Raw Read online

‘Is that the old one?’

  Sam nodded. ‘C’mon. I’ll show you inside.’

  Brett followed Sam into the old stable which smelt of warm leather, hay, must, horses and yep, fresh green cakes. The stalls were occupied by eight horses who munched, flicked, neighed and snorted as the pair walked by. The animals had all been hosed down recently leaving the cobbled floor wet. Sam checked each drinking trough to see if it was full. Brett looked at the animals with a pang of sympathy.

  Sam reached over and rubbed the nose of a chestnut-coloured mare. The horse brufffed at his touch then warmed to it. Brett walked on, scouting the rest of the stables. Only half of it was devoted to the horses. He was interested in what was at the far end.

  What he found was a woodwork room. Wooden shavings curled like worms in a yellow carpet of sawdust at the base of the lathes, sanders, electric saws and bins containing off-cuts of timber. Half-finished furniture sat on bench tops locked in sash clamps. Jars of lacquer reeked from shelves on the walls, and boxes of nails, screws, washers and bolts were stored next to a blackboard. Brett recognised most of the tools from his own high school woodwork classes — the only subject he ever got an “A” in. He was impressed by the set-up, but he didn’t let his face show it.

  ‘That’s our woodwork room,’ Sam called out, as if Brett didn’t know. ‘Go in. You’re allowed. The boys make their own furniture and sell it to shops as far away as Brisbane. You can take woodwork as one of your classes—or even motor mechanics—if you like. Most take woodwork because they can make some really good money, which we bank till they leave.’

  Sam sure knew his tools. Files. Planes. Chisels. Coping saws. Tenon saws. Hand saws. Everything was kept in top condition even though the machinery had been used and abused thousands of times.

  ‘I see you know your way round a workshop,’ he said, watching Brett from the doorway. ‘Did you study woodwork at school?’

  Brett backed off from checking a lathe, annoyed that he’d let his defences down. ‘A bit,’ he said.

  ‘Interested in doing it again?’

  Brett shrugged then walked back to Sam. They could put him down for home science for all he cared. He wasn’t going to attend any dumb classes.

  BOOM!

  Brett jumped as the walls shuddered inwards. A horse whinnied, then what sounded like a crowd of men roared with amusement.

  BOOM! BOOM!

  ‘What’s going on out here?’ Sam barked, marching next door.

  ‘Josh thinks he can ride Paterson’s brumby,’ answered one of the hecklers perched on a railing.

  Brett pulled up behind Sam and watched an Aboriginal kid his age retreat to the far side of the stockyard. The teenager was furiously shaking a bloody hand up and down in pain.

  ‘Josh! Get out of there!’

  Sam ducked under a railing and entered the yard. The brumby was still sore at being ridden — snorting and glaring at this Josh kid. He circled the yard as far away from the horse as he could, then reached Josh and asked, ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ the kid winced. ‘He just nipped me, that’s all. It stings though.’

  ‘You know better than to ride a wild horse.’

  ‘I thought he was tame enough.’

  The horse ran past really close, trying to chase the two intruders out. Sam pushed Josh towards the fence. ‘Go!’ The teenager did as he was told and slipped through the railings, Sam following him.

  ‘How’s your hand, kid?’ one of the hecklers asked.

  ‘Not as sore as his hide’ll be later,’ another answered, drawing a laugh from everyone including a half-one from Josh himself.

  ‘Josh,’ Sam growled out.

  The hecklers ooohed! and catcalled Josh as he flinched at the sound of the old man’s voice. Grabbing a rag to wrap round his bleeding hand, he walked back over to Sam. ‘I’m sorry, Sam. I just —’

  ‘You didn’t think, that’s what! You could’ve broken your neck getting on that horse, you know? It’s a wonder you’re still standing.’

  ‘I was trying to tame her, that’s all. I’ve watched you do it a hundred times.’

  ‘And you’ll watch me a hundred more before I’ll let you try to break in a horse of your own.’

  Eyes down, Josh kicked the dirt and Sam sighed. ‘C’mon. We’ll talk about it later,’ he said. ‘For now, I’d like you to meet Brett Dalton.’

