air between us.

  After a while, Mr Khan sighs and says quietly, “As you like, Luca, but that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to speak to you. I really wanted to congratulate you on your effort in class. Mrs Shiels believes you have the capacity to sit your exams at the end of the year. If you would like to do that, there are several things I can to do to make that happen. Firstly, you may not be aware of it, but there are four boys here doing their TEE this year. They are all older than you, between 17 and 23.”

  “Twenty-three!” I burst in. “That’s not a juvenile!”

  “That’s true, but there are some boys who are able to stay on here after they are 18 and serve out their sentences here
rather than go to an adult facility.”

  “But where are they?”

  “They live within the grounds here in a special self-care cottage where they look after themselves, and they’re there because they have shown they have a strong desire to be rehabilitated. You don’t see them much because they cook for themselves and they tend to be focused on their education, such as getting accepted into an apprenticeship course or university when they leave here as well as general life skills. Mind you,” Mr Khan adds, leaning forward, “every one of them has worked with his counsellor to understand the reasons for the behaviour that got him in here in the first place. The development that has occurred, both social and psychological, in each of them has convinced everyone concerned that they are determined to improve their lives and not get stuck in the revolving door syndrome.”

  I frown a little, and he continues. “The revolving door syndrome is where boys keep coming back in here, time after time. The worst thing is once they’re 18, it’s prison, and many of them end up spending most of their lives there. The thing is, Luca, they don’t only cause misery for themselves but they spread it like a disease wherever they go. That’s why it’s so important to nip things in the bud here, and being able to talk with a trained person to understand what you’ve done is such a key part of getting past it and not slipping back into repeating the offence, whatever it’s been.

  “But look, today you’re here for us to find a way you can have the best opportunity to get an education here. I suggest, if you are truly keen to put in the work, that you go across to the cottage to join the boys doing their TEE. I’ve already asked them if they’re agreeable to that, and they are. So what I think is best is each day you can go there instead of Mrs Shiel’s class. You’ll come back here for lunch, and then instead of doing trades in the afternoon, you can go back and continue or study on your own.”

  He must see my face fall a little. I love trades.

  “Perhaps you can join the trades class once a week if you can cope with the work. That’s up to you. There’s a teacher who comes in for a few hours each day to help, but the courses you’ll do are mostly online, so you’ll work to some degree on your own. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds great,” I mumble. Inside, I’m feeling a bit nervous. What if I can’t keep up? What if, after all this trouble people had gone through for me, I fail?

  “Apart from that, everything else will be the same. You’ll still come back here in the afternoon, you’ll still have your duties and so on.”

  “Is this all conditional on me seeing a psych?”

  Mr Khan laughs shortly. “No, but I would like you to tell me the reason you’re so against it. You’re clearly an intelligent boy.”

  There is a knock on the door, and a worker from the kitchen brings in a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits on a small tray. “Thanks, George.” Mr Khan and the worker chat for a moment, and it gives me a bit of time to think. One part of my mind is saying, Keep your mouth shut and say nothing. It’s none of his business, and the other part is saying , He’s gone out of his way for you; you owe him something.

  After the door closes and Mr Khan finishes a biscuit and sips his tea a few times, he puts down his cup and waits.

  “Well,” I start haltingly, “the truth is that there are a few reasons why I don’t want to see a counsellor or case worker or whatever. Firstly, I’m not going to be a repeat offender.” I glance at him and add drily, “After all, I’m not going to kill my mother and step-father again, am I?”

  “No, of course not,” he concedes, “but the fact that you were so out of control that you killed two people could indicate that this is the way you will deal with things in the future. Something upsets you, so you lash out and people get hurt.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “That’s reasonable, but the thing is that I was never really violent before. It’s not like I spent my time pulling wings off flies or getting into fights at school or even bullying anyone.” I pause, the old familiar panic coursing through my body. “And then there’s the fact that I was high. It’s no excuse,” I add quickly, “but you could say I wasn’t completely in charge of myself.” I am silent for a while. “You probably hear this all the time, but I know that whatever happens to me in the future, drugs won’t be part of it.”

  He nods approvingly. “I believe you.”

