by Duff, Alan
The game was over. ‘A’ Wing had won. Voices came closer. Then drifted away, as if even though passing directly outside his celled residence no one cared. Unless they were too scared because it was one of the rules?
He sat down on the bed again. He took his pyjamas from under the pillow and ran his hands appreciatively over them. Boy, they’re so soft. So soft it stirred him sexually. Becky Royal’s face came floating into his mind. And he took a wary look at the peephole. Nope. Not worth trying. Be terrible being caught. So he ached in his loins. Had to stand up and walk round and round on his three by three-and-a-bit circuit. The feeling eventually died.
He heard the strangest of sounds. Took a long time puzzling before he realised it was the trampoline someone was bouncing on. The voices he next heard from the same direction were muffled. Laughter. Giggling. Made him giggle, too. Till he jumped with fright at a voice coming as if right behind him: “Hey! Cellblock kid? Ya still in there?”
Up on the bed he sprang. “Yep. I’m here.”
His heart going a hundred mile an hour with excitement; at the human contact, and the fact it was definitely the same voice — cheeky voice — of yesterday.
“I’m still here …” Charlie when the voice didn’t follow up.
“Well, course ya there. Where else’d ya be — bloody Auckland?”
Charlie frozen there. Then his grin spread, and yet not quite sure. Not knowing what to say, nor whether to laugh.
“What, you a dryballs or sumpin’?”
“What’s that?”
“Can’t ya laugh?”
Charlie broke out grinning then, though he stifled the actual laughter.
“Oh, I might be.”
“It don’t sound like it. What are ya — a doink?”
“A what?” Charlie didn’t like the sound of that one.
“A doink, bud.”
Charlie took a deep breath. Sweat of fear broken out on his forehead. He sucked in again.
“I’ll remember you, boy.” Though it came out squeaky, not tough as he’d wanted.
“You’re still a doink. Anyway, how’ll you know me? You got Superman eyes then? Hahaha. X-ray vision, mate?”
Charlie felt let down. Disappointed. As the apparent friendliness turned to hostility. He thought he’d try and butter the situation up. “My name’s Charlie.”
“That’s right? I thought it was Clark Kent — HAHAHAHAHA!”
But so was Charlie laughing loudly, couldn’t help himself.
A thought occurred to Charlie. “Your name’s not George is it?”
“Whatsit to ya?”
Sounded like something, a phrase, he’d picked up how kids do.
“Just wondering.”
“Just wondering,” came the cheeky echo. Had Charlie bothered that all the kids might be confident, smartarse, self-assured like this. And then where would that leave a boy from Appleby, Two Lakes, who knew he didn’t have no confidence? Or not the kind that this kid seemingly had. (I can fight — I think). Charlie trying to find something he could take strength from.
“So how old’re you?” Charlie asked.
“Old ’nuff,” the reply came.
“Enough for what — be outta your nappies?” (There, take that.)
“Give you nappies when you come out — if you come out.” Smart-mouth pausing, and Charlie instantly alarmed in that pause.
“A fulla died in there not so long ago.”
“Yeah, yeah, pull the other one.”
“Pull your cock — HAHAHAHA!”
“Very funny, I must say.”
“He died in your cell, too. Know what happened?”
“I’m not scared ya know.” (Oh, but I am). Charlie looking around him, already a picture summoning forth of some kid just his age lying dead on the floor. Or maybe he died in the bed?
“Sideways,” said Cheeky.
“Side what?”
“Sideways, boy. Doncha know what sideways is? Committed sideways. Suicide in there. Your room, bud.”
Charlie waiting for a chuckle that didn’t come. “Bullshit!”
“Not bullshit. His name was —”
Charlie in his mind saying, George? Not George, surely?
“— Peter. Peter Stavely. And ya know what? One a the boys here had to go in and clean up all the shit the kid did when he died. And that’s no shit. Bye.”
Charlie could hear the scampering feet of departure, the laughter.
