Raw

by Scott Monk

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll find out. And if you mess this up, so help me, I’ll make you count every rock on this property for the next three months.’

  The pair stormed over to the old stables then into the rear half of them. There was a class inside but Sam didn’t see it. He grabbed a hammer, metal ruler, pencil and handsaw and slapped them into Brett’s hands. ‘You do know how to use these, don’t you?’

  ‘Yer, of —’

  ‘Right, then come with me.’

  He marched back outside, Brett trundling behind him, but Brett mustn’t have been fast enough because Sam snapped at him to hurry up.

  They stopped at the skeleton of the stables so suddenly that Brett nearly ran into Sam’s back. That only made Sam madder.

  ‘See this? I want it finished before March. That’s one and a half months away. I want you to help build it … No, wait a minute. I haven’t finished yet. If you don’t want to go to class then I want you working out here. That means starting at nine o’clock and finishing at three in the afternoon. You’ll still have to go to a couple of classes but we’ll work that out later. No arguments. If —’

  ‘Sam —’

  ‘— you complain it’s too hard or think it’s a chance to goof off then —’

  ‘Sam —’

  ‘— it’s back to class. I’m not —’

  ‘Sam!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  Sam paused and looked at him sceptically.

  ‘I swear. Woodwork was the only subject I was good at at school.’

  ‘Well then you better be good at it here too,’ Sam said. ‘There’s thirty other guys inside who would take your spot if I offered it to them. Do you understand?’

  Brett nodded and said, ‘Don’t worry.’

  And he didn’t need to. For the rest of the day, Brett marked, sawed, hammered and nailed housing frames together until his clothes were covered in sawdust and his palms splintered and callused. The kid in charge, Michael Lydell, set him a few easy tasks at first until he realised Brett knew what he was doing. The work was tough, especially in the thirty-five degree heat, but a whole lot better than sitting in a classroom bored. It was practical. Something more than weeding or writing essays or learning where Istanbul was. Best of all, he was getting “paid” in the way of food for it — Snickers, Cokes, chips, gum. It didn’t seem like much but junk food was as rare as day passes round here.

  None of the guys on site talked to him. Only Michael. But Michael was in charge and paid to talk to him, so he didn’t count. That was okay. He wasn’t here to make friends. He just wanted to finish his time at this dump then get out of here.

  Come three o’clock, it was knock off time. Being the new guy, it was his job to put away the tools (or so he was told). He was hanging for a smoke and managed to scab one off Michael in private. He treasured it. Really. It was the first thing any of the guys had given him except lip.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ Michael said.

  After the guys left, Brett slipped into the back of the old stables. The class had finished hours ago so there was nobody round, leaving Brett with the whole place to himself (horses not included). It was cooler than sitting outside in his usual spot anyway.

  Head back and sitting on a corner bench, Brett exhaled long, slow puffs. He was sweaty and hot and his arms sizzled red with sunburn. His T-shirt and shorts clung to his skin and by the smell of them, they needed a good wash. He was really looking forward to bed that night. After a day like this, he needed the rest.

  A car horn trumpeted outside and Brett heard a few hellos. He rolled his head to the side to check it out. The size of a bottle top, a hole in one of the wall’s timber panels opened an eye to the outside. Brett could see most of the courtyard and part of the dirt track leading into The Farm. A truck approached. Its driver and passenger waved at a group of guys riding Sam’s horses. Thrown over the back of it was a green tarpaulin covering boxes of supplies. The vehicle entered the main courtyard then slowed to a stop. First a tall skinny man stepped out then the girl.

  Hacking on his smoke, Brett jumped off the bench and killed the orange stub. The girl! She was back! Quickly, he brushed the sawdust off himself then slapped his hands clean. With the bottom of his T-shirt he wiped his forehead and reeled back in disgust. Phew! Grabbing a rag from the sink, he gave his chest, neck and arms a rub-down. He reeked of old, dry turps now but anything was better than B.O.

