Hard Time

Debbie’s lawyer told her she’d get a rap over the knuckles, a slap on the hand. Instead, she ends up with three months in the slammer. It seemed like they took us through a million locked doors, grills, sliding steel bars. It’s hard to remember what hit me first I was so scared. All my senses seemed anaesthetised. My freedom was gone. I felt like scum. I felt afraid and alone. I hated everyone. For Rocket it’s bad too, but for different reasons. He’s been there before. He sees the walls of the cell, he smells the stink of prison, like shit, or cabbage, or dirty drains. He clenches his fists, as his stomach leaps in shock and anguish. You idiot Rocket, you said you’d never, ever, end up in here again. But he has, and time’s running out. If he doesn’t get released early for good behaviour, he’ll be sent to the big house — the Chainman’s house. And he’s not going there, ever.

Cover illustration by Michael Lightfoot.

Elspeth Cook grew up in England, Scotland and C y p rus. She has worked with young people for many years, including a two year stretch at a juvenile detention centre, where she met Anna Donald and they were inspired to write this novel. Since arriving in Perth in 1991 she has had three educational novels published. In her spare time she likes to swim to Rottnest.

Anna Donald has taught drama, English and media in schools across Australia. She’s had poems published; written and directed a musical for teens, and completed a biography. Currently she lightens her teaching life by working on a PhD. She is also training her dog to move the sprinkler.

ELSPETH COOK AND

ANNA DONALD

FREMANTLE ARTS CENTRE PRESS

First published 1998 by FREMANTLE ARTS CENTRE PRESS 193 South Terrace (PO Box 320), South Fremantle Western Australia 6162. http://www.facp.iinet.net.au Copyright © Cabin 34, Elspeth Cook, 1998; In the Chainman’s House, Anna Donald, 1998. This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher. Consultant Editor Alwyn Evans. Designer John Douglass. Production Coordinator Cate Sutherland. Typeset by Fremantle Arts Centre Press and printed by Sands Print Group, Bassendean, Western Australia. National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-publication data Donald, Anna, 1949 - . In the chainman’s house. Hard time ISBN 1 86368 233 3. 1. Australian fiction - 20th century. I. Donald, Anna, 1945 - . In the chainman’s house. II. Cook, Elspeth, 1955- . Cabin 34. III. Title. IV Title: In the chainman’s house. V. Title: Cabin 34. A823.30809283.

The State of Western Australia has made an investment in this project through ArtsWA. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the relevant copyright, designs and patents acts, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publisher. eBooks Corporation

Elspeth Cook: For Rebecca B.

Anna Donald: In memory of AF. With thanks to Bill Saunders of Curtin University for his advice on drug deaths. And to Alwyn Evans for her infinitely patient editing..

High speed deaths Juveniles arrested

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PETRA Wolinski (25) of Basketball Centre. The

Gosnells died last night when her vehicle collided head on with a speeding Commodore. Ms Wolinski was travelling home after umpiring a t the Callan

driver of the stolen car, a juvenile, also died instantly. Three other juveniles with minor injuries are being held in custody, pending charges.

Hallam (Steven): No goodbyes. You have left u s with s o m e wonderful m e m o r i e s and will always remain in our hearts. See you in a better place. Vicki and Jo.

Hallam (Steven): Loved son of Betty and Jack. Brother of Jenny and David. Remembering all the happy years. We love you and miss you. Mum and Dad.

Hallam (Steven): Sympathy to Betty and Jack on your sad loss. Beryl and Frank.

Hallam (Steven): In memory of our friend Steve. Run fast, run wild. Love Red and Gogo.

Heartfelt sympathy to Jack and Betty. Kevin and Michelle Baker.

Hallam (Steve): Yo b r o , y o u were a g o o d friend and brother always. Can't believe you're gone. Love you always, Jenjen.

Hallam (Steven): You always put a bit of glamour in our lives. See you at the t o p of the stairway. Love Mick and Victor.

Hallam (Steven):

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Wolinski (Petra): Tragically killed on 4/2/98 our darling girl. No time to say goodbye. God closed your eyes and took your hand and left us to try and understand. Others are taken this way we know, but you were ours and we loved you so. You'll be in our thoughts every day, in our hearts you will always stay. Love Mum and Dad, Jill, Kevin and Boxer.

Wolinski (Petra): Sincere condolences to the Wolinski family from the staff, Fremantle Radiology Clinic. Wolinski (Petra): Why must the good die young? For she was. And beautiful. Heartfelt sympathy to her family. Ernie and Jean Slater.

Wolinski (Petra): We will never forget you, you Wolinski (Petra): To Jill and family. We only beautiful babe, in heaven knew her for a short time but there is just one more star. Be she will be missed forever. seeing you.Dawn, Mandy, Our deepest sympathies to Tina and Sue. you all. Sheryn, Owen, Brett and Stephany.

Wolinski (Petra): A love so precious will never die. Always you and I. See you in another place. (Guess our dreams must go on hold. Till we meet again my darling. David. Wolinski (Petra): Deepest sympathy to Petra’s family from the Committee and Members, Gosnells Netball Club. 8

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Death smash Juveniles convicted The juveniles involved in a a stolen Commodore high speed c a r smash on collided with a Suzuki February 4th, yesterday 4 W D which was on the faced Magistrate Alice wrong side of the road.The W y a t t in the Perth Suzuki d r i v e r , Petra Children’s Court. Wolinski (25), of Gosnells, Charges of manslaugh- died instantly. ter, stealing, assault, aiding it is believed the driver and abetting and traffic of the stolen Commodore, offences mean the juveniles Steven Hallam (18), face sentences of up to four panicked on seeing a police car which was responding to an unrelated emergency call. It appears Ms Wolinski lost control of her vehicle which then jumped the median strip and hit the speeding Commodore head on. The Coroner suggested t h a t speed was a m a j o r factor in the fatal outcome

years.

Prosecuting lawyer, Peter Frank, said, ’The charges were very serious.I believe they got off lightly. Juvenile offences are on the increase and we need t o make an example ofthem.’ The f a t a l accident a t Mirrabooka left two dead when rampaging youths in

... cont.

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5.

Part 1

ELSPETH COOK

My journal

I’m writing my fears, nightmares and ghosts in one place. Not all maybe, but a real reminder. There isn’t a day goes by without me breaking out in a cold sweat. The doctor says it’s normal in cases like this. What’s normal about breaking out in cold sweats? I panic when it happens. It all floods back. One minute I’m eating my breakfast, talking, breathing, just being a human being, and then wham, flashback. The night is February 4th. I smell burning flesh. It sticks in my throat. I can almost taste it. I hear moaning. I feel Kylie gripping hard-as to my arm. I see flashing blue and red lights and I hear the sirens. And, the screaming. But, not Steven, his eyes are open but lifeless like the rest of him. Then, all I can hear are my own screams. I find myself screaming and sweating. There’s no warning. I know it’ll be with me for the rest of my life.

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The bit that really is a blur is how it happened, or even what happened. I remember seeing a cop car coming towards us, all lights flashing. Steven must have panicked and thought they were after us so he put his foot down. Then, I saw headlights coming t o w a rds us. It kind of happened in slow motion. They say your life flashes before you. Mine did. Then I blacked out. I came to as I was being lifted out of the wreckage. There were people rushing everywhere. It’s funny the things you remember. I was worried about my new jacket being ruined. I’d had it on lay-by for months and I’d just paid it off. It was the first time I’d had something on lay by. Normally, I’d have nicked it. The pigs even questioned me about it. It got mangled like the car. I saw pictures of the wreckage. You couldn’t tell which car was which. Rocket wasn’t badly injured and Kylie got a few cracked ribs. Steven’s dead, poor bastard, or maybe he’s better off. Me, I got a few bruises and a sprained wrist. Lucky or what? So, keeping a scrap book is nothing really. Donna says I’m punishing myself like some masochist. It’s not even as if the newspapers and TV got it right. They make us sound like criminals. The reports read like we were on the wrong side of the road. It wasn’t like we did it on purpose, or meant to kill anyone. Shit happens, doesn’t it? It was an accident. That’s all, I didn’t mean to harm anyone. My psych says it’s better to remind myself of the accident, then it’s real and I’ll heal quicker. She makes it sound like a festering wound. I’m not sure if I believe her but. It’s hard to tell when it all went wrong. The moment I went off the rails. It’s not even as if I’m a

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rebel. No way! I’m one of those people who tries to please everyone. I wanted to please Kylie, my best friend, or should I say ex-friend. We go back a long way. I was always pleasing Kylie. Maybe I’m just piss-weak and gutless. Anyway, you’ve guessed it, I’ve landed three months in the slammer! Forston. That might sound like a rest home for olds, but believe me it’s not.