  Sam indicated for Brett to step forward, and quickly, the two sized each other up. Josh was good-looking in a rugged sort of way, and probably knew it. All studs did. He was black, a bit taller than Brett at one-seventy-five centimetres and built like a footballer. His hair was shaved close to the scalp and spiky. Soft, brown eyes set above high cheekbones glowed from under heavy eyebrows. A thin black moustache probably teased and squeezed for a long time in front of a mirror was finally starting to thicken on his top lip.

  As for Brett, he reckoned some chicks would probably think he was okay-looking if he didn’t scowl as much and tidied up his appearance a lot more. Sixteen years old, he was one-seventy-three centimetres tall and solidly built thanks more to Mum’s cooking than working out. He had short black hair combed back in a neat wave except for a few loose strands that dangled about his forehead, and the beginnings of half-sideburns on a firm, round jaw which was rarely, if ever, softened by a smile. His eyes were a frosty, clear blue: the kind that left people cold. They squinted under thin mean eyebrows darkened with a frown, always looking for trouble and always scheming to start some of their own. His clothes consisted mainly of rough-and-ready wear — a dark blue overshirt, charcoal-coloured jeans and brown leather boots.

  ‘G’day,’ Josh said, smiling warmly and extending his good hand. ‘I’m Josh.’

  Brett kept his hands firmly in his pockets.

  Josh looked to Sam for an answer but he just shook his head.

  ‘When did you get in?’ Josh asked.

  Brett shrugged.

  ‘Has Sam given you a tour of the property yet?’

  When Brett still didn’t answer, Sam did. ‘Yes, everywhere from the garage to the dormitories.

  ‘Who are you rooming with?’

  Rooming. Brett shuddered. It was a high school camp.

  ‘Some kid,’ he breathed.

  ‘Robbie,’ Sam helped.

  ‘Frog?’

  ‘Josh,’ Sam growled.

  ‘Sorry — Robbie.’

  ‘Why?’ Brett was suspicious.

  ‘No reason,’ Josh said. ‘I was just wondering whose room Sam put you in.’

  ‘So, why do you call him Frog?’

  Josh grinned and was about to answer but Sam spoke up first. ‘Because he’s small. He’s also the youngest here.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Twelve —’

  ‘Twelve?! I can’t live with a —’

  ‘But don’t worry. He fits in with everyone else.’

  Sam finished the argument before it started and it was Brett’s jaw that tightened this time. Great. All he needed. A twelve-year-old brat who probably had to be read bedtime stories and had to be tucked in.

  One of the hecklers called out Sam’s name and waved him over. The stockman asked if it could wait. The man said it couldn’t.

  ‘Josh, can you take Brett back to his room so he can unpack,’ Sam said. ‘The rest of the guys will be back soon.’

  Josh looked at Brett, then Sam. His eyes were begging, “Not me”.

  ‘Please,’ the old man said.

  Josh sighed then said, ‘C’mon,’ and started walking towards The Boys’ House.

  ‘And, Josh,’ Sam added, ‘watch out. The horse isn’t the only thing that bites round here.’

  Out of sight of the Walking Rulebook, Brett pulled a cancer stick from his other top pocket and looked to Josh. ‘Got a light?’ He knew from school never to keep them all in the one place.

  Josh shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke.’

  Brett slapped his pockets one last time before putting the smoke away. This wasn’t f
unny anymore. ‘What’s his problem anyway?’

  ‘Who? Sam?’

  ‘Yer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What’s with his you-can’t-do-this-and-that routine?’

  ‘They’re the rules.’

  ‘I know they’re the rules. It doesn’t mean I have to live by them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t break them if I was you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I wouldn’t. Usually if one guy gets into trouble the rest do too.’

  Brett snorted. ‘Don’t tell me you actually do what he orders you to?’

  ‘Sam doesn’t order me to do anything. He’s my friend. I live on his farm. I do what he says.’

  ‘And now I’m supposed to too?’

  ‘If you want to stay here — yes.’

  ‘That’s the thing. I don’t want to stay here. And I don’t want to follow any stupid rules.’