  He was halfway across the courtyard when he slowed down. Up till then he hadn’t stopped to think about what he was doing: rushing out to meet this girl he didn’t really know. His heart had reacted before his head and now, stranded in plain view, he was wondering what he should do. He couldn’t turn back or make out like he was approaching someone else. There was no one else. The only thing he could do was keep walking and hope his tongue didn’t embarrass him.

  ‘Hi,’ he said dryly. ‘Do you need a hand?’

  The girl looked round, paused and brushed back a wisp of hair from her face. Giving him the once — no, twice! — over, she smiled. ‘No, I’m right, thanks.’

  Brett dropped his head and turned away. See! Working himself up over some girl! She probably didn’t like guys anyway.

  Rejected, he started walking back …

  ‘But I could use two hands,’ she called after him.

  Brett swivelled round, unsure what he’d just heard.

  ‘C’mon,’ she added. ‘Do you want to help or not?’

  He looked at her, saw she wasn’t joking then half-grinned. ‘All right!’

  ‘You don’t have to help me,’ the girl said, when he joined her. ‘I get paid to do this, you know.’

  ‘Yer, but moving boxes is my speciality.’

  She looked at him amused. ‘You don’t get out much then do you?’

  ‘Not round here.’

  She smiled politely. ‘Here. I wouldn’t want you to miss out on getting your kicks for the day,’ she said, pushing a box into his hands.

  The contents overbalanced, causing Brett to nearly drop the whole thing. It was heavier than he’d thought. The girl shot out an arm and steadied it for him. ‘Are you sure you don’t need a hand?’ she asked.

  He flushed with stupidity, half-grinned and said he was okay.

  She grabbed a box of her own and headed towards The Boys’ House.

  ‘What’s in the boxes?’ Brett asked.

  ‘Food. And lots of it.’

  ‘Any baked beans?’

  ‘Enough to keep gas mask companies in business for twenty years.’

  Brett groaned, drawing a quiet laugh.

  They entered The House and placed the boxes in the kitchen. He started unpacking them but the girl walked back outside to grab another.

  ‘So who do you work for?’ he asked, catching up with her and desperate to make conversation.

  ‘Thompson’s Store. It’s new in town.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘On the Queensland side.’

  ‘Is that where you live too?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t hold that against me.’

  ‘I won’t if you don’t hold it against me that I’m from New South Wales.’

  ‘And a Mexican.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Just a Queensland joke,’ she explained when she saw that Brett didn’t understand. ‘All people who live south of the border are called Mexicans.’

  Each of them grabbed another box from the truck. The man with black hair the girl had arrived with walked from the homestead onto the verandah alongside Sam and called out, ‘One minute.’

  The girl nodded and hurried her pace.

  ‘Is that your boss?’ Brett asked.

  ‘Yes. Mr Thompson.’

  ‘The one that owns the store?’

  She nodded. ‘And the one who’s always in a hurry.’

  ‘Does he pay well?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ll be able to afford that Mars Bar I’ve been saving up al
l year for.’

  Brett half-grinned as they entered The House together for the last time.

  ‘Do you work at the store full-time?’ he asked outside again.

  ‘No, just part-time. I’m working full-time until the holidays finish in two weeks then it’s back to school.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What year are you in?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  That made her about his age.

  ‘How about you?’ she asked.

  Brett flinched. He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask him that.

  ‘I, er, live here at The Farm,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I know that. But do you still go to school?’

  ‘No, I finished year ten last year. My parents want me to stay on but I don’t know if I want to. I’m not into learning and stuff, you know. I’m kinda hoping to find a job instead.’

  Which wasn’t going to be easy. Employers didn’t exactly welcome guys with long criminal records.

  ‘Maybe you’ll find a job while you’re here.’

  Brett shrugged. ‘Yer, but that would mean moving up here to live. What would I do for friends? I don’t know anybody round here.’

  ‘A good looking guy like you? It wouldn’t take long to find some.’

  Brett’s mind went into meltdown. What did she just say?!