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Two days ago

I was led handcuffed, from the paddy wagon, through the sliding electric gates, past the gleaming razor wire perimeter of Forston. I felt like a criminal. I wasn’t alone. There were two others. Boys. Both of them off their faces in a big way. They’d been watching me, sneering all the way from court. Usually I would have ignored them, but I was shit scared. I was really quiet ‘cos I’d heard stories about the place. These two losers reckoned it’s easy doing time. It didn’t feel easy. For me this was a first. For them, it seemed like a joke. I remembered Mum’s face in the court room when the judge announced my sentence. She sort of crumpled. She cried! I can tell you, my mum never cries. Not even when Dad left. I wonder if he knows, not that I care, the bastard. Anyway, it was a big shock. My lawyer had told me I’d get a rap over the knuckles, a slap on the hand. In my dreams! I don’t

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call three months in the slammer, a rap. Standing there in front of the judge was heavy duty. It was all serious like one of those Sunday afternoon black and white movies. The judge puts on his black cap. The criminal, standing in the dock breaks down and these henchmen drag him off to the electric chair or the gallows. I visited Fremantle prison in Year Seven. We saw the gallows. I pictured the executioner with a black cloak covering his entire head. I imagined him opening the trap door and the accused swinging like a hung chook. Every last drop of life being wrung out of him. Dramatic or what? I was depressed for weeks. I might as well have been sentenced to death because a part of me died. My arm hurt. It reminded me of the accident. I hurt it when the car rolled. I’m rambling, I know. I do that when I’m nervous. Anyway, it seemed like they took us still handcuffed, through a million locked doors, grills, sliding steel bars. It’s hard to remember what hit me first I was so scared. All my senses seemed anaesthetised (good word, eh!). I do remember an indescribable smell. Somewhere between a mouldy sandwich and sweaty jocks. Like a school but not a school. It stuck in my nose. I could almost taste it. Like everything else at Forston the smell was something I’d have to get used to. I was led into a small room. It was grey and bare. There was a bench with a chair pushed under it. The two losers I’d arrived with had been taken s o m e w h e re else. I was on my own except for a

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female youth worker. That’s what she said she was, anyway. She removed my handcuffs and told me to strip off, everything. I’m shy. In fact, I’m embarrassed about my body. I think she understood and turned her back. She put some folded clothes on the bench and I assumed I’d be putting them straight on. B o y, was I wrong! She gave me two minutes to undress and then I got the full body search. Yes, you’ve guessed it. The rubber gloves were on, thwack! That hollow sound of tight rubber hitting flesh. Every cavity, orifice, hole imaginable to man (or woman) was peered at. I even had to squat, just in case I was concealing something. The idea was, it’d pop out. Unbelievable! I did get an explanation of sorts. Some try to smuggle drugs and weapons inside. Can you believe it? After that humiliation I was paraded to the showers and told to have a ‘proper’ wash. It made me so angry! I began to forget I was shit scared. I was feeling a lot of things now. The anaesthetic was wearing off. I looked down at the Forston uniform. A bit different. Navy blue tracky pants, a too-small green T-shirt and thongs. They told me I’d eventually get some trainers. They were on order. I looked daggy-as. All my personal possessions were wrapped and bagged in plastic and listed. I signed for them. I felt I was signing them away. Then it hit me. I was signing something away — me! In those bags was me. Debbie Kelly, the human being. Debbie Kelly, fifteen years old, invincible and carefree. My freedom was gone. I felt like scum. I felt afraid and alone. I hated everyone.

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Reality bites

I wasn’t going to give in to these bastards, so I held back the tears. They were there in every cell of my body and I knew once they started they wouldn’t stop. So I held them back. I knew all about holding back, I was good at it. The door to my cell clanked shut behind me. The key ground and clicked in the lock. The tears began to well up and I could hardly see through them. I sat on the bed and heard myself moaning. Painful moaning and crying. Desperate. For a moment I wondered where the noise was coming from. My cell was cabin 34. Cabin! When I think of a cabin I imagine a beach house or a log cabin covered in snow, nestling in some Canadian pine forest at the foot of a huge mountain. Some weirdo must have dreamed up the word cabin for something that is completely uncabin-like. This cabin was six by three with a hard bed, a stone desk that was fixed to the

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floor, a shiny metal toilet without a seat, a plastic chair and a metal sink. Three grey blankets were piled neatly on the bed. They looked cold, I mean who ever heard of cold blankets? Way up on the wall was a tiny window and below it was a speaker. There was a button I could reach underneath. This was my only contact with the outside world or, should I say inside world, ha ha. This was no mobile phone. There was nothing cosy about this cabin. I couldn’t imagine making it my home for thr e e months. By the sink was some shampoo which stank, a tube of toothpaste, a cheap toothbrush, a discoloured towel and a small bar of hard, yellow, recycled soap. Sitting on the hard bed in that bare cell crying, the cold, hard truth came rushing at me like a high speed semi-trailer. Now, I had to face it all. Everything had happened so fast, too fast. The accident. Dead people. Police interrogations. Court appearances. The funeral. The unknown. I went over it for hours torturing myself. I lost all track of time. I was still blubbering when a youth worker peered through the small plastic window in my door. Pervert. Was this how it was going to be for the next three months? A n y b o d y peering into my cabin. I could be on the toilet. I mean you can’t see me on the dunny because there’s a small wall — sort of chest high. But it’s humiliating. I complained to ‘Pervert’ when she came in. She told me it’s so you don’t get up to mischief. Anyway, she wanted to know if I wanted to have an evening meal with the others in the dining room. I shook my head. I didn’t feel strong enough. I’d be

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like the new girl at school, but worse. Everyone giving me the once over. I didn’t feel game enough. I didn’t tell her that but. Someone brought me a cabin meal. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. At court they’d offered me sandwiches but I hadn’t been hungry. You don’t have an appetite when you’re crammed in a holding cell with a bunch of animals who are off their faces. My first Detention Centre meal was served on a plastic tray, on a plastic plate with a plastic knife and fork. There was meat in gravy with vegies, overcooked but okay. I ate it all. Someone had cut my meat into mouth size pieces. There was no way this plastic knife would cut through any sucker. Someone, somewhere was banging on their cabin door. A hollow, metal, echoey sound. I ached inside. I tried to cover my head but I could still hear. It was like when Gary used to lock me in the cupboard when we were kids. I used to piss myself ’cos I was so scared. Mum used to chase him with a wooden spoon. I’m surprised it’s me in here and not him. He was always the one in trouble. I lay on the bed and sobbed and sobbed. That night I fell asleep on a wet pillow.

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Letters from the inside

Forston, Monday Dear Donna H o w ’s it going? I don’t blame you for not coming to visit me. Mum gave me your card. Thanks. It’s funny now I’ve started this letter I can’t think of anything to say. This place sux, it’s boring as. I’m in social skills at the moment and I can tell you some of the kids in here really need them. I’m not exactly Lady Di but I can control my bowels and manage to keep my dinner in my mouth without sharing it around the table! What I don’t understand is how you managed to get pregnant. Yes, Mum told me. Haven’t you heard of condoms? We learnt about them and AIDS in Year 8.

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So what are you going to do? Mum says you’re living back home. She looked terrible on Sunday. Do you think she’s sick? I’ve been in here three days now and I’m not getting used to it. I go to school or I’m in the duties group. That means you’re a slave for the day. Cleaning everyone else’s filth. It’s gross. The boys’ ablutions are gross. School is ok (can you believe I said that! Miracles will never cease) and I’m keeping away from Kylie. I can hear you groaning from h e re. She’s not in my class or my unit so I hardly see her. I thought I’d be stuck to her like always. I’ve met a really nice girl called Michelle. She’s posh and’s doing a modelling course. All the boys think she’s drop dead good looking. It’s pathetic watching them dr o o l around her. It’s funny ‘cos I’m not jealous of her. We’ve been hanging out together, keeping out of trouble together. If you’re not careful in here that’s where you find yourself. Once I’m out of here I’m not coming back. No ways. Lots of kids do. For some it’s like home. They even write to their rellies in the big houses. I’m doing a TAFE course. My teacher reckons I’ll be able to get on a real course when I’m out of here. Do you reckon I can? They tell you a heap of shit in here. Try and get you to believe it’s all going to be all right. Maybe I can get a job as a receptionist if I stop biting my nails. I could get false ones like Raylene. Well Sis I’ll finish now. The bell’s gone for

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dinner so we’ll have to join the queue for our bread and water. Only joking. The food’s okay, b reaks the boredom. Better than Mum’s anyway. I’m eating too much. Look after yourself and get rid of Gripper. He’s a loser and you can do better than him. Love Debbie ps Write back soon.

