Raw (9 page)

 

Brett stopped sawing for a minute to lift up his shirt. His gut was red, swollen and likely to bruise. It felt like he had a venomous snake twisting inside. Tyson had hit him good and embarrassed him in front of everyone. He was grateful, however, that the big inmate had a bad aim because any higher and he would've broken bones.

‘Dalton! Get back to work!'

Brett twisted his head and snarled at Mr Andrews. ‘Try sawing a tree trunk in half when someone's
smashed in your stomach, Sweathead.'

Grabbing the handle again, Brett continued sawing the felled trunk, which was being cut up to be sold as firewood. He'd been doing it for two hours now. By making him saw the tree, Sam hoped he would channel the rest of his aggro into his work. Fat chance. Not while Tyson was twenty metres away doing the same thing.

The big inmate — stripped down to his shorts and enjoying the work — laughed at Brett when Mr Andrews turned away. ‘Get back to work, Pretty Boy,' he mocked, blowing him a kiss. That riled Brett even more and he attacked the tree furiously.

An hour later, Mr Andrews said they'd learnt their lesson and were dismissed. But on one condition — that they stay away from each other. That was fine by Brett. Well, at least for now. He found a tap nearby, drank from it and washed his hands and face. After seeing that he had another thirty minutes before lunch, he hid behind a large, shady gum then pulled out his cigarette pack. He looked at the last one the truck driver had given him then slowly pulled it out.

‘You've finished sawing, huh?'

Brett jumped, dropping his fag. He'd been caught off guard! Tyson could easily finish him off.

‘Hey! Relax! It's just me!'

Brett lowered his defences and picked up his smoke as Frog sat down beside him. ‘Don't ever sneak up on me, kid. I usually don't wait to see who it is.'

‘Everyone's talking about the fight,' the twelve-year-old said.

‘Oh yer? What are they saying?'

‘That Tyson should've finished you off.'

Brett breathed smoke through his nostrils. ‘Now why doesn't that surprise me?'

‘It's only because everyone's afraid of him, you know.'

‘Doesn't anyone stand up to him?'

‘No way. He runs this place. Everyone does what he and his friends say. Except maybe Josh.'

‘Why Josh? Is he “in” with Tyson and his crew?'

‘No, they hate each other. Tyson doesn't like Josh because he thinks Josh tries to live like a white man. And Josh says Tyson is the kind of person that gives black people a bad name.'

‘So why isn't Josh scared of Tyson?'

‘Nobody knows. Maybe because everyone likes Josh, and Tyson knows fighting him would put everyone off-side.'

Yer, everyone liked him except Brett.

‘Tell me something. Josh has served his time, right?'

‘Yep.'

‘He works for Sam now as a stablehand?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘So what was he originally in for?'

Frog screwed up his face. ‘I don't know. No one really knows. He doesn't talk about it. We only know he's been here for a long time.'

‘Why doesn't he leave then?'

‘It's got something to do with his family. They don't want him or they're dead.'

Brett leaned back and thought about that for a minute.

‘How about Tyson? What's he in for?'

‘Everything,' Frog shrugged. ‘Assault. Drugs. Larceny. Shoplifting like me, except he's not an addict. Fraud. Car theft mainly. One guy reckons Tyson robbed a couple of banks too.'

‘What else do you know about him?'

‘He's been through nearly every detention centre in the state, including the high security stuff. The courts sent him here because they thought Sam might be able to get through to him.' Frog snorted. ‘I don't think it's working.'

He snapped a blade of grass next to him while Brett finished his smoke. After twirling the blade a bit, Frog leaned forward, looked left then right, before asking Brett a favour.

‘Can you — you know — teach me to fight?'

‘Why?'

Frog hung his head and tore the blade of grass in half. ‘No reason,' he said.

‘A couple of the older guys have been giving you trouble, huh?'

‘Not a couple — most of them. I'm not like them. I've got an addiction to get over. I'm not in here for hard-core stuff like car theft or drugs. Because of that, they seem to pick on me the most.'

‘Don't worry, kid. I think I've just taken that title away from you.'

Frog winced a smile. ‘It's not just that. It's hard living here. There are things …' He shook his head and gave up.

‘What kind of things?'

‘Just things that frighten me. Things that make me wish I was home, you know. It's not perfect living back with Mum, but here … I, uh …' He stood up and brushed himself off. ‘I've got to go, okay?'

Brett watched him leave. He thought about pushing for an explanation, but let him go.

A bell rang shortly afterwards, and he stubbed out his cigarette before burying it. First was lunch, then what he dreaded the most.

Class.

‘Not again,' Sam breathed, burying his face in his left hand. ‘What did you do
this
time?'

Brett punched his fists into his shorts' pockets then glared out one of the homestead's windows. ‘I can't weed,' he said.

‘You can't what?'

‘Weed.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Mr Bronson wanted me to weed the garden, right? So I did. I started ripping out all the weeds and putting them in the bin like he told me too. Then he comes back twenty minutes later and starts screaming that I've ripped up all his bulbs. I said, “How am I supposed to know the difference between a bulb and a weed?”. He said, “Read a gardening book while you're on detention” and he sends me here.
Does everyone have it in for me at this place or what?'

‘Brett.' Sam took off his reading glasses and rubbed his temples. ‘How many times have you been sent out of class today?'

‘Including this time?'

‘Yes, including this.'

‘Twice. Or is it three times?'

‘It's three, because that's how many headaches I've had today.' He shook his head then pushed himself away from the kitchen table. ‘C'mon. Let's find a class you haven't been thrown out of yet.'

That proved harder than Sam thought. Brett's afternoon had started badly. Not that it was his fault of course. Nobody was giving him a chance. Or so he said. In English, he fell asleep. His class had started reading some book about a fifteen-year-old kid who chooses a cheeseburger over a chick — loser! — when he'd started to feel tired. One yawn was followed by another then
boom
! His head hit the desk and Ms Windsor hit the roof.

After a lecture from Sam, Brett was sent to personal development studies. That wasn't much better. The Farm employed a social worker, Mrs Reddy, part-time to teach the guys about safe sex, healthy eating and how to deal with their emotions.
That day's topic was dealing with emotions and boy, did Brett ever flunk that subject. Darren the joker was still using his old trick of reflecting the sun off his watch into the faces of other guys to give himself a few laughs. Brett thought it was an accident at first when he became the target and forgot about it. Then he saw Darren do it deliberately and grin. Darren ended up with a broken watch and Brett standing in the corridor explaining to Sam.

Now after being unable to help Mr Bronson with the gardening, he was sent to the radio studio in the hope that he might learn something
there.

Ten minutes later …

BANG! BANG! BANG!

‘That had better not be you again, Brett, or watch out!' Sam called from inside.

When Brett didn't answer, he opened the locked screen door and stared out. ‘
Brett
!'

‘Sam, I —'

‘No!'

‘But —'

‘No, I don't want to hear it. Whatever excuse it is this time, I don't care.' Sam unlocked the screen door and stepped outside. He looked round the property trying to find something, then grabbed Brett by the arm. ‘Let's go,' he said.

‘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 all 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.