Disharmony

by Leah Giarratano

  There was a flurry of whistles and catcalls, and then they’d cheered.

  Samantha had bent forward, hands on knees, sucking air. Mirela had dropped to the wet ground beside her, cradling her head in her hands.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Samantha had managed, a hand on her best friend’s shoulder.

  She got nothing.

  ‘Mirela, are you all right?’

  ‘Chill, Sam,’ said Mirela, breathing hard, her voice muffled by her hands. ‘I’m okay. But why are you so worried about me when you nearly became the wife of the fattest king in the world?’ Mirela raised her face and tried to smile. Stripes of blood were congealing on a livid graze on her cheek.

  Fonso and several of the kids spread some rags and newspapers out on a concrete ledge. Samantha dropped gratefully into the nest, and looked up at Birthday. His eye was swollen shut. ‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘Look at your face.’

  ‘You should see yours,’ he said, with dimples.

  She prodded at her swollen mouth. She felt a few tears escape her lashes. Only feeling everyone’s eyes on her stopped her from giving in to the sobs that pushed relentlessly at the back of her throat.

  ‘I just don’t know why the king would send those freaks after us,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘What the hell is going on? And who was doing the shooting up there?’

  ‘Well, firstly,’ said Birthday, lifting the bottom of his T-shirt to carefully wipe her face, ‘I don’t think it was the king who sent them.’

  ‘You don’t?’ she said.

  ‘Nope. Not his style. He would have sent his goons to bring you in. But I’ve never seen anyone like them around here before. How would he know people like that? And the way my Aunt Crina told it, he definitely wouldn’t have wanted you hurt. I think he likes you a little too much, Sam. Anyway, you should have seen who the shooter was! Okay, so there are these old dudes up there who play cards at lunchtime at the same table, every day, since I’ve been working – and I’ve been working those streets since I was five.’

  ‘Guaril and Gudada,’ yelled Fonso, beaming, slapping hands with the two kids closest to him.

  ‘Yep, that’s them all right. Anyway, Gudada does not like anyone wrecking his lunch hour,’ he said.

  ‘No, Gudada does not,’ said Fonso, letting loose with some breakdancing, his moves in time with his speech, unable to contain his happiness with this part of the story.

  ‘So when the Mercedes came around the corner…’ began Birthday.

  ‘Yeah, when the ninja-mobile took out their card table…’ Fonso interrupted, moonwalking.

  ‘Fonso, would you please…’ said Birthday.

  ‘Sorry, B,’ said Fonso. ‘You go ahead.’ He did some popping and locking to prove he meant it.

  Birthday sighed. ‘Well, anyway,’ he said. ‘It was Gudada doing the shooting. I don’t know whether he was more pissed about them trying to abduct you or because they ruined his game. Whatever it was, he just took out that old pistola he’s always packing and started shooting. It was pretty cool, man.’

  ‘Too cool,’ said Fonso, eyes wide. ‘He shot that scarred freak holding you! And when he went down the party really started. Those Buddhist monk dudes dropped their nunchucks and pulled out Uzis!’

  Fonso shook his head reverently, beaming a lottery winner’s smile.

  ‘Then they pulled their friend into the car,’ said Birthday.

  ‘And that catwoman-on-acid finally joined them,’ said Mirela.

  ‘And they took off, shooting at the cops,’ said Fonso. ‘Best day ever, man. For real.’

  ***

  When Samantha woke again, she decided to give up on the sleeping idea. The moon was pale and fat, the sky bruised black-purple. Dawn herself was only just waking up and wouldn’t be dressed for another hour.

  Samantha stretched silently. Spread out around her, mounds of bedding dotted the camp like mutant mushrooms sprung up overnight. Her family slept on under the stars, relishing these months when they could camp in the open before winter set in and sent them all, frozen and miserable, back to their trucks and vans. She could barely hear the horses, shuffling, asleep on their feet under the trees in the same spot they’d dined with the gypsy king. Although that lunch had been just the day before yesterday, it felt as though it had happened a month ago.