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Mum’s gone mad

Things have started to get bad with Kylie. I try not to think of her because she’s trouble. She’s a bitch and I know it, but she still cons me into doing things I don’t want to do. She’s in a different unit and I never really see her. But, I know she’s out to get me because in the dining room she and her mates snigger at me until the group worker at their table puts a stop to it. Kylie’s starting to get to me, and I haven’t even spoken to her. We’d both been given bail after the accident. I suppose I dobbed her in a bit. It’s not that I wanted to save my own neck but those bastards make you tell the truth. This involved dobbing Kylie in it. It was because of her I was in the car in the first place. So, maybe she deserved it. But, she wasn’t about to forgive me. Feuds are big inside. Usually everyone involved in an incident ends up in the slammer together at the

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same time. If I got out a day earlier for every time I heard some guy say ‘I’ll get him for that’ I’d be out now. A n y w a y, the Kylie feud started the morning I wrote to Mum. I was feeling in the rats. One of the boys even asked me if I was on the rags. I wasn’t. I just felt low. I cried all the night before. My cell was soooo hot that I felt like crawling out of my skin. The air conditioning was off again. I thought I was going to suffocate. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. I felt like shit. The psych asked to see me. She told me Mum was ill. She’s had a breakdown and they put her in hospital. I pictured her: grey, tired and sad sitting in Graylands making baskets. Isn’t that what mental patients do? I visited a friend’s rellie there once. The place smelt disgusting. A mixture of urine and disinfectant. I remember all the sad faces of the patients and the over-cheerful faces of the visitors. Mum’s lost it. She’s gone mad. A neighbour found her sitting at the side of the road hunched over like she was in pain. She led her home. It was like Mum didn’t know who or where she was. Our neighbour knew Mum had gone because her Mum had gone the same way so she called the doctor. I don’t know where Donna was. More than likely in the pub with Gripper. I bet she hasn’t been able to get him out of there since she broke the news about him being a f a t h e r. He probably denied it and accused her of sleeping around. That’d be his low life style. I bet his face was a picture when she told him. What a future being stuck to that retard. The psych was kind when she told me about Mum

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but what can she do. She said Mum needed time to get well. Michelle was great. I told her everything. She’s got an auntie who had a breakdown. Her aunt used to wander around the garden in her nightie, watering the trees, walls and the neighbours’ washing line. She hopped from foot to foot. I think Michelle made it all up to make me feel better. Like Mum was just a bit mad, not completely off her rocker. It was like she’d had a brain overload and just exploded. It sounds quite funny but I know it’s not. But, Mum was in hospital and I was worried about her. She’s always been like a child. I remember when Mum used to take me out, she’d cling on to my arm. I know it sounds weird but I could feel her fear. I was only six at the time. It was as if I was taking her across the road. Sometimes, I think I was born grown up. You wouldn’t believe it from the way I act, but.

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NAIDOC day

NAIDOC day. It means National Aboriginal and Islanders’ Day of Celebration. But, actually I quite enjoyed it because we got visitors. The day was a wash out. The band never bothered to turn up. There were some poxy singers who only sang three songs. But the God Squad saved the day (NOT) by coming in at short notice with a keyboard and a warbling soprano who must have been a hundred if she was a day. She sang for a good three quarters of an hour. It was a nightmare. I couldn’t believe that nobody booed her off. The didge player was good. A real spunk. I think he was looking at me. He probably had a wonky eye. I say that because nobody goes for me. The opposite sex aren’t exactly queuing up for my affections. Everyone’s family was there. The guys in here are different when they’re with their families. They’re mostly respectful. It was good to see them happy.

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My family’s not like that. I give Mum heaps in public. Some of the kids didn’t have any family, especially the ones from the bush. They all hung around together watching. Obviously, Mum couldn’t come but Donna came with Gripper who I was surprised to see. I was also extremely embarrassed. Donna looked as if she was on the game, her skirt was up her bum. There were a few of the guys in here trailing behind her with their tongues hanging out and I don’t think she even noticed. However, Gripper managed to control himself. He’s a racist pig. But he only made a scene once when he discovered he couldn’t get a beer! Donna told me about Mum going into hospital. Apparently, the doctor persuaded her to go in for a rest. He said her nerves were shot. So, my image of her wringing her hands and rocking, was a bit exaggerated. Gripper drove her there in his panel van. They got stopped on the way by the cops. Gripper got a yellow sticker slapped on him for bald tyres, exhaust fumes and no rego. When they were dishing out brains Gripper was somewhere else. Michelle and me had fun talking about everyone. There were so many babies there. I couldn’t believe it. Donna was really clucky. It must be the hormones. I felt sick. Babies are okay, but kids are a huge-as responsibility. I reckon you should do a test, like for driving, before you have them. Most people wouldn’t pass it, that’s for sure. There’s a girl in here who talks about nothing else. She says when she gets out she’s going to get pregnant so she can get a government house and a single parent’s pension. ‘ D ream on,’ we tell her. When she’s in class she

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collects pictures of baby clothes and she reads all these books about parenting. ‘Know your own child’, ‘Starting a family’, ‘100 steps to being a good m o t h e r’. She does all these competitions from the newspaper, with fridges and washing machines as prizes. Imagine all that white furniture in her cabin. At least they wouldn’t be able to see her on the crapper! The boys’ band played. I felt embarrassed ‘cos they were out of tune. Reggie was deadly on the d rums but. He’s from up bush. They seem to be more into music up there. Rocket was on bass guitar. He stuffed it up for the rest of them ‘cos he went off on some psycho trip. I reckon he thought he was Kurt Cobain. A few of the guys did some Aboriginal dancing. Michelle said that Spider did a good emu. I said he does a good emu ‘cos he looks like one. We nearly pissed ourselves laughing. Michelle’s got a fella. Well, it’s not like they’ve done anything because you couldn’t in here even if you wanted to. There’s usually someone watching you even if it’s the electric eye. She really gets on with Reggie. I bet her parents’d go ballistic if they knew Reggie was Aboriginal. Michelle’s parents are pretty rich and not Aboriginal. I don’t give a stuff and Michelle doesn’t give a stuff. School in here’s different than on the outside. The teachers don’t give you such a hard time. Mine’s p retty cool when she’s not going off at someone. There’s always work to do but sometimes I don’t feel like doing it. With Mum in hospital I can’t concentrate. Miss doesn’t hassle me. Instead of work I can write to Mum or do my journal. I never know what to say to Mum but. I mean what do you say to someone who’s had a nervous breakdown? I could always tell her I care and that I’m sorry. I find that 29

stuff hard to say. If I hadn’t got myself into this mess Mum’d be okay. I bet it was me who sent her over the edge. Anyhow, I had to write because I knew as sure as hell I wouldn’t to be allowed to visit. Donna wouldn’t visit Mum ‘cos she hated hospitals. She’d done well getting Mum there in the first place, but Mum’d have no one to visit her. No grapes or magazines. The least I could do was write. I want to say so much but when I try to put it down on paper it sounds dumb. Dear Mum, How’s it going? I heard you were in Graylands. What a bummer! If you’re wondering I’m okay. It’s not great in here but I’m surviving. I’ve made some friends and I’m going to school. I’ve started a TAFE course and my teacher reckons she can get me on a course when I get out. I’m going to stay out of trouble. I promise. I’m going to go to TAFE and get a job in the evenings and at weekends. Maybe a clothes shop or something. I’m definitely not coming back here. Yo u should see what we have to wear — daggy! The shampoo they give us smells like shit. It’s dis gusting and my hair looks horrible. At least we get two showers a day if we want them. Sometimes they turn the water off just as you’ve soaped your hair. Some of the girls in here give the youth workers heaps. You used to complain about my language. It’s nothing

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compared to some of the guys in here. I’m learning woodwork. I’ve been making toys for the kids who come on visiting day. My teacher says I can make something proper like a table. I wanted to make you a coffee table for mother’s day but it’s too late. I’m writing this on the computer. Pretty good eh! Anyway it’s morning tea and I’ve got to finish. Write soon or ring me. Luv yer Debbie

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An average day — NOT!