  “Another reason—one I mentioned to you before—is that nothing anyone can say, no matter what a hot-shot psych they are, can change what’s happened. No one can undo it, and there’s nothing that can be said that will make me feel any different. It’s like my friend from primary school who lost an eye. He’s got a false eye, and it looks a lot better than a gaping hole, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s fake and he’s still as blind as ever. No matter what’s said or what excuses are cooked up, the fact remains that two people are dead, it’s my fault, and it’s never going to go away.” I’m panting slightly after all this talk, but there is still one more thing I have to say. “There’s the last reason, the most important one as well: there’s another person involved.”

  “What do you mean?” Mr Khan shoots back. “Someone else was involved in the deaths?” He leans forward in his seat.

  “No, not like you mean. It’s just that if I told the entire story of what happened that night, someone else would get hurt badly.”

  “I don’t understand. If someone else can explain what led up to the attack, don’t you realise it could shorten your sentence? The judge only stipulated an indefinite term because you were so unresponsive and you seemed to show no remorse, no explanation for your actions.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I cut in. “It’s more important that nothing is said, now or ever. It can only cause more harm, and believe me, it doesn’t change anything. I still killed them both.”

  Mr Khan slumps back in his chair and looks down his long, fleshy nose at me. “You’re a strange boy, Luca. I can only imagine you did what you did in retaliation over something, a payback of some sort.”

  I feel my face harden. “Don’t try to work this out, Mr Khan. I’m not a jigsaw puzzle you need to fit together.”

  He rubs his hand across his forehead, massaging above his eyes. “You’re quite right. Let’s get back to what I can help you with. You’ll need to sit down and go through the subjects you can take.” A wry smile lights up his face. “If you do well in the exams, you’ll still have another year here before you turn 18. You could begin a university course online.”

  “I don’t think that far ahead,” I say wryly. “There was no date set for my release, so as far as I’m concerned, I can’t make plans for a future that may not happen. My future is probably adult prison. I’m not living a fantasy here. I just want to get through my time, whatever it ends up being, one day at a time.”

  We sit there for a while, saying nothing, but it isn’t an uncomfortable feeling. I can see a photo on the side of the desk. Mr Khan is standing next to a tall, slightly stooped guy of about 23 or 24, who is dressed in the cape and mortar board—I think they call it—of someone who just graduated. A small, round woman wrapped in a red and gold sari, her smooth black hair pulled back from her face, stands on the other side of him, one plump arm encircled with rows of gold bracelets resting lightly on the young man’s—her son’s—arm. Something convulses through my body, and I want to be out of there, now.

  “Shall I get back to class now, sir?”

  Mr Khan starts slightly. “Yes, of course. On Monday, you can meet with your teacher, and he can discuss your options with you and set up a schedule of study.” He stands up and reaches across the desk, his hand outstretched. “You’ve done well so far. Keep it up.”

  I take his warm, dry hand and shake it firmly, the way Dad taught me. He opens the door for me, and I leave. The siren goes as I walk back down the corridor. I wait for all the boys to file out and then catch Mrs Shiels’ eye.

  “All sorted?” she calls, bustling around the room, picking up papers and books.r />
  “Yes. Thanks for your help.” I would like to say more, but the guard motions for me to go for lunch, and the opportunity is lost.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  There are other things to think about besides school. I’m getting better at football, and even though I sit on the bench a fair bit of the time, when Mr Robinson gives me the nod and I’m out there, it feels pretty damned good. I’ve put on a bit of weight, and now when someone runs into me on the field or I’m caught up in the pack, I don’t get flattened the way I used to. Archie had been right. All that running comes in handy. I don’t have the best kick in the world, but I can run and keep running. A lot of the guys don’t do much exercise apart from the Saturday games; I’m in the gym with Archie every day.

  The Saturday after I’d spoken to Mr Khan, Mr Robinson calls us over at the end of the game and we plonk down on the grass, glad to be resting. He stands there, his ruddy face serious as he raises a hand. There’s silence, and then he grins.

  “Good news, boys. The Kwinana under-18s are coming here for a match in two weeks. Think we’ve got a chance?”

  “They any good?” Aaron drawls lazily, his long, golden body sprawling on the grass.

  “Not too bad at all. They’ve beaten some good Fremantle teams this season.”

  Archie nudges me and murmurs, “That means they’re pretty good. Nearly all of the best league players come out of Fremantle.”