  She hadn’t met any of the new horses yet. Last night Lala wouldn’t even allow her to walk as far as the paddock.

  Upside down beside her, Oody twitched and spasmed, his paws padding the sky as he chased dream rabbits. She smoothed her hand gently over the soft down on his belly and wriggled carefully away from him. He rolled onto his side, stiffened his limbs in a stretch, and then snuffled back to sleep. When she’d tiptoed across camp just before midnight to ask Tamas if she could take him for the night, he hadn’t even glanced at her. He’d just clicked his tongue and nudged Oody out of his sleeping roll. What she’d done to him she had no idea. Did he really think she’d just enjoyed a lovely adventure in town? And he’d heard Milosh’s screams and banging from the caravan, so why did he have to give her attitude too?

  She raised her hands to the sky and stretched. She loved this hour. Not even old Nuri was awake. She breathed deeply, the air sweet with wood smoke, black pine trees and horses. She shrugged her long-sleeved T-shirt over her singlet, grabbed her night bag and padded barefoot over to the remains of the fire. As quietly as she could, she removed a thick branch and a few sticks from the woodpile, adding them to the fire, prodding carefully at the red glow under the feathers of ash. Nuri would soon be here with the baby to tend the fire, but she’d find it a little easier this morning.

  The previous night Lala had made her swear that she would not leave the camp alone, but Samantha knew she could get to the river and back before it was light. Stealing across the edges of the camp, she broke into a run when she was out of earshot. Her shoulder ached, but she found herself smiling anyway as the pre-dawn air swept across the skin on her face, hot with swelling and fatigue. She stopped running before she reached the horses – she didn’t want to startle them. Clicking softly, she gave them plenty of space as she cleared the trees. They flicked sleepy ears at her as she passed.

  The sky had deepened from indigo to lilac by the time she reached the bush path leading down to the river. She paused, suddenly shaky, at the leafy entry. It was still night-time in there. The projector in her mind clicked on again with an image of Scarface jumping out from behind a tree, lopping her head off with the sword.

  She shook her head to scatter the ridiculous picture and stepped onto the path. She’d walked this track a thousand times: with others and alone, in sunshine and rain, and at midnight. Scarface and his crew could not possibly be in there. They’d have had to have crossed the camp to reach this spot, and the dogs would have gone berserk.

  For the first few minutes, until her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she had to make do with her memory of the way down to the river. She trod carefully, hoping to avoid sharp rocks and sleeping creatures. The path was narrow in places, and leaves and branches slapped and scratched at her when she strayed from the track. But when the path widened and she heard the water, her bunched shoulders dropped a little and she jogged lightly the rest of the way down to the river’s edge.

  At this point in the river, the bush made way for a sandy beach of sorts, and the moon shone down, round and bright. Just around the bend, the trees marched all the way down, planting their feet permanently in the water. And over the other side of the river, almost impossible to see now, rocky ledges made perfect diving platforms.

  With a shiver, Samantha stripped. She dropped her shirt, singlet and briefs onto a rock and, naked, squelched through the night-cold sand to the water. The full moon fractured and re-formed endlessly on the rippling surface and she paused at the edge, the river lapping at her toes. She took a deep breath and raised her arms high over her head. She sent a gypsy prayer out quietly across the shivering waters.

  Oh Goddess Gaia, source of Gods
and Mortals,

  All-fertile, all-destroying, mother of all,

  Immortal, blessed, crowned with every grace,

  As You fly across the beauteous stars, eternal and divine,

  Come, Goddess Gaia, and hear the prayers of Your daughter,

  Draw near, and bless me.

  Samantha walked into the river.

  Despite the hour, the water was refreshing but not cold. It felt delicious on her bruised face and swollen mouth. She washed quickly and stepped out, dripping. It was a little lighter already. She had to get back. They’d kill her for coming down here alone. Lala had told her she wouldn’t be allowed to go to the Carnivale tomorrow, and she’d even hinted that she wouldn’t take her to the very last of the midsummer festivals tonight.