I decided my letter’d have to do. It wasn’t what I really wanted to say. I mean what do you say to someone with electrodes strapped to their temples? Get a life? I thought about the foul language the kids in Forston used. It was worse than mine and that was saying something. The first morning I was here when they unlocked my cabin I could hear one girl giving the youth worker heaps. Calling her ‘fat slag’, ‘leso’ and the unrepeatable rest. When the girl finished she looked at me and smirked. I liked her. She was a crack-up. The youth worker wasn’t impressed she just said ‘cabin meal’ and locked the girl in her cabin. I never got to know that girl. She was always in her cell. Talk about kicking the system! I shut down my computer, tore off the printout and folded it as carefully as a rollie. Boy, I could do with a smoke. I’d keep the letter until I got a chance to give it to a group worker for posting.

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The classroom noise was getting to me. I realised I’d been writing for nearly an hour and Miss was organising everyone for morning tea. ‘Guys, chairs in and work away, please,’ she shouted. ‘No worries, Miss,’ shouted back Reggie. He never wanted to make waves. When he didn’t do his work it was with a smile. You had to like him. Everyone did. Someone banged the door. Someone else shouted. The radio volume reached maximum. It was a Forston ritual. The teacher didn’t flinch. I reckon she’d heard it all before. Me, Michelle and Reggie left the room. Shit, if you’re going to stuff up do it properly. Today, I didn’t have that kind of energy. Not like the rest of the rabble, pushing and shoving. We were the last to queue for morning tea. Although, Kylie went to school too, I hadn’t spoken to her. I don’t know how I’d avoided it. Forston isn’t a big place. Now, I was behind her in the queue. I suppose I’d always been behind her, following her like some dumb sheep. We didn’t speak. I avoided catching her eye. I even pretended she wasn’t there. She didn’t look round. I blamed her for everything. I hadn’t wanted anything to do with Steven and Rocket and I certainly hadn’t wanted to get in a car with them. Of course I knew it was nicked. Get a life! Steven with a car that wasn’t hot? In your dreams. Anything with Steven was bad news. It had to be stolen but Kylie had the hots for Steven, like she did for anything in jocks, so in we got. Steven was cremated. I don’t reckon I’d like that, but it has to be better than being eaten by maggots. It 33

p robably wasn’t all his fault. Rocket would’ve encouraged him. He’s another stupid bastard. The local villain but likeable. He’s banged up in this poxy hole too. He’s got a smooth tongue, the gift of the gab. But, he already had a record as long-as and they got him on a string of charges. He’d been in and out of remand a hundred times. This time he was busted good and proper. Twelve months for armed robbery. T h e re’d been a warrant out for his arrest. The accident had made it easy for the cops. They got the lot of us. In a funny way Steven was the only one who escaped. I don’t reckon he made it up to heaven but. Kylie ignored me in the queue. She yarned with a few of the old timers. Ones who’ve been here before. Kylie’s not the low profile type. It is always centre of attraction stuff with her. It didn’t surprise me that she was mixing with the hard core crims. She took her cordial and moved off with her cronies to a corner of the quad. Crims and cordial, sounds weird! As she moved away she looked back and threw me a sideways glance that could kill. It said ‘look what the cat’s dragged in’. She has a way of curling her lip and half shutting her eyes. It makes her look ugly. Sullen. Still, she made me feel like shit. She yarned with a few boys. They sat and laughed. Every now and then they looked at me and laughed louder. Kylie made fat faces and waddled around. I knew what she was doing. Bitch. She was mimicking me. She knew which buttons to press. She knew how to get under my skin. I felt fat and unhappy. It was getting worse in here with lots of food and no exercise. Soon, I’d be the size of an elephant. Maybe I

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was a joke, a loser. Michelle hadn’t noticed them. When I told her she looked at me as if to say ‘paranoid’. I’d told Michelle about Kylie. She knew all about being fitted up for the job. That was why she was here. Some of her so called mates had asked her to stash some designer gear in her bedroom. Big mistake, Michelle. Of course she was done. Possession is nine tenths of the law and all that. It was no surprise to Michelle that Kylie and I were ex-friends. Kylie and her cronies threw evil looks in my d i rection, then laughed, cackling like a pack of witches. I don’t need to tell you I felt pissed off and edgy. She had a way of making me feel uneasy. I knew this was just the beginning. The teachers came through the quad, laughing. I can’t understand why they teach here. I’d give my entire CD collection to get out. But, they come here every day of their own free will. What do they think of the crims here? Some of the kids are hard-as. Their crimes are terrifying. They frighten the shit out of me! Rape, murder, thieving (mostly cars), high speed chases, and arson. I can understand people setting fire to things, flames are mesmerising! Seeing things go up in flames gives them a buzz! Sick or what? The teachers opened the doors. Mostly everyone was happy to go back to class. Except Reggie. He got a final warning ‘cos he wouldn’t stop shooting baskets. Nice, but dumb-as!

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Feeling fat

I sat back down at my desk feeling miserable. How come some girls look like models and others look like me. ‘Big boned’ my mother used to say. ‘Lard arse’ my loving brother called me. Lately I felt as if I was getting fatter. Why don’t I look like Elle Macpherson? In your dreams Debbie Kelly. Their sniggering had made me feel rat shit. I couldn’t get Kylie out of my mind. I had a sixth sense as far as Kylie was concerned. I went through the next lesson in a fat daze of self pity. The teacher looked worried, but thankfully she left me alone. Or so I thought. She seemed to know when to leave us alone. I wasn’t interested in science so I looked in the thesaurus. Without thinking I looked up ‘fat’. The power of the subconscious! fat: bulk, podgy, chubby, plump, lump, obese, giant, monster, whopper, pot-bellied, beefy Boy, did I feel all of those things! Eventually, Miss

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rang the psych. It was the last thing I felt like doing, talking to a shrink. Right then I didn’t know what I needed. But it certainly wasn’t the psych. Another thing I didn’t need was lunch time. But now it was. ‘Only one pack Davis,’ boomed a group worker. Davis was stuffing a second pack of sandwiches in his T-shirt. This was another Forston ritual. I had helped to make lunch. I’d been on kitchen duty. Four pieces of bread with cheese, ham, salad, too much margarine and a dollop of mayo. I knew what had gone into the sandwiches and I knew I didn’t need them. I looked at myself and saw a fat, crumpled body. It reminded me of an old movie I’d watched with Gripper and Donna. The Blob. This blob like creature kept getting bigger and bigger. Imagine not being able to get through the door and Kylie laughing at me. Everyone laughing at me! What a nightmare! This intensive eating was making me fat and I felt deeply depressed. I stood in the lunch queue, I must have looked like a retard or psycho ‘cos this new boy, gave me a strange look and moved away. I was fast turning into a blob. I had zits that were a good ‘ b e f o re advert’ for pimple cream and my tracky pants were much tighter. I’d asked for a bigger size and blamed the laundry lady for shrinking them. Who was I kidding? It was me, expanding. I felt disgusted with myself. My life was out of control. I was useless, my family was useless. I felt fat and ugly. As if everything was my fault.

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Depressed or what?

Kath was my group worker. She noticed when I was unhappy or in trouble. Lately, I must have looked desperate. Anyway, I felt desperate. I knew I needed help and I knew I was being hard on myself, too. Kath noticed me sitting on my own. She said she’d seen it happen before to other kids. When they first came in they pretended everything was okay. Then, they went quiet or started to get into trouble. It was the quiet ones you had to watch. Kath liked me, God knows why ‘cos I was a bitch to her. She said I was a nice kid deep down, a kid with potential. I find that hard to believe. I know what to do when people say shit things about me or run me down but when they say nice things, I don’t believe them. In here they put you on self esteem courses that do jack shit as far as I can tell. Every one has to say positive things about each other even when you know they’re real losers. So, what’s the point of that?

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In Forston we get three good meals a day and no drink or drugs. Kath says that usually means kids put on weight. Mostly they need it. Some, like me, don’t. Kath didn’t say this. Boys play or chase each other or play footie on the oval to work off the meals. Girls don’t. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to parade in front of everyone with my fat guts. It wouldn’t be cool. T h e re were only a handful of girls in Forston. E x e rcise sessions weren’t made for us so we just watched. Occasionally we’d play a game of basketball but the boys would hassle us. One teacher ran aerobics for us, but it didn’t happen often. There was nothing physical for us to do regularly. Kath was fit. She belonged to ‘The Body Club’. She had this great body. Not that I’m pervin’. It wasn’t thin, just strong and lean. She used to do long distance swimming in the ocean. Kath was twentyfive and looked good. The boys didn’t go for her because she could handle herself. She didn’t take any crap from any of us. She reckoned we were responsible for everything we did and we had to take the rap. We all just accepted her. She was good at her job and fair-as. She slid down the wall and sat next to me. If she’d asked me first I’d probably have told her to piss off, or ignored her. ‘You look miserable. D’you want to talk about it?’ She hung onto the word miserable like I made her feel sick or something. I shrugged. I really did want to talk but I’m not used to telling people how I feel. ‘What’s it to you?’ I must have sounded unconvincing ‘cos she sniggered.

