Wrath - Anne Davies

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was really just a pub, a shop that sold everything from farm machinery to flour to razor blades, a post office, a Catholic church, a hall, a railway station and a cluster of little houses with red tin roofs and saggy fences. The school was a 20-minute walk away from my house, sandwiched between the Anglican church and the river. Just up the road from home was the football oval with a couple of corrugated iron lean-tos—one for our supporters and one for the opposing team’s—and a dry, dusty tennis court with sprigs of grass groping up through the cracks.

      My first memories are of our room. Katy and I didn’t exactly share a room; it was a sleep-out that Dad had made by filling in the L-shaped veranda that went around the front and side of our little house. Katy’s bed was at one end of the L and mine was at the other, so we couldn’t see each other around the corner, but we could hear each other and talk as much as we liked.

      We thought it was perfect. Katy would say, “It’s good that we’ve got our own space but we’re still kind of together. That’s how it’ll always be, won’t it, Luca? Wherever you are, even if I can’t see you, I know you’ll be just around the corner and you’ll be able to hear me one way or another.”

      And I’d say, “Always, Katy. We’ll always be near each other. And when we die, we’ll die at the same time, just like how we were born at the same time.”

      Funny; I always thought I had hardly any memory at all of when I was a little kid, but somehow being in here and being so quiet has made things jump out at me from the past. It’s like the past is murky water and now that everything’s still, all the dirt’s settled on the bottom and bits are starting to clear. Or maybe it’s just because I’m writing it down so I can tell you about it. Who knows? Anyway, I like it. It reminds me that I’m more than just a lump of meat locked in a cell.

      Katy and I both got Dad’s black hair, but mine’s fairly curly while Katy’s is just soft and wavy. Come to think of it, it’s like she got the softer version all the way. Her eyes are big and blue; mine are dark. Her nose is a smaller version of mine—lucky for her, because mine is huge. Her mouth is small and full; mine is a line with hardly any lips at all. Despite all that, you can still tell we’re twins, easy!

      Her name’s cute and soft too—whereas mine…! What were they thinking? Mum says there was a song she used to like which had the first line ‘My name is Luca’ and then when she met Dad, he told her he’d gotten his black curly hair from his grandfather, whose name was Luca, in Italy. That clinched it for her. She thought it was a sign. Kids at school called me ‘Lucy’. Great.

      Dad was a mechanic, and he had a big workshop out the back. The back yard wasn’t too pretty, with cars and trucks waiting to be repaired and car parts spilling out of the shed, but I loved it. Just walking outside and into that shed made me want to hurry and grow up. It smelt like man stuff, and Dad smelt that way too. Kind of an oily, tangy, slightly sweaty smell with a mix of a whole lot of stuff I can’t really name. Dad went out to the farms to fix the tractors, trucks, generators and pumps. He did okay even though most people on the land are pretty handy.

      Mum was always trying to get some flowers to grow out there, but with all the customers’ boots and greasy water sluicing out over the ground, she had no hope. She’d say, “Just a few roses for the house; just a spot for some vegetables,” and she’d work away, trying to keep the sun from shrivelling those little plants to death if they’d made it past everything else. But they’d all die, no matter what. It seemed to be such a big thing to her.

      I’d said to her once, when she was down on her knees pulling out all those dried up little plant bodies, “Don’t worry about it, Mum. Just buy some veggies and flowers,” but she’d turned on me, her eyes filling with tears, and she’d said, “You just don’t understand! I’ve got to get something to grow.”

      Then in a day or two, there she’d be with a new packet of seeds, down on her knees in that gravelly red dirt, planting each one and tucking it in like it was a newborn baby. Her face would be all smiley and soft, and she’d look up at me and say, “Maybe this time, Luca. I feel like these ones are going to grow.” ’Course they never did.

      I found out a lot later why she was so upset. One night, when I got up to go out the back, I heard her snuffling away and Dad murmuring soft, and then her voice rose and she said, “But Dan, even the cow in the paddock can drop a calf. I’ve done it before. Why can’t I do it again?” I couldn’t hear what Dad said, but I went back to bed a bit stunned. I’d never thought Mum would want more than just Katy and me. Any other kid would be the odd one out here. I shook my head and rolled over. A pity those plants wouldn’t grow, maybe then she’d forget about growing more kids.

      Apart from that, life rolled on, one day pretty much the same as the next. Katy and I would play together, with her making up stories and mud pies, and me building cities, roads, bridges and wharves out of all the nuts and bolts, bricks and odd tins that littered our yard, near each other but rarely doing the same thing.

      Sometimes, Dad would shout, “Luca! Come and give me a hand,” and I’d drop what I had in my hand and run to the shed. I really didn’t do much, just clean up or sort screws into their different containers, but what I loved was the talk. Dad would start, and I’d just open my ears and brain and suck it in. He’d always talk about his family. I can see it now, the light slanting in through the clear panels he’d put in the roof, dust dancing in the rays. He’d lean back on the bench and file away at some rusty old bit of metal till it was just the shape and size he wanted. I’d see the dust streaked in the sweat down his forehead, his olive skin gleaming.

      “Have I ever told you about my brother Peter?” he’d say, and though I knew it all by heart, I’d shake my head. “No, Dad, not really.”

      “He was the eldest in our family. First Peter, then Anthony, then Philippa, then me. He was eight years older than me, but he was the one I loved the most. He used to take me with him whenever he went out with his mates. They would get a bit sick of me tagging along, I think. We’d go down to the river and swim, and if any of the boys got too rough with me, Peter would grab them and threaten to flatten them. His eyes would flash, and he’d grit his teeth as he spoke, and even I got frightened.

      “One day, one of the boys, Jeremy Muir, said, ‘But Peter, why don’t you leave him home sometimes? He’s just a little pest.’

      “‘He’s my brother,’ Peter said flatly.

      “‘I know, but we’re your friends.’

      “Peter smiled at him. ‘I know that, but you may not always be my friends. He will always be my brother. He wants to come, and I want him here. If you don’t like it, swim somewhere else.’

      “That’s how he was, Luca. Family first—always. You remember that.” And I’d nod and sort some screws, and we’d both be silent. I loved those times.

      Got to stop now. Meal time. The siren’s just gone, so in a minute the door will swing open, and there will be the guard. I can hear doors opening and the sound of footsteps getting louder as he gets closer.

      CHAPTER TWO

      The door rasps open, and I look up, expecting the guard to put a tray of food on the small desk in the corner. Instead, he says, “Right, sport. No more room service. Time to join everyone else in the dining room.”

      I look up at him, taking in the grey, clipped hair, the blue eyes, the blank expression and the name tag on his shirt that says ‘Owen’.

      “Come on, look lively!”

      I jump off the bed and move towards the door.

      “Wait till I’m outside!” he barks, turning and leaving my room. I walk to the door and step outside. To my left, I see a row of boys, mostly a bit older than me, I think, stretching back to the end of a wide corridor. Across the gap to the other side, there is another row of boys in a line, shuffling towards a pair of large swing doors at the end of the building. The boys are all dressed like me, in navy-blue track pants and T-shirts.

      One of them is staring at me, his face hard.

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