He stood in the corner furthest from the bed. Shivering. Staring at an image in his mind of a teenage boy — just like me — lying on that bed. And stenching of his own emptied bowels.
4
LIFE GOES ON
Never had freedom meant so much — hadn’t meant anything till a kid got let out of the cell after three days. Charlie being escorted round the complex by Miss Eccles, drinking it in. Savouring it, the relatively wide open spaces of being able to see.
There were two wings of sleeping places; rooms either side of corridors and dormitory at each end. Newcomers slept in the dorms, till they did enough to earn themselves their own room. The passageway connecting the two wings was the laundry, which, Charlie was informed by the kindly Miss Eccles, served as the canteen on a Friday night.
“Canteen? Like at school?”
“Yes, similar. But not the range of goodies to purchase.”
Sweets the main items, and even then not a lot to choose from. Every boy got a wage — except those on punishment for the duration of however many days they were given — and it varied; from the kitchen workers, who did six-day weeks and started very early, they got nearly a pound, to the Home-confined boys, usually the newcomers like Charlie, who did cleaning duties and got taught the ropes, as well as assessed for schooling, they got three shillings a week. The threat of loss of privileges, which was the wage first and then it was recreation time, including rugby, and other activities, kept the boys on best behaviour — most of the time.
Rules, rules, everywhere rules. Place shoulda been called Riverton Boys’ Home of Rules and Regulations, Charlie thought.
“Clean those washbasins.”
“But I have, sir.”
“Not near good enough. Get in around the taps, they’re where the germs gather.”
Grumbling, but under your breath or you were for the high jump. Always the high jump. Loss of privs. Even when a boy had yet to earn his first week’s privileges to start with.
Clean. Clean. Clean. The nuts were obsessed with having everything sparkling clean.
“And don’t forget up underneath the basins, nor the toilets under the inside rims, and don’t be screwing your face up at cleaning toilets, everyone has to clean their toilets, even the Queen has her toilet cleaned.”
It occurred to a boy that his toilet at home was, in fact, in a state of permanent filthiness. But he wasn’t about to confess that to anyone, let alone a housemaster.
The passage floors had to be rubbed down with polish by hand. Then it was the polishing machine, which was worse than a wild animal as it bucked and bolted all over the place, and yet the experienced kids could do it one hand — and they did. Loved to show off how they had fingertip control of the same machine that, for Charlie, shot one way then the next, slammed against the wall skirting, had a boy in such a panic he was more often than not deserting the machine to race for the off switch, forgetting it had a switch on the machine itself. But control came. Slowly, like many of the daunting things around here, it came.
So did the threats. No reason. Just a kid, always older, coming up to Charlie and telling him he was gonna be got. In the gym. Or in the toilets. Or outside on the footie field. Or round by the trampoline. Or behind the gym. Or in the table-tennis room. Or in the dorms when the housemasters weren’t around. But no reason given.
So far only threats. But Charlie worried. And wondering where his physical courage had gone, when in Two Lakes, at his school and outside of it, in the streets of Appleby, he was pretty good with his dukes. For some reason that had d
eserted him. So he copped the threats without a word, nor a return look of his own threat. Trying to avoid the long list of places where an attack was promised to take place. But they were unavoidable. So unable to concentrate on the activity, table tennis, bouncing on the tramp, being in the toilet, as he waited to be attacked. But it did not come.
Day ended at 8.30 pm with everyone in their rooms but with fifteen minutes of free time to mingle, visit friends in single rooms, or come down to the dorm and sit around and talk. And have a fight. Charlie witnessed his first fight. And boy, was it vicious: kneeing, kicking, elbows used, and plenty of punches. Charlie thinking how much tougher were these kids than what he was used to. So further fretting at his turn coming.
Lights out at quarter to nine. No talking. And that means no talking. Though that applied to the dorms since who to talk with in a single room? Doors locked at night. Windows secured from the outside, and anyway with mesh over them in the case of the dorms. They told Charlie the dorm boys were considered escape risks, and was Charlie thinking, hahahaha, of escaping? he got oh so innocently asked by an intending betrayer — he could hear it in the tone, the little chuckle.