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‘Well, this place is poxy,’ I muttered, studying the concrete and not looking at her. ‘I can understand that,’ she replied. ‘It’s not a great place to be, Forston. It’s no leisure centre, though some may disagree.’ ‘You’re right there. I’m not coming back. No way.’ Kath told me she’d heard it before. ‘Never again’. ‘This is the last time.’ ‘I’m not going to do crime no more.’ ‘I won’t be back.’ But, they did come back. Most kids went straight out and stuffed up again. Nothing had changed for them, on the outside. They had no home. They had no one who loved them. They were still addicted. ‘You haven’t eaten your sandwich, Debbie?’ ‘No, I’m getting fat.’ I said it without thinking. ‘ You don’t have to starve yourself. Have one sandwich or an apple.’ I took the apple and polished it on my sleeve. I’d lost my appetite. ‘You don’t need to diet, Debbie. You need to get in shape. You need to get fit.’ Kath flexed her muscles and smiled. ‘In this shithole, how?’ I asked sarcastically. ‘In the gym. You can work out. I’ll be your personal trainer. If you like, I’ll organise it for you.’ ‘The boys’d laugh at me,’ I said. People laughing at me seemed to be the story of my life. ‘ I g n o re the boys. They can’t help being idiots,’ chuckled Kath. I laughed. It felt strange. I was forgetting how to be happy. I hadn’t laughed since NAIDOC day. The idea of a personal trainer appealed to me. Madonna had one and so did Kylie Minogue. All the big

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female stars did and they didn’t look like muscle men. ‘Okay, anything’s better than Social Skills,’ I smiled. ‘Don’t think giving up eating will help. You’ll just binge and your body won’t know if it’s a feast or a famine.’ I knew all this. A girl at school was anorexic. She had looked about ninety and ugly-as. I wondered what had happened to her. She’d probably faded away in the psychiatric ward of some hospital. It made me think of her family. I bet they blamed themselves. Depressing or what? Kath went off and left me alone. Kylie walked by with her side-kick. She talked in a loud whisper to him. ‘You know, some people round here are really fat. I’m lucky. I can eat whatever I like. I never put on weight.’ Her side-kick looked confused. Kylie could be such a low life. She got to me, every time. I still felt embarrassed and hurt even though I knew what she was like. I wished I could disappear into the ground. Maybe, pumping iron with Kath was the answer. What else was there to do?

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Getting a life

This is the first day of the rest of my life. I read that on a poster once. I always wanted to use it. I decided to get into shape, to take control of this blob and to get a life! I thought about what Kath had said. It made sense! I didn’t want to be anorexic. But, I didn’t want to be a blob. Maybe, I’d cut down on obvious things. I started saying ‘no’ to dessert. ‘No’ to chips. ‘No’ to sugar. And, I didn’t go back for seconds. In the dining room I looked down at my plate of food. Cold chicken and coleslaw. I’d refused the chips. I felt really good about that, kind of strong. The night before, I’d thought about the gym. I’d thought about lots of things and I’d decided I wanted to change. Reggie and Michelle were locked in a conversation. I didn’t hear what they were saying. I was lost in my plans.

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‘Penny for your thoughts?’ asked the youth worker at our table. There were three of us and one of them. We used metal knives and forks so some of the hard-core crims were watched closely in case they lost it and started a fight. Once this kid held a metal knife to a guard’s throat. You never knew when someone was going to go off. ‘It’s nothing, Sir,’ I replied. I didn’t feel like being talkative. ‘What have you chosen for the evening session, love?’ He was a friendly guy, I couldn’t ignore him. ‘I’m going in the weights room. Kath is taking me and the other girls for training.’ His face froze. It was the first time I’d seen him lost for words. He always had a joke, a smart remark, a word of encouragement. But, now he was speechless. ‘Oh!’ he eventually spat out. ‘Yes, Kath is showing us how to use the weights properly.’ I grinned. I’d caught him off guard. He was usually so sure. He obviously didn’t think the gym was the place for girls. ‘Why aren’t you cooking or in the sewing room?’ He was all red and flustered. ‘Get real, Sir. This is the nineties!’ I remembered Kath’s words. ’There are some real male chauvinist pigs around here. You watch.’ I realised I was sitting next to one. ‘Some of the lads won’t like it,’ he continued. He was really saying he didn’t like it. ‘Well, that’s tough, Sir,’ I said angrily. I wanted to ram my fork up his nose. I was worked up, ready for a work out!

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The next morning I ached. Every bone in my body ached. I could hardly get out of bed. I had to roll off. It was a good feeling. I’d done something. Every time I moved I ached. It made me laugh. Kath had said I was doing too much. She said I’d ache but I didn’t listen. I wanted to do it well. Michelle was pathetic (sorry Michelle). There is this contraption called a multi-gym. It has d i ff e rent weights for dif f e rent muscles. I kept showing off and increasing the weights. I never knew I had so many muscles. Michelle couldn’t keep going. She pushed one rep (that means repetition) and then had a rest. Kath made us do sets of ten. I did leg pushes, arm pulls, leg presses and bench presses. I felt embarrassed at first. There were a few guys in there. One of them worked out on the fr e e weights. There aren’t many spunky guys in here but this guy is. He has fantastic muscle definition. Kath must have noticed me staring. She said he had nice pecs and winked at me. I told her to leave off. And, when we were packing the weights away, the ‘nice pecs’ helped me. After, Kath made us do circuits. I thought I was going to explode. We did push ups, running on the spot, star jumps, sit ups and then used the dumb bells. I was nearly dead. But, afterwards I felt great. The funniest thing was when Kath handed this guy some dumb bells. His knees buckled and he grunted. It was neat. He muttered some abuse under his b reath. Kath looked at me and winked. She is so cool. I hope I’m like her when I’m twenty-five. I

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couldn’t wait for the next afternoon when we’d be in the gym again. Kylie didn’t join the gym group. Typical. I was glad, but. She’d spoil it. She’d make it so she was the centre of attention. Anyway, when Kath asked her she said she didn’t need it. Bitch. Another girl, who used to run for her school in Year Eight, joined. She was okay.

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My future!

At lunch the next day it was raining heavily. Michelle and I found a dry spot on the verandah to drink our hot milo. Michelle was moaning about the training. She started clutching her body and writhing around in pain, piling it on. I laughed at her. What a drama queen! ‘Never again.’ ‘You’re a wimp Michelle. I thought last night was great.’ ‘You must be a masochist.’ I knew all about being a masochist. Kylie walked past. She stopped and glared at me. It was one of her looks that I knew well. My stomach turned as she spat her venom in my direction. ‘Of course, I don’t need to sweat to keep slim. Some people are so butch. D’you think some girls a round here are lesos?’ Her partner didn’t know where to look which was nothing unusual. Michelle

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had christened him ‘Brainless’. I looked at his face. He hadn’t understood Kylie, but I had. Her words were like knives. It would be just like Kylie to label me as a leso and spread it about. Anything to score points. Everyone’d give me heaps. Michelle didn’t care. What other people say doesn’t seem to get to her the same way it does me. It hurt. Michelle must have noticed how much ‘cos she put her hand on my arm. ‘Don’t let her drag you down. She’s just a big hole. She’s not worth worrying about.’ I tried to smile and put on a brave face, but my bubble had burst. Lunch was nearly over. Kylie left us alone. I could see her sucking up to one of the youth workers. She’d finished with me for now and I felt like smashing her face, even though I’m not the violent type. It’s funny. I get so angry and do nothing with it. The anger seems to fester inside. Mostly, I get angry and end up beating up on myself — crazy. Two boys started fighting. They were restrained. Sometimes kids in Forston lose it. They flip. One minute they’re shooting baskets and the next they’re full-on fighting. Beating the shit out of each other. Michelle and me watched like the rest of them. It broke the monotony. When, we piled back into class a lecturer from TAFE was waiting to talk about choosing a career. She asked us to fill in a questionnaire about our likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses, and our ambitions. I filled mine in carefully, which was a first, since careful is not how I’d describe myself. It was important to me so I thought hard about my strengths. But, it wasn’t easy to think of any. I said