  Sam knew Lala would never get away with that, though. The other witches would tell all their best clients that she wasn’t there and then there’d be trouble. She slipped back into her singlet and pyjama pants. Birthday Jones had told her that the Roma witches were now gossiping about her all the time, angry that many of their best customers were trekking out to their camp for Sam’s readings, abandoning the witches in town.

  The old frauds, she thought. They’re just jealous. Maybe they’d keep their customers if they actually told the truth about what they saw in the cards, rather than always making up nightmares that would supposedly come true if they didn’t get more money.

  She sighed. She and Lala had also done their share of that. They’d been paid by plenty of Gaje women to bless amulets and perform love spells tonight.

  Lala will have to take me, she decided. If I’m not there, I’ll bet my tarot deck that those old crones will take out a newspaper ad to tell the world about it.

  She gathered up some of the dew-wet herbs that grew close to the riverbank, wrapping them in her T-shirt. A peace-offering for Lala in case she was caught returning – herbs and flowers collected at dawn were required for the potions they needed to make for the rituals tonight.

  Sam loved midsummer, and all the gypsy rituals and festivals built up around the season. Well, most of it, anyway. What she couldn’t get used to was the guilt she felt being associated with the Roma witches. She knew that most of them were just in it for the hustle. And whether they believed they had special powers or not – and most of them seemed to have convinced themselves that they did – they rolled out the same script to all their clients. It was pitifully simple really, she thought, moving quickly back along the brightening path. In the very beginning, Lala had told her that ninety-five per cent of their customers would be female, and that seventy per cent of them would have a love-life problem. The other thirty per cent was split fifteen (money issues), to ten (the cursed), to five (health problems).

  As she’d been learning the craft, she’d felt worst about the Gaje who were sick, or who came to see them terrified that someone they loved was going to die. She could feel their fear, their desperation, but more than that, with the unwell, she came to smell, to almost taste, their illness: a foul and putrid energy sucking and gnawing at its host. The stench grew so strong it became in her mind a creature, a monstrously fat, syrupy slug – a blonde and sticky tubular beast grown fleshy and fetid on her clients’ innards. It was eyeless, with only a round needletooth-ringed mouth that was always open and feeding.

  When the image had first popped into her mind during a reading with an ageing Gaje grandma – Mrs Ungur – Samantha had screamed. Lala had apologised profusely, and tried to take over the session, but Mrs Ungur had stood, obviously in great pain, begging for Samantha to continue.

  ‘You can see it!’ she’d cried, papery hands outreached. ‘You see it. It hurts. Help me!’

  Samantha had stared at the woman, horrified. She’d tried to go back to the reading but she could only see the slug chewing flesh lazily, and before she could turn the next card she had run from the caravan, sobbing.

  Her cheeks now burned with the memory as she ran through the bush. She’d prayed every night for Mrs Ungur, who had died within a week. She’d tried to forgive herself; she’d been only nine at the time.

  Since then, she’d learned to ignore the slug. She’d discovered a way of making him see-through in her mind, translucent. It helped her to continue the session without any nausea, the way Lala wanted her to, and she’d embedded into every reading special prayers to the Goddess Gaia, asking Her to help her client. And something weird had happened. Many of her sick clients recovered. Like, much more frequently than they should have, according to their doctors. And word had spread, slowly at first, but by the time she was twelve, the Gaje knew exactly which towns Milosh’s camp would be visiting next, and she and Lala would almost always have a full day of work, five days a week, even when the roads were closed because of snow.

  She’d heard Lala and Esmeralda arguing late at night, when they thought she was asleep, about the jealousy of the other Roma witches and what they could do to protect her. She’d also heard Milosh, constantly cursing in his drunken, ferocious voice, pressuring Lala to make her work harder. Lala always stood up to him, until one night Milosh had slapped her down – his own mother – sending her to the floor of the caravan with a closed-fist swing.

