Wrath (5 page)

We dragged up the passage, unhappy at being dismissed so quickly, and then Katy gave a squeal.

“Luca, look!” There, leaning against the fence, were two bikes, both Malvern Stars—a red one and a blue one. That's the one time I really remember Dad coming home happy.

After that, even though I always waited for him and rode home in the truck, it was only good till we pulled up outside the gate, and Dad would just sit there for a minute, looking tired and sad. I'd say, “Are you ready now, Dad?” and he'd smile at me, and we'd go in. I don't really remember many of those times—everything's a bit of a blur: school, waiting for Dad, feeling a bit left out of things with Katy and Mum. Somehow when Dad
was
there, I felt that things had changed in a way I couldn't really work out.

During that time—I suppose over the course of about a year—I came to see that we weren't really the single unit I'd thought we were. Katy and I were pretty much the same—although she was loving having Mum to herself, and they spent a lot of time together—but for the first time in my life, I could see that Dad and Mum weren't really connected any more. Somewhere along the line, they had started to exist as totally separate people, and though I couldn't put it into words then, I remember feeling as though the solid ground under my feet had some cracks in it and they were somehow greatest between my parents.

I need to stop now. The next part I see as the beginning of the end. Just thinking about it starts my chest tightening.

On Saturday, instead of going back to my room after breakfast, a guard leads us past all the rooms and into a large gym. Archie comes alongside of me, his face split in his easy grin.

“So what ya good at, Luca? Footy? Basketball? Soccer?”

I had decided to keep my head down and keep to myself, but I can't help myself—Christ, I'm weak. “Nothing much, Archie. I'm a bit of a short-arse and I'm skinny too, so I never was much good at sport. I like to run, though.”

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.

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.