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obvious things like being neat and tidy. Mum’d argue about that but she wasn’t there to dob me in. She called my room ‘The pit’ ‘cos things went in there but never came out. I looked at a kid on the other side of the room. He couldn’t do his questionnaire, poor bastard, because he couldn’t read or write. The teacher knew so she sat with him and they did it together. Lots of guys in Forston couldn’t read and write but somehow it didn’t matter. Nobody made you feel dumb. In a funny way school on the inside was safe. My questionnaire was filled in. I’d done my best. I’d tried to organise my thoughts. I knew I liked cooking, going out and watching videos. I knew I didn’t like German Shepherds and custard. I admitted I was bad at Maths and that I lacked heaps of confidence. I wasn’t going to write down some of the other, not so acceptable qualities I had, like following idiots like Kylie, and doing crime and stuff. No way could I put that in black and white, but at least I said it to myself. The lecturer gave us a talk about options and special courses. Some of them were specifically for Aborigines. That pissed me off a bit ‘cos it meant I couldn’t do them. Afterwards, there was time for questions, so I plucked up courage and queued to talk to her. I was standing behind ‘baby psycho’ who was also in the queue. Remember her? She’s the one who’s planning her family. I seemed to wait forever. The lecturer gave her all these pamphlets about child c a re courses and a contact number. I was re a l l y impressed that the lecturer took everyone seriously

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even though it’s as plain-as, that some of the guys in here are two snaggers short of a barbie. Could I take this lecturer seriously? Maybe she’d think I was a complete dingbat and still go along with me. Anyway, I launched straight in. I asked her about doing a hospitality course. She told me it was really hard. I mean r e a l l y, really hard to get in because it’s so popular. I’d need C’s in all my subjects. Even Maths! She said I had as much chance as anyone else and as long as I got my Year 10 certificate I’d be eligible for lots of the courses. I was encouraged, I think. This was the first time in my entire, fifteen years of life that I had a plan. I’d never thought I had any choice about what I could do. Now, working towards something seemed a better option than festering in Forston.

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Getting fit

‘But, I booked it yesterday.’ Kath was so mad! We stood at the door of the weights room watching her lose her cool. It was the first time I’d seen her in the rats. I could tell she was really angry. She was arguing with Ron, the fitness instructor. ‘Sorry love. I’m always in the weights room on Wednesdays,’ he said with a self satisfied smirk. The kind of smirk that really presses your buttons. ‘Bulldust. You didn’t write it on the sheet.’ When she saw me and Michelle arrive she cooled down. She whispered to Ron through clenched teeth as she moved away. ‘We’ll talk later.’ Then, she stormed off and we followed. ‘Sometimes this place gets up my nose,’ she snarled trying to get herself together ‘Okay. Plan B. Today we’ll work on our aerobic fitness. That means we’re going to get our heart and lungs fit.’

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‘That sounds painful,’ moaned Michelle. She’s a grade ‘A’ wimp. The other girl knew what was coming. She was a ru n n e r. First we all stre t c h e d . Kath explained this was to warm up the muscles. ‘No warm up, can lead to injury,’ she said, ‘because muscles can tear and damage.’ The warm up exercises felt good. I stared at Kath because she looked so fantastic. She wore a pale green track suit and her hair was piled on her head with a sweat band on her forehead. She looked unreal. Her gear wasn’t fashionable or anything but she still looked good. I wished. Me, I looked daggy-as. Blue track pants, very uncool trainers and a deformed skivvy that looked as if it was out of a clothing bin. Believe me, I know all about clothing bins. My mum used to nick clothes out of them. Embarrassing or what? We were poor then. Just after Dad ran off Mum couldn’t get a pension ‘cos the Social didn’t believe her. They reckoned Dad was still living with us and Mum was trying to defraud them. Can you believe that? We still are poor, but. Kath made us run around the basketball court twenty times and this was just a warm up! There was no cheating because she counted. The year eight runner raced ahead. She was fast and when she sprinted she looked beautiful. Long and slender like a gazelle on the African plains. Kath told her she could be the next Kathy Freeman. She’d have to give up sniffing, but. She’s a real petrol head and I don’t mean she’s interested in cars. Kath ran with me. I bet she could have raced ahead. Needless to say, Michelle dragged behind. When she runs she looks

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like she’s peed her pants. Every now and then Kath dropped back and ran with Michelle who was going so slowly that we lapped her three times. Any opportunity and she’d stop. A few boys on kitchen duty stood on the verandah. They shouted obscenities as we ran round the quad. Brainless or what? Michelle thought they were cheering. I reckon it’d be great to go through life thinking the best of everyone and everything. Me, I’m the opposite, and I’m usually right. The boys made me feel really uncomfortable, awkward. I felt big and ugly and self conscious. It made me lose my rhythm. Rhythm is important when you’re running. It helps you breath. It feels good. Kath noticed that the boys were getting to me. She stuck with me and yelled back at them. They pushed a bucket back to the cleaning cupboard. As they went the metal bucket clanked and water slooshed everywhere. I nearly slipped on it and they thought that was a real laugh. The group worker tried to shut them up but he didn’t succeed. How useless can you get? Eventually, the boys disappeared and we were left to get on with training, in peace. When we finished the laps we rested. Then Kath gave us each a skipping rope. ‘Two minutes skipping! Thirty seconds rest. Repeat ten times. Go!’ She started her stop watch before I’d even got my breath back but I grabbed a rope and began. Gary, my wonderful brother (NOT) used to skip when he went to boxing training. He was good. His trainer told him to give it up, not the skipping but the boxing. He reckoned Gary had a mean streak. He

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was right, too. You think about the weirdest things when you exercise. I hadn’t skipped since I was a kid playing in the back yard and I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it. We started doing fancy cross over skipping and high kicks. When we missed or got tied up in the ropes we nearly wet ourselves. One of Kylie’s retarded cronies walked past and gave me the finger. ‘Arsehole!’ I muttered. I was completely stuffed. I sweated so much it ran down my back. My heart was beating flat out. My skivvy clung to my body like in some wet T-shirt competition. When we’d finished, Kath taught us how to take our pulse rate. She said that a fit person, during a hard workout, could get their pulse rate up to 220 beats per minute minus their age. I worked it out. That meant 220 minus 15 is 205 beats per minute. My heart rate was only 160. I had a lot of work to do. Finally, we finished and collapsed gasping against the wall, like mozzies after they’ve been zapped with Baygon.

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I think too much

‘In prison you’re in a cell for twenty-four hours a day. But, if you aren’t free in your head you’re in a prison wherever you are. You’re in your own private prison.’ When I said it I meant it. Kath listened hard like she always did. She agreed with me. She said she knew all about being in a ‘private prison’. She reckoned it was why she had ended up working here. Bizarre or what? ‘When I was on the outside I was in a prison,’ I told her. ‘No job. No School. No real home. No ambition. I did what my mates said. I’ve done that for as long as I can remember. It’s all shit.’ Kath said she knew about that too, she could have gone the same way as me. She could have ended up on the inside. The wrong crowd. Bad decisions. She’d got involved in heavy duty drugs, and then crime. I knew all about that, getting with the wrong crowd was the story of my life. Luckily her family

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had helped her stay on track. They even moved interstate for her so’s she could get away from her so-called mates. They cared about her. I had no one to help me, just myself. That was hard. I had to get out of this on my own. Kath said she was behind me but I can’t believe her. Kath told me about her own private prison. About the time she wanted to do special training for restraining tactics. Specially trained officers deal with trouble. Kath wanted to train but the guys didn’t like it. They thought she wouldn’t be strong or aggr e s s i v e enough. They thought she couldn’t protect herself, and that she was too weak to give them the back-up they needed. They were polite but they didn’t want her as a partner. No one would work with her. Kath reckoned they were being sexist. Kath got her qualification. She could restrain any of the guys but, even after that no one would work with her. Can you believe that? I mean she’d proved herself and everything. She felt bitter, but there was nothing she could do about it. In the end she went back to her old job. She needed an ally but she didn’t have one. She felt she was in her own kind of prison.

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Who needs drugs?