  ‘We have to go,’ Mr Thompson said, hurrying back to the truck and climbing into the cab. ‘We were supposed to be at the Reeds’ place three minutes ago.’

  The girl quickly grabbed the final box from the back of the truck and handed it to Brett.

  ‘Can you put this inside for me?’

  ‘I, er — yeah, okay.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, clambering into the passenger seat.

  ‘Brett, stop hassling that poor girl and get inside now!’ a voice shouted from the verandah. It was Sam. Who else?

  The truck started and Mr Thompson dropped the handbrake. The girl twisted round in her seat and waved, ‘Thanks again for helping. I appreciate it. I owe you one.’

  The truck headed back to the main road before Brett could manage to say goodbye. He stood there watching it leave, trying to recall every word and every move the girl had said and done. All he could remember though was that beautiful smile and the words: “A good looking guy like you”.

  Shaking his head, he allowed himself a smile. But Sam didn’t see the funny side and yelled at him again to get inside. Walking back, Brett realised there was one small problem if he hoped to make this girl like him. The next time they met, he’d have to ask her her name.

  The basketball bounced across the yard until it stopped at Brett’s feet. He bent down, picked it up and passed it back to the guys playing a game of one-on-one under a bug-swamped lightbulb.

  ‘Thanks,’ one of the basketballers said, nodding.

  ‘No problem.’ Brett dusted his hands.

  The two guys went back to their game and he moved on.

  It was too hot inside The yoBs’ House (as it was now known after some joker rearranged the lettering above the front entrance), so Brett had stepped out for a while to enjoy the cool night breeze. It was half an hour before lights out and a lot of the guys were mucking round in the common room or getting ready for bed. So Brett loned it. It wasn’t often a guy got the chance to be by himself in a detention centre anyway. He picked a spot near the homestead and lay back in the soft grass, using his hands as a pillow. A westerly glided over him, bringing with it the buzz of the bush night life.

  He’d survived his first week. It didn’t sound like much but in here each day felt like it was a hundred hours long. He still hated the place and didn’t know if coming back had been the right decision. He always loathed and welcomed the new morning the most. He loathed it because it meant another day of chores and being away from home, but welcomed it because sometimes the nights were dark in more ways than one. The previous night he’d heard muffled screams for about half an hour. After that, just lonely crying. He’d also heard laughter coming from the same room. Brett didn’t know what had happened and didn’t want to.

  During that week, he’d been suffering from mixed emotions. He missed home but not his parents’ nagging. He was glad to be away from it. But there was a sense of loneliness here that he hated. A sense of no emotional support whatsoever. When he did think of home — and it was harder to ignore when you couldn’t get to sleep at night — he tried to block it out with other thoughts. Like the girl.

  She’d been on his mind more than he cared to admit. He had a crush on a girl whose name he didn’t even know. It was embarrassing. He was sixteen — not thirteen and bitten by puppy love. What’s more, he didn’t even know if she liked him. He could be getting all mushy over some chick who mightn’t even cross the road to spit at him. He didn’t want to get burnt again. But try as he might, she was always on his mind. Maybe it was the way she walked. Her face. Her smile. Her spirit. He saw something in her which made him take notice.

  “A good looking guy like you …”

  Why did she say that? It could mean anything. Anything! But secretly he hoped it meant something more.

  A hot, sticky tongue licked his ear and woke him.

  ‘Blue!’ he said, trying to push the cattle dog away from his face. ‘Get off me would you!’

  Brett sat up and managed to restrain her. It didn’t take much. A few scratches along her neck and she was sitting next to him, wanting more.

  Wiping his face, Brett was about to throw a stick for her to chase when he heard Josh’s voice floating through an open window. He and Sam were next door in the homestead.

  ‘Ready to go?’ Josh asked. ‘The bait’s loaded onto the ute and the tank’s full. I reckon we can poison most of the mice in the east field tonight.’