“Nope, not me, I wanna go home.”
“Oh, well, if you are thinking of escaping … let me know,” this particular kid, Richard, the obvious pimp.
Whispered exchanges of information in Charlie’s dorm: of where he was from.
“Two Lakes.”
“What part?”
“Appleby. You been there?”
“No, just wondering.”
“Why wonder when you ain’t been there?”
“Cos you might be a doink.”
Charlie puzzled at the secret logic of language, at how they changed from being serious to downright stupid. And never any reason given. Only that: cos you might be a doink.
“Are you a doink?”
“No, course I’m not. I don’t even know what one is.”
“Well, take a look in the mirror in the morning.” Chuckling away at him, a chorus of them, since he was newest.
The second night, just going off to sleep when a voice hissed: “Hey! Who’s pulling himself?”
Silence.
Charlie horrified, aware suddenly at the lack of privacy. How did a kid do just that without being found out? But it wasn’t him. Last thing on his mind.
“That you, new boy?”
Had Charlie so embarrassed it enraged him. “You come over here and say that. I’ll punch your face in.”
Hearing, to his alarm, the voice say, “Righto. I’m coming over!”
Rustle of blankets. Twitter from the other beds. Heart slamming against his chest, Charlie fearful his temper’d bit him off more than he could chew. But leaping out of bed anyway.
“Come on.” His bluff a hollow echo in the dark. But only the restrained laughter of his room-mates, five of them, as reply. He didn’t even know which bed to aim his fighting stance at.
“The doink’s wild.” Laughter from several.
“Come on and fight then.” Charlie wilder still with embarrassment.
“The doink was pulling himself.” It came from another bed.
“I bloody was not!”
“Then why’re ya breathing so hard? HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
All of ’em laughing at him.
“You’ll be breathing hard in a minute. You —”
Too late, Charlie heard the key in the door but he didn’t have time to react when the world got flooded in light. Mr Dekka standing there, with a torch in his hand. Still on. Like his eyes had a glow in them. Of anger.
“Wilson, what on earth are you doing out of bed?”
“I — Nothing, sir.”
Dekka coming forward. Charlie in two minds whether to jump back into bed or stand and face his punishment.
“Why, Wilson?” The face came right up close to his. Charlie could smell his pipe-smoker breath. Foul.
“I —” But how to give the reason?
“Sir, someone said he was pulling himself,” a voice piped up that Charlie recognised in an instant, just as he knew the face but had never spoken to it. Giggling.
Charlie went red all over. Didn’t know where to look. He heard the change in Mr Dekka’s tone:
“And were you, Charles?”
“No!”
“Nothing to be ashamed of, boy. Every teenage boy does it.”
“No!”
Then he heard Dekka asking, “Who accused Wilson?” No answer. “Tom, do you know?”
“No, sir. I only heard someone say he was, you know. Was dark then.”
“Oh, I think you know all right, Tommy Patene. But you’re just not saying. Fair enough. Not worth your hide, I realise.” Then he turned to Charlie. “But that doesn’t excuse you breaking the cardinal dormitory rule after lights are out. Report to the office in the morning.”
“Sir, no harm was done,” Charlie protested.
“And no back chat either, Wilson. Or else.”
In the morning, thanking the kid, Tommy Patene.
“Oh, that’s all right. Was me gave you cheek when you were in the cellblock.”
“I know that,” Charlie laughing, warming instantly to the boy who wouldn’t have been much more than five foot. Even laughing when Tommy asked, “But you weren’t, you know, were you?”
Day began at 6.45 am. To “Rise and shine!” from the two duty housemasters to each wing. Out of bed, get bedroll made up, try and remember the complication of folds. But it had to pass a score-marked inspection straight after showers.
Shower just two minutes and four boys at a time, a transparent shower curtain, a housemaster standing at the door calling, “Time’s up! Next four!”