I stood under the hot shower. It was heaven. I felt my blood racing. I felt clean and new, and exhausted. Nothing could spoil this moment. Not even Kylie. I could hear Kath chatting to the others. She was trying to persuade Michelle not to give up training. Poor old Mich found the whole thing hard. She was adamant she wanted to give up, but Kath told her that if she wanted to be a model, exercise was just the thing to stay in shape. It seemed to have no effect on Michelle. It was all too hard. It was painful. Why would anyone want to inflict pain on themselves? Maybe she had a point. After we showered and dressed, we waited in the quad with everyone, for dinner. It was a cold May evening. The sun had disappeared. The sky glowed. I wondered if it was a magnificent sunset, or the city lights. They were both romantic ideas. I felt exhausted and at peace. I should have realised it was

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the calm before the storm. As we all sat around the quad, the youth workers wandered among us or sat and talked. I sat in silence with Michelle. Kylie and a few boys poured out of the Social Skills room. I always seemed to notice Kylie. She was laughing. They were all high-as. Kylie loved being the centre of attention. She walked towards me. I turned to Mich and started talking about the training session. Michelle laughed at herself for being so wimpy, and pretended to look miserable. Mich was good like that, she could laugh at herself. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Kylie getting closer. I felt pissed off that she always spoiled my fun. She had her usual side-kick with her. They hovered like wild cats. Then, it happened. I suddenly looked at her. The old feeling was back. Like she has some power over me. It’s really scary. ‘What do you two want?’ asked Michelle. ‘You’re always looking for it, Kylie.’ ‘Looking for what?’ said Kylie sweetly. She did her ‘pretend to look all innocent’ act. ‘I’m just minding my own business.’ Like hell she was! Anyway, I answered for Kylie ‘cos I knew for sure what she was after. ‘TROUBLE!’ I snarled. ‘So bog off.’ I couldn’t believe how aggressive I was. ‘I can stay where I like. It’s a free country.’ ‘Are you a slow learner or what? I hate to remind you but this is a prison. You’re in prison. You aren’t f ree, r e t a rd!’ My reply surprised me. Michelle laughed. I started to get confident. It felt good getting one up on Kylie. So, I continued. ‘And what’s more, you got me in here in the first place. Had you

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forgotten that, too?’ There was no stopping me now. I was like a mad woman. Kylie was backing off. My temper rose and my blood raced. I knew without checking that my pulse rate was easily one hundred and fifty. It was pure anger. Michelle grabbed my arm, she’d felt the tension. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘They’re going in for tea.’ But, it was too late. I lunged towards Kylie and with all my strength, pushed her hard. I could have shoved her through a plate glass window. Kylie stumbled backwards into a post. ‘Just stay away from me, Kylie Morgan. Stay away and don’t come near me again or I might have to smash your ugly face in.’ My face contorted as I stood over Kylie. It was a new feeling. I was mad-as and Kylie knew it. She pushed herself off the post and propelled herself towards me. I was ready for her. ‘You are a pathetic wimp, Debbie Kelly. A fat ugly slut.’ So, what was I to do? If that wasn’t an invitation for a good fight what was? With an iron grip I grabbed Kylie’s arm. She hung on to my shoulder and hooked my leg trying to make me fall to the ground. I was too strong. I could have taken anyone on. I grabbed her arms and swung her hard against the post. Then, I froze. Everyone froze. I’m not sure if it was the look on Kylie’s face, the crunch of breaking bone or her piercing shriek. ‘My arm. You bitch. You’ve broken my arm!’ I knew I’d gone too far. Two security officers raced over. I was still so angry, I would have carried on laying into her if I hadn’t been restrained. They grabbed my arms and

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then dragged me away from Kylie. I felt my arm being pushed up my back and before I knew it I was on the floor, face down. I knew I’d gone over the top and would be in deep trouble. Who had got me there? I asked myself. As usual, Kylie. Michelle tried to explain but nobody listened to her. Kylie whimpered. I could hear her milking the situation for all it was worth. The nurse rushed over to assess the damage. Wouldn’t you know it, I was in the shit and Kylie gets all the sympathy even though it was her fault. Kylie was taken to the surgery. Then I faced the music. I felt miserable because I knew what a fight meant. Cell confinement and work duties. Worst of all it meant no privileges, no f reedom, no weights room and no training with Kath. My world collapsed. I had been so stupid. Once again I’d let Kylie get under my skin. I’d let her shatter my dream. As Kylie walked towards the surgery I screamed after her, ‘Just stay away from me. Got it? Stay out of my life.’ That’s when my eyes filled with tears and I was dragged to the isolation cell.

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My bubble bursts

I was in Cabin 6. They said it was procedure. If you had a fight you went there to cool off. I leaned against the wall and slid down. The tears came like a river. I was cold. I hugged my body tightly. Flash back time was inevitable. That old road train would come hurtling towards me and knock me for six. When you weren’t in Cabin 6 it was a joke. I was in there and it wasn’t funny. A metal door locked behind me. I looked up at a small window. Outside it was dark. Inside the only light was from a dim bulb that flickered high in the ceiling. It was a depressing light. The fitting was too high for anyone to reach. I knew why that was. There was a metal toilet in the corner. It was shiny and bright and polished clean. It looked out of place. All wrong. Anyway I wasn’t going to use it. You wouldn’t catch me taking a piss in front of an audience. You don’t know who’s peering through

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that electric eye. There was nothing else, not even a chair or a bed. The concrete floor was cold and dirty but I lay down anyway. You can disappear when you lay down. I felt naked lying there. Like I was turned inside out and all my nerves were touching that cold slab of concrete. I thought that this must be what death feels like. I screamed out all my frustrations. I shouted. I yelled. I swore and cursed. I shouted at everyone, Mum, Donna, Kylie. I even shouted at Kath. But most of all I shouted at myself. No one heard me, of course. Eventually, my anger turned to sadness. I sobbed and the tears ran and ran. As much as I wanted to blame someone else, deep down I knew it was me who was responsible for my pathetic existence. I could think of a million reasons, a million justifications for my behaviour but as they say in here, ‘Do the crime, do the time’. My whole life had been one nightmarish flash back. How had I gone off the rails? When had I? How had it started? Wagging school was the beginning. That’d been Kylie’s idea: ‘It’s nothing, no one’ll notice. Come on Debbie get a life.’ The truant officer gave Mum a hard time so I was grounded but that meant shit. I still went out and I stayed out. I didn’t go home. I ran amuck. I was out of control. Wagging led to shoplifting which became second nature. Kylie told me exactly what to lift. It wasn’t until I got busted for lifting make-up from a supermarket that I realised Kylie never actually did any thieving when I was around. Why get your hands dirty when you’ve got a mug like Debbie Kelly to do it for you? I must

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have had rocks in my head. I was nicked with a jacket full of war paint. The real joke is, I never wear the stuff. It was for Kylie. I got off because the supermarket guy was sympathetic. He said it could have been his daughter. But, the cops had me marked. It didn’t stop us. From make-up we progressed to liquor and then designer gear. That’s how I ended up in the Children’s Court on theft charges. Kylie was very sympathetic when I was given forty hours community service. She was right behind me telling me it wouldn’t be so bad. Kylie masterminded our crimes. We started mixing with losers. She had the hots for Steven so we started cruising with him and this other guy, Rocket. Whenever we were near them we seemed to end up in some trouble. Avoiding the cops or being involved in some deal with stolen goods. I was so hooked on Kylie and the lifestyle, I never questioned it. I was pretty gutless. Still am. Time slipped slowly by. It seemed like hours. I had plenty of time to reflect. Time to chill out. I heard a key in the lock. I pressed myself hard against the wall. I didn’t know what was coming and I didn’t know what to expect. I was shit-scared. I felt relived when two youth workers came in. You get to know the ones who are real bastards and the ones who are fair. These two were okay. I stood up, like a reflex action. ‘Sit down, love,’ one said. He had a kind face. ‘Have you got anything to say for yourself?’ asked the other. He was Welsh and when he spoke it was like he was singing to you.