  Drawing close to the camp now, Samantha thought about that terrible night. She’d sprung from her bed, ignoring Lala’s number one rule: never disobey Milosh. She’d launched herself, fists flying, at the only man who fit the definition of ‘father’, in that she’d lived under his roof for as long as she’d been conscious of anything at all. That night, though, he’d been her enemy. One of her blows connected, but it had merely landed harmlessly on his hairy chest.

  He’d punched her to the ground, where she cowered next to Lala, and suddenly it had seemed as if the air in the van had become hot and blood-red, seared to boiling point by Milosh’s anger. It sprayed from his scalp, shoulders and eyeballs in a fine crimson mist, smearing all surfaces in fury. She had learned early on, when she was only four or five, that others didn’t see such things, but for her that red haze had been as real as Lala’s tears. And it had grown thicker as Milosh reached for her. Lala had wailed, clutching at Samantha, and her son had kicked out at Lala’s ribs, her cries ceasing with a woof of pain as the air was booted from her lungs. Then he’d reached for Samantha…

  Right now, remembering, Samantha stumbled in the grass near the horses as she realised something.

  She’d done it then too!

  The buttery light, the honeyed energy, the glow through her skin. She had pushed. She’d been terrified for Lala and suddenly the red wash in the van became watery, as though someone stood with a hose at the door, jetting it away. Milosh had stared at her in astonishment and then terror; he’d dropped her and run from the caravan. Now his eyes hooded when they met, and he glanced away quickly.

  And he’d never touched her again.

  Samantha’s heart raced. So I made Milosh put me down, she thought. And I did the same thing yesterday with that psycho with the sword.

  She tiptoed back through the sleeping bundles at the campsite. Only Nuri was awake, the old woman prodding expertly at the fire. Thank Gaia she hadn’t yet put the big black coffee kettle onto the coals – the scent of Nuri’s coffee could wake the dead.

  What exactly did I do? she wondered. How does it work? Can I do it again?

  As she approached the fire, Nuri caught her eye, gave her a wide, toothless grin, and winked.

  Dwight Juvenile Justice Detention Centre, Sydney, Australia

  June 29, 10.12 a.m.

  Although every surface of the huge industrial kitchen in the Dwight Complex was polished to a gleaming shine, Luke always thought it smelled funny. Lurking beneath the soap and disinfectant was a very faint, dank aroma, something dark and dirty, like an old onion had rolled under a cabinet and was moulding and rotting away, reminding him that nothing in here was ever really clean.

  Facing him, across the shining tiles of the kitchen, stood a less subtle example of this fact. Chef Nick. One elbow leani
ng against the handle of the giant upright dishwasher, the other hand, as always, holding a cigarette, Chef Nick looked like no one you wanted around your food.

  ‘He’s the head of the kitchen?’ whispered Zac.

  Luke raised his eyebrows. Grinned.

  During his second week here, when he’d first laid eyes on Chef Nick, Luke had determined to eat nothing that wasn’t sealed in a package. Nick had long, grey, greasy hair, and the top of his head was usually wrapped in a faded bandana darkened with sweat at the brow line. Luke had never seen him without a cigarette between his yellowed fingers, and he’d quickly joined Dorm Four’s obsession with watching and waiting for the inevitable long cylinder of ash to tumble from the end. Nick’s face was always glossy with sweat. Luke figured that the grease was doing a great job of feeding the twin patches of acne that pocked his cheeks. The white-tipped pustules were always plump and angry-looking.

  But Luke had quickly learned that he didn’t have to worry about Chef Nick dropping ash into the food. Chef Nick did none of the cooking or cleaning in Dwight. That was what Catering Studies Lab was for. From week two on, every inmate of Dwight had CSL once a day, and if you were put on punishment, you got two or three CSL ‘lessons’ a day.

  CSL stood for Child Slave Labour as far as Luke was concerned. He figured he’d peeled a thousand potatoes in here, scrubbed the gunk from two hundred twenty-litre pots, and had rubbed his hands raw at least thirty times making these tiles gleam.

  Now that Zac had been here for a week, Luke thought, he had a lot to look forward to each day in CSL.