His first group shower, Charlie shy about it. And— oh! — an erection that wouldn’t go down!
“Sir — can’t shower —”
“Yes you can.”
“But I can’t.”
“You can and you will. Who’s interested in your stiffy, Wilson?” Which took some of Charlie’s embarrassment away. Though it was the sight of one of the boys walking with a towel suspended on the same embarrassment Charlie was having trouble with that had him drop his towel and step into the shower. Wondering if it wasn’t a madhouse he’d been sent to by mistake. Yet absurdly happy! But deeply sad, too.
Change into work clothes or school uniform. Bedroll inspection, some boys not good enough. Marks lost. They all add up. Then outside to the concrete parade area.
“Ten shun!”
Stand rigid for clothing and personal pride inspection. And don’t forget the fingernails.
“Filthy! Next time it’ll be a day’s loss of privileges.”
“Yessir.”
Inside to the dining-room, breakfast. In an orderly line down the corridor.
“There’s the rec room, to the right rear of the dining-room. Fridays they have movies.”
“Movies?” Charlie in disbelief. “So where’s the guards and bars and terrible punishments?”
“There isn’t. It’s just being away from your home. And always being bossed around. You’ll see, Charlie.”
Sat at tables of four. Everything spotless and perfectly laid out. Right down to knife with cutting edge turned in. Stainless steel everything: milk jug, dish with the four exact same butter pats, bowl with the three teaspoons per boy to last the day and you better not try and take another boy’s ration, not the sugar, that’s the most important thing on the table. Other than the main food.
Porridge every morning. Followed by a boiled egg and toast one morning. A dollop of runny scrambled egg another. Saturdays, Charlie was told, a sausage. With tomato sauce. Two if the cook was in a good mood.
“Watch her, the cook, Mrs Rosser, she’s a Maori and she’s a wild one. Says she grew up eating caught sparrows and blackbirds to live on. That she and her brothers and sisters had to catch all their own meat, from birds to eels to huhu bugs.”
“Huhu bugs? Yuk!”
“‘Good for you,’ she says. That’s
her, the big woman with the hairy warts on her chin. Scary ain’t she?”
After breakfast and the place near emptied as boys headed off for school. Several schools, according to how they were assessed in the I.Q. tests. Left only the new boys and, Charlie found out, those who were taking a while to settle and therefore considered security risks. Though from what Charlie had seen of the layout it was no big deal running away from here. And he was still determined that way. Even if he did think of the cell as the possible outcome. (If they catch me, that is.)
The bulk gone, it was cleaning all morning for those remaining. Lunch was soup and two bread rolls. Left a kid only half full, and an endless afternoon in the garden working to think about it.
The gardens and the boilerhouse were Mr Weston’s. A boy knew within an hour of being under the huge man’s supervision that the gardens, the boilerhouse, all the area encompassed within it was his. Personally. Or that’s how he acted.
“You confounded blithering idiot!” was Mr Weston’s standard roar at every little smallest thing that didn’t meet his approval. Out there in the cold, digging up a new area for spring sowing, as big as a footie field it seemed. Dig a spadeful, drop the spade, shake the clump by its long weed growth, dig up another. Back aching, blisters on hands bleeding. And ears every regular while receiving a burst from the giant old man who used to be a cop.
The school kids arriving home around four-thirty. Time for the at-home boys to knock off. But not before they had their spades shining clean of every speck of dirt and put away in the proper, paint-shadowed place on a nail in the shed. Each spade with a number, and each day signed to a boy so Mr Weston knew who to roar at the next day or the same day for not cleaning it to perfection. Oh, life, what did a boy do to deserve this?
Least the garden boys got an extra shower, even if it was only two minutes under the watchful eye of the housemaster timing it to the second. A choice of run around in the gym, or sitting around in your own wing’s rec room where the Maori boys liked to gather and sing songs to the accompaniment of one of them playing guitar. And boy could they sing, as well play the gat. All of them. Charlie drawn to them.