  ‘One thing first,’ Sam said. ‘I’ve been thinking about the fight the other day in the mess hall between Brett Dalton and Tyson Jones. You don’t know anything about that do you?’

  ‘Only what I saw.’

  ‘You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?’

  ‘No! Definitely not. Why?’

  ‘Because I thought it might have something to do with your fight in the bathroom.’

  ‘No. Tyson probably took on Dalton because Dalton’s bad news. He’s got an attitude problem.’

  ‘That, and the fact that no one’s forgiven him for running away and getting them all into trouble, huh? Don’t look surprised. I’ve been watching to see how the guys would react. It’s true isn’t it? Josh?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Well, I want you to pass on the word that it ends now. Got it? I know he’s caused some trouble round here, but he’s taking time to settle in. You’re all like that when you first come here. You yourself should know that.’ Josh still didn’t say anything so Sam added, ‘If there are any problems, tell me first. I’ll deal with them. Not the boys. Okay? Brett’s been here a week now —’

  ‘Does that include Tuesday and Wednesday?’

  ‘Josh,’ Sam warned. ‘I’ve dealt with that. Brett wanted a second chance so I gave it to him. He probably learnt more in those two days than he cares to admit.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ring the cops?’

  ‘The same reason I didn’t ring them either of the times you ran away. I knew you were smart enough to come back. And I would’ve rung them if Brett had stayed out there any longer.’

  The stablehand stayed quiet. Brett could imagine him glaring at Sam across a desk, wanting to curse and shout the old man down but deciding against it because they were “friends”.

  He couldn’t help but grin. Not because Josh was copping flak but because Sam was sticking up for him. Also, Brett found it interesting to learn that Mr Goody Two Football Boots wasn’t as perfect as he’d imagined.

  A minute later, the flyscreen slapped open. Led by a bitter Josh, Sam stepped out onto the verandah and casually closed the door behind him. It was Brett’s cue to leave. He threw the stick for Blue to chase then slipped back inside The House.

  He made
it as far as the common room before hidden hands grabbed him in the darkness! They seized his mouth, arms, legs and chest. Frantically, he lashed out to free himself with his elbows and feet. He bit down on the fingers gagging his mouth but a slap to the temple quickly sent his mind spinning.

  Dazed, Brett was aware he was being lugged down a corridor before stopping. The voices said the coast was clear then dragged him into what he guessed was a bedroom. With a thump, he was thrown onto the ground. His head hit the floorboards but fear overcame the pain. He had to get out of there!

  ‘No you don’t, Pretty Boy!’

  Two hands pushed his shoulders back onto the ground, while two others held his ankles. A knee slammed into his chest and he couldn’t breathe. He tried yelling for help, but a fifth hand silenced him.

  ‘Stop squirming! It’ll only make things worse!’

  It was Tyson. It had to be. And the two guys holding him down had to be his thugs. Brett knew he was dead.

  ‘You just don’t know how to keep out of trouble, do you? Staying outside after curfew is a no-no round here, haven’t you heard? Or were you thinking of making another break for it and getting the rest of us grounded again? Huh?’

  The knee again.

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘Let’s make sure he remembers this time,’ one of the thugs said.

  ‘Yer,’ the other joined in. ‘Cut off the Pretty Boy’s hair.’

  Brett’s eyes widened. He flailed about to get them off him! But it was hopeless. Tyson crushed his knee even deeper into his chest. He yanked up a handful of Brett’s hair then started sawing off tufts with some sort of blade.

  Brett screamed. But no one was listening.

  He tapped his plastic shaver on the edge of the sink, watching as blood and the rest of his hair swirled down the plughole. He hadn’t dared look in the mirror yet. He knew what he’d see. They’d done this to him! They’d attacked him and threatened him and taken away something that was his! And what had remained was not worth keeping. Getting rid of the remnants was the final humiliation.

  He still didn’t look at himself when he turned the bathroom lights off. He couldn’t. He had to get out of there. Hugging himself, Brett dragged his feet back to his room. He had to hide.