  Josh looked at him but didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the front door of The Boys’ House and walked into the common room.

  ‘Where is everybody anyway?’

  ‘Sam let us have the afternoon off.’

  ‘What, so you could go and plough his fields?’

  ‘No, everybody’s in Moree for the day.’

  Brett’s jaw dropped. ‘Moree? He let everyone go to Moree?’

  Moree was a medium-sized country town that the cops had driven through a couple of hours out of Mungindi.

  ‘Is anybody watching them?’

  ‘A couple of teachers.’

  ‘A couple? Aren’t they worried about guys running away?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  They would be if he was allowed to roam free!

  Brett was getting really confused. What kind of detention centre was this? Inmates were allowed out on day trips. There weren’t any bars on the cells. There weren’t even cells! And pretty boy here thought the warden was his friend. Brett hadn’t been sent to a jail. He’d been sent to a psychiatric hospital.

  Josh sucked in his breath and tightened the rag round his hand. ‘Ow,’ he winced, waving it about.

  ‘The horse bit you, eh?’ Brett said with a sly grin.

  ‘Yes, she’s a real wild one. I tried to put some reins on and she nipped me. Len Paterson caught her up north. He brought her back for Sam to tame.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s the best tamer round here. If anyone wants a horse broken-in they come to Sam.’

  ‘What is he? Some kind of stockman?’

  ‘Used to be. Now he runs The Farm.’

  ‘What’s he like? Is he tough or all talk?’

  ‘Neither. He’s a good bloke.’

  ‘C’mon, you’re kidding, right? He’s the warden.’

  ‘He’s not the warden. He’s a caretaker.’

  Brett snorted. ‘Are you hearing what you’re saying? “Sam’s a good bloke.” “He’s not the warden. He’s a caretaker.” Yer, right. Man, you’ve been in here too long. You’re turning soft.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  The Aboriginal kid stood there mouth gaping as Brett’s voice echoed down the corridor.

  Josh shook his head and curled his hand into a fist. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘My hand’s bleeding again. I better let Mary look at it. You know where your room is?’

  ‘Yer,’ Brett answered. And he also knew a lame excuse when he heard one.

  Josh walked away and Brett shook his head. Had that kid been brainwashed or what?

  Left alone and with nothing to do, Brett found a tap and gulped down mouthful after mouthful of cool water. He splashed his face and wet his hair to wash the road off. Feeling cleaner, he headed for the kitchen. He pulled up short when he heard laughter, however, and peered round a corner. Teachers by the looks of them enjoying a free afternoon without any classes. And a couple of hecklers trying to escape the heat. They closed the front door and set up a rack on the pool table. Finally when they had their backs to him, Brett crouched down and lit a cigarette on a hotplate. He finished smoking it sitting on his bed.

  He opened his bag to check the cops hadn’t nicked anything. No, it was all still there: two pairs of jeans, a couple of T-shirts, jocks and socks. He found something unusual at the bottom of his bag though. Something he hadn’t packed. He pulled out the brown paper parcel and untied it. Inside were several stamped envelopes with his home address already written on them, a couple of pens, a pad of paper, a new pair of yellow smiley boxer shorts and a framed photo of his family. Attached to the frame was a note. It was from his mum.

  Dear Brett,

  I thought you might need a few things while you were away. I asked the police to put this in your bag for me just in case your trial went badly. Whatever has happened, know that your father and I love you. We will miss you a lot. I only hope they’ll let you home soon. If you get into any trouble, call us and we’ll help you.

  Love always, Mum.

  Brett crumpled up the letter then binned it. He was in trouble now. So why didn’t she help him?

  He picked up the photo again and looked at it. It was a recent one. His mother, father, two sisters and he were all sitting at some park for some dumb family reunion. The sour look on his own face said he wanted to be any place but there. That, and the fact that he didn’t want his photo taken. But his mother had nagged him, and only to stop a fight, he’d agreed.

  Brett chucked the photo away then lay down on his bed. He was tired. He’d been up since four o’clock. The sun had also evaporated his desire to do anything (except maybe skol a coldie — but there was no chance of that in this place). He closed his eyes, the coolness of The House tempting him to fall asleep.

