State Ward (3 page)

Miss Eccles didn’t stay long. Though she did ask if Charlie was all right; and with a face seemingly full of concern. Maybe even guilt. And it was guilt, Charlie realised, when she closed the door after her, saying, “It’s dreadful. Just dreadful that they can do this to little boys.”

Though when he was sure she was gone, Charlie said to himself, “Who’s a little boy? I ain’t a little boy.” Smiling secretly, even to himself. “Hardly,” he added. Then he thought about Miss Eccles’ concern.

Yet it wasn’t that bad. Not with the pyjamas and slippers, and the food was pretty good — better’n home: half the time nothing to eat. Parents gone and drunk it all, spent the money on beer. But here, even if it was a cell, a kid had got a plate of porridge — admittedly not much sugar — two bits of toast and a boiled egg in a cup. Hard, just like I like it. Breakfast at home, now let me see now, seems so long ago and yet only yesterday morning I was having it — oh, I know. Weetbix. One. One each. Cos that’s all was left in the whole house, that’s if you take into account Roger and Kevin got three each cos they were the oldest, and toughest. Not even a few bits of stale bread to toast in the oven. Yeah, that was my brekky yesterday: a Weetbix. Dry. Cos Rog and Kev used up all the milk, too.
Oh, but not that they’re selfish, Charlie’s eyes stinging with emotion just at the thought of his two older brothers. But the rules are, the biggest gets the best and the most. That’s how life goes in big families.

Same with Paul and Graeme and Lillia, younger than Charlie. He ruled them. Though Lil, even if she is only eight, no one rules her or not unless she feels like it. Bitch’s gotta temper on her worst of all the Wilsons. S’pose she has to, Charlie had figured it a while ago; she’s the only girl.

He sat on his bed and closed his eyes better to picture what his family would be doing. Mum’d still be in bed, she don’t get up till nearly lunchtime. She’s always tired. Her eyes’re always sad, and her mouth droops. Sometimes she’s cut up around her face from when Dad gives her a hiding. But no big deal, happens all the time round where we live. Might even do it myself when I grow up and my wife doesn’t do as she’s told, hahahaha.

Dad’ll be at work, painting houses, but more like himself the amount of paint he comes home covered in. Every night he comes home from the pub, carrying his two flagons, starting off happy and ending up wild, every time. Every bloody time, boy. Shit, I could kill ’im sometimes. Punches anything’t walks near him when he’s like that. Dunno why. Though a couple of months back when he gave Rog one around the ear, Rog stuck him against the wall and said no more, Dad. Ya touch me ever again and I’ll kill ya. And, oh, how good it felt, for all the kids, to be witness to that, to him — the shit — being shown up by his own eldest son, only eighteen. Dad yelling at Rog he could pack his bloody bags then, and don’t come back.
And yelling that if he wasn’t so sick from the paint fumes of all these years, he’d a handled Rog like having a shit. Though everyone knew he couldn’t, not with how tough Rog’d grown up to be. As for the fumes, Rog’d laughed about it to the kids after, the old man means the beer fumes, that’s what’s made him useless.

Rog’d be at work, the butchers in town, down the end of the main street, where Rog’d gone soon as he left school. Good pay too; what Charlie was gonna do soon as he got to fifteen. Well, that was the plan till yesterday. It hit him again, but this time it hurt. I’m in a cell. Thirteen and I’m in a cell. Deeply.

Thinking of his form three classmates, what they’d be thinking of his being sent here. Charlie filled at first with pride, toughness, at how very different his life’d ended up to theirs. Then he got sad because he did like his rugby, and he didn’t mind school so much. Just that a kid was confused, mixed up; more and more in the last year he’d suddenly seemed to head this funny way in his life. His emotions. All jumbled up inside.

Form two teachers last year said it was rebellion. And insolence. And just plain bad.

“Like your older brothers before you.” It wasn’t what they said it was, yet how to explain?

Becky Royal, her face came floating into Charlie’s mind. He felt weak all over. His gut suddenly knotted. His heart beat rapidly. (Oh, Beck. I wish you and me was married and living far away from here, from Two Lakes. Up in Auckland, where no one’d know us, or our age), thinking of his classmate, how he’d loved her for over a year. Not that he said anything much to her. Couldn’t. Too
shy. She might say no. Or worse, she might laugh. So loving her from a distance. And so sometimes doing really stupid things in front of her to impress. But she never smiled, and a few times she’d even said, “Oh, grow up Wilson.” Not Charlie, even Charles’d’ve been better than Wilson. Yet she gave, over the last year, enough little signals, little smiles, eye messages, for a boy to keep loving her. If only though, eh?

He went through the names of every classmate. Counted them while he was at it: thirty. Counting me thirty-one. He imagined the gap his absence would make. Then he imagined how they wouldn’t miss him. But only for a moment because it hurt too much, that thought of not one person in his class missing him, let alone really getting into their heads and picturing — or trying to. For which of them could imagine this? Or maybe even shed a quiet tear or two for him, and he saw his own tears drop on to his hands.

Thirteen.

The hours went by. All the faces swarmed in Charlie’s head and, seemingly, every big incident and event he knew from his life. Not a few tears fell, too. But he felt quite a bit better after the few hours, or whatever time it was.

He heard activity outside. Cocked his ears. Sounded like boys getting ready for a game of footie. He stood up on the bed, even though the window was still too high to see out of. He could pick an adult male voice issuing orders, calling out names. Heard the familiar boomph of a football being kicked. Wished he was out there with
them. I’d show ’em how to play footie. But then again, the thought immediately occurred: maybe these kids’re so tough, so old, they’ll be showing me. And he grew a little afraid, in dread of the day when he’d be let out of here maybe to an even worse fate.

He strained ears the more, trying to discern the ages of the kids as they shouted to each other as they must be having warm-up passing and running; with that lovely sound of air-filled leather against boot, like music. Music.

The game started because he heard a whistle and a cheer went up. Charlie gave bright-eyed attention to the game, drawing his own pictures of it in his mind.

“And here comes Wilson with the ball … he’s beaten one tackler, two, three tacklers, and still he’s going!” Laughing, and checking the eyeball in the door for any darkening that might indicate a real eye the other side. Back to the game. “Wilson’s sidestepped — brilliant sidestep! Now he’s fended off another — a prop too — and there’s only the fullback to beat.” Heart pounding. Snatches of cheer from the real game which he was able to claim for himself, his own brilliant playing.

“And Wilson is going to make a race of this one!” The commentary from himself growing louder with his excitement, the style from the radio commentaries he’d grown up with like every boy had. But just as he was winning the race the cheering outside erupted in a roar — well, a pretty loud yelling at any rate — and took Charlie Wilson’s try right out of existence, as he heard them screaming to a kid, “GO! GO! GO! GO, GEORGE!”

And Charlie staring right at the centre bar of the five covering the window. “George” it said. Just as a whole
lot of youthful voices were yelling the same. And jealousy, and a massive curiosity, seeped into Charlie’s heart, his mind. George. George? Who is George?

The game went on for ever, not that Charlie minded. It was company. It was fun pretending he was scoring tries, making tackles. Being cheered. He heard George being cheered frequently throughout the game. A couple of other names figured prominently, too. Sonny was one. Hepa another, and as much as they cheered and screamed for George. Maybe more so, Charlie assessed with his sharper than sharp ears. Hepa.

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.