  In the quiet, Brett started to daydream. He did it a lot. He’d slip into a daze and forget about the world for a while.

  He started thinking about what he’d normally do on hot days like this. Mount Druitt pool was always a favourite hang-out. He’d dive into the water full of bodies churning it up; dunk a mate; eye the babes in bikinis; then sit on the burning concrete to dry off. Sometimes at night, he’d lie under the stars. He’d grab his cigarettes and a few beers and head down to the local park. He was one of those people who wondered what went on up there and whether it had any relevance to him. After a couple of hours he’d get smashed. He’d stagger home at three or four in the morning or end up sleeping in the park.

  Dreaming of home, Brett started to think about his parents. Of Dad’s look before he said goodbye and Mum’s final hug. They were good people and the only ones who’d stuck by him. He didn’t know why. He didn’t deserve their love or respect. If he had a kid like himself he would’ve booted him out the front door by now. But his parents never did. The cops would always bust him then bang on the front door. His mum would answer it in her blue nightgown before waking up his dad. The three of them would have the usual fight once the pigs left, then his parents would talk about him in hushed whispers when they went back to bed. It was so predictable it was depressing.

  He reckoned the only person who truly knew him was his on-again, off-again girlfriend Rebecca. They’d been going out since year eight, so she’d had plenty of time to figure out who he was. She was big on talking. They’d had a lot of deep and meaningfuls, and the occasional shallow and meaningless, but she was the only person he felt comfortable sharing his thoughts with. Which was probably why they’d ended up being boyfriend and girlfriend. She was the only person he felt close to.

  But they were finished now. Before he broke into that bottle shop, he’d found out Rebecca had hitched up with some country cowboy and left that morning. It seemed she was in “true love” and had promised to follow this hick across Australia. Yer right. It was the same “true love” she’d promised him.

  He shook himself from the daze. He was starting to get depressed so he got up to explore the room.

  He walked over to Robbie’s (or Frog’s) side and checked through his stuff for anything worth ste
aling. Nothing. Just a couple of comics and trading cards. Typical twelve-year-old trash. Knowing there had to be something worth flogging somewhere and keen to find it, Brett hit the corridors.

  The building was quiet except for the ssshhhing of the toilets next to his dorm, the whirr of the ceiling fans and the occasional whoop of victory from the common room. The place had the feeling of naïve trust he’d found in the shops and houses he’d robbed — like it was too easy to shatter somebody’s sense of security. Walking from room to room he noticed every dorm was different. They had their own individual character. Walls were covered with posters of movies, TV shows, music bands, sleek cars and steamy babes or basketball, football and comic cards. There were models, fishing rods, designer shoes, bomber jackets, caps, books, letters from home, a golf club, footballs, soccer balls, basketballs and — oh man! — chewing gum stuck under nearly every bed. In ten minutes, Brett had scored some gum (uneaten), a Violet Crumble, seventeen bucks ninety in change and yes-oh-yes a pack of smokes and a new lighter. There was a lot of expensive junk too, but he had to leave it because it was too hard to stash away without being caught.

  Pocketing the loot, Brett walked into the last dorm. It was different from the others. Whereas they had two, three or even four beds, this only had one. Underneath it were dirty shirts, shorts, socks and shoes. On the walls were posters of rock bands, football stars and one of those nerdy periodic tables normally seen in science labs. Several biology textbooks lay open on a desk, sentences underlined with lead pencil and smudged by an eraser. Above these, a set of shelves displayed a lot of big trophies, pennants and yellowed newspaper clippings.

  The room’s owner was a jock. That wasn’t hard to tell. He had a stack of photos and autograph books signed by players from his beloved rugby league team. What interested Brett more though were the trophies. By the looks of them, the guy was a top player himself. He’d won awards for Best and Fairest, and Best Player of the Series. With so many trophies Brett was surprised the guy wasn’t playing professional. That, or opening a trophy shop himself.

  He picked up one to check out the engraved name.

  ‘Joshua —’

  ‘Collins.’