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I shrugged my shoulders. I had lots to say but I was still too angry to say them. I might get myself into bigger trouble. They told me Kylie had a broken arm. ‘It serves her right. It’s been a long time coming.’ I knew I sounded angry. Then, I found myself telling them the whole story. The trouble Kylie always got me into. I was here because of Kylie. I told them about the strange hold Kylie seemed to have over me. They asked me why I hung around with her if I knew all this? Good question. I told them I supposed it was like an addiction. I was addicted to being her victim. I kept going back for more. I told them how Kylie always provoked me. How she made me do things that I never would have dreamed up on my own. It was a kind of force. A power. My crimes w e re all Kylie’s scams, Kylie’s schemes, Kylie’s revenges, Kylie’s pay backs or Kylie’s strange sense of humour. The officers listened. They’d heard it all before. ‘It wasn’t my fault’ or ‘Someone else made me do it’. But, they sympathised. I felt better. I think I felt better. But, I’d broken her arm and I’d have to pay the price. Ever since we’d both come in here there was a war on. Up until now it had been a cold war, a war without fighting. Not now. I knew Kylie, she’d want blood. Revenge. Call it what you like. I’d suffer. She’d find a way to make me pay. Maybe she already had. I couldn’t train in the weights room. That was punishment enough for me. Any other loss of privilege I could accept. I knew I would be demoted. The privilege unit had been great. Well, as great as anything could be in Forston. Now I’d be in the

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security wing. That meant no open doors, no choices and no making coffee or milo when you felt like it. For the first time I’d felt I was getting my life under control. Then, this thing with Kylie happened. They told me that Kylie wasn’t going to charge me. She could if she wanted to. It was my guess that they’d talked her out of it. It wasn’t like Kylie to let an opportunity like that pass her by. I was surprised. Maybe she was saving it up, keeping it up her sleeve as ammunition. I felt really bad about Kath. Kath had trusted me and helped me. Now I’d let her down. That made me feel depressed. When I look back, I laugh at some of the things that happened because of the fight. I lost all my privileges but the others looked at me dif f e re n t l y. I stayed in Cabin 6 until about nine thirty that night. I was in there for nearly four hours. Funny to think I had a three month sentence and I was worried about four measly hours in Cabin 6. I know it sounds stupid, but it was different. Like when I was in the paddy wagon on the way here. Terrifying. I did a lot of thinking. Eventually, I was taken to my cabin. I hadn’t eaten. Inside they always feed you whatever. You never miss a meal. They don’t want any bastard starving to death. No way. It’s called ‘accountability’. But, somehow they’d forgotten to feed me. I didn’t care. I had no appetite anyway. I was too fired up. Anyway, the Debbie versus Kylie story had gone round Forston like an out of control bushfire. I mean it was exaggerated majorly, even though everyone had seen it happen. I had to laugh. When I arrived

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back at my cabin everyone in my unit cheered. They were cheering me like I was some kind of hero. Can you believe it? The kids in here like a fight. I made the most of it because I knew I’d be in the high security unit the next morning. That thought really depressed me. That night I was on fifteen minute obs. Every fifteen minutes someone comes to peer through the little window on your cell door to see if you’re okay. After an incident some guys flip. The next morning after breakfast I was moved to the other unit. I noticed Kylie wasn’t at breakfast. She was probably in Sister’s room or at the hospital. For the next two days I was on cleaning duties! Cleaning ablution blocks. The psych wanted to see me. I didn’t want to see h e r. It’s dif f e rent when you suddenly become violent. Everyone’s interested. Until then I’d been quiet, compliant Debbie Kelly. Now, I was a got-aproblem crim. I got pretty shitty with the psych. She asked me stupid questions. I told her I thought her and her questions were shit. She told me I had a bad attitude and signed me up for the Anger Management Program. I wondered if Kylie would be on the same course. I hoped she wasn’t. I wasn’t looking forward to facing her. I knew I’d won the battle but we were still at war. Later, I learned that Kylie wormed her way out of the whole incident. She managed in her usual phoney, sickly-sweet way to lay all the blame on me. It was the story of my life. Just like the shop lifting episode. I was the one with all the lipsticks and crap stuffed in my jacket pockets. Kylie skipped off and left me to face the music. 65

Yes, she did have a broken arm but it wasn’t compensation enough for everything she’d inflicted on me. I don’t feel terrible when I think of her in plaster, in fact I can’t help smiling. She deserved it. She’d be in plaster for six weeks — sucked in. All the same, I wasn’t looking forward to seeing her. She’d be in some corner with her mates plotting. I knew her well.

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More plans

I’d finished my work duties. Gross. Imagine sixteen hours with your arm stuck down a toilet. Kath hadn’t been on shift and I’d managed to avoid Kylie. According to Michelle she’d spent some time at the hospital being x-rayed and plastered up. It’s a pity it wasn’t her jaw I’d broken. There was always a next time. Mich told me Kylie was on the war path. She was mad-as with me. Rumour had it she was going to finish me good and proper. She wouldn’t kill me or anything drastic. She’d be low-life and humiliate me somehow. It was different now. I’d stood up to her, maybe I’d broken her spell. ‘What happened Debbie?’ Kath looked r e a l l y concerned. Her face was kind. I felt as if I’d stuck a knife in her. But, it hurt me. It got through my Forston armour. I felt my eyes fill with tears. ‘The usual. Kylie was being a pain. What’s new. And I got mad.’

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‘Well you blew it, didn’t you?’ I had a lump in my throat. I nodded in agreement because that’s exactly what I’d done, blown it. I felt as if my life was going out like a used up candle. I knew I was being a drama queen — I’d been around Michelle for too long. Kath and I sat in the corner of the quad. There was no one about. Kath had got me out of class. She wanted to talk to me. Everyone was in school or workshops. Some were on duties. I thought about the person in Cabin 6. There was usually some poor sod there. The silence in the quad was uncomfortable. There were no distractions. Just me feeling self conscious and squirming inside. I felt I’d let Kath down. ‘I’m sorry Kath,’ I spluttered. I must have sounded like a whimpering dog. It was a pathetic apology and I wasn’t sorry about what I’d done. Kylie had had it coming for a long time. ‘ You don’t need to apologise to me. That’s not going to help you now,’ said Kath. ‘Maybe not, but I am sorry that I let you down. I didn’t want to do that.’ ‘You let yourself down, Debbie.’ ‘I feel really pissed off that I can’t go in the weights room. For the first time in my life I was really enjoying doing something for me. I was getting fit and strong. Now, Kylie’s blown it for me.’ ‘Get a life Deb, you blew it for yourself. But, I’m not going to lecture you. Any thoughts about where to from here. It needn’t be the end of the world.’ ‘What do you mean?’ I said hoping she had an answer.

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‘Well, we could always write a training program. You could do sit ups and push ups in your cabin. You don’t need much space. And, when you’re in the quad you can train too. Running. Sprinting. Shuttle runs. Interval training. If you really want to do something, do it. That would be one in the eye for Kylie too. Don’t let this minor set back beat you. But, you can if you want! If you’ve got half a brain you won’t.’ Back in class the teacher was helping the students plot their family trees. For all I cared my family could go to hell. I needed to think. I had some decisions to make. How was I going to explain my behaviour to the Board? I’d blotted my copy book, s m e a red my re c o rd. I had my Sentence Planning Meeting coming up and this wasn’t going to help my case. When you first go into Detention the Superintendent and a whole heap of people hold a meeting to plan your stay inside, to rehabilitate you. For instance, you go to school, get detoxed, learn life skills or work on getting employment. Whatever you need. Well, I’d stuffed up and that wouldn’t look good. A fight. A broken arm. Let’s face it. It’s assault. Goodbye to doing my time easy. But, I did make one decision. I would keep up my fitness training. That was at least one part of my life I had under control. Now I was in the high security block, there was no way I could work my way back to minimum security in six weeks, I’d blown any chance of an early release. Giving Kylie a broken arm had made me realise my own strength. My mum used to say that every

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cloud has a silver lining. It had never made sense until now. Don’t get me wrong I don’t want to go around bashing people. But, giving Kylie a broken arm had felt good. I felt strong and fit. It wasn’t just physically either.

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Training hard!

I kept up my training. I was strict about it. I kept a chart on my wall where I recorded the training I’d done in the quad. Although Michelle had ducked out she still cheered me on. She said she didn’t need it. I did, it was like a kind of drug. I’d read that when you exercise, your brain produces endorphins which supress pain. When I run really hard I need it — no bullshit. Kath supported me too. She gave me tips about how I could improve my running technique. Everyone else gave me a hard time about training. The boys still jeered and shouted abuse or obscenities. But, mostly it was fun. Some of the male group workers gave us heaps but I didn’t care. They’d whistle or try and put me off. Sometimes they’d join in. That was fun. Kylie didn’t join in. She was sitting around a lot and sulking. Her side kick still stuck to her like a bad smell. Kylie was keeping a low profile.

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I thought about training when I left Forston. Maybe I could join a basketball team or a gym. Maybe even an athletics club. Before Forston I never would have dreamt of joining a club. I would have thought it was daggy-as. Only geeks did sport. I was watching what I ate. I wasn’t dieting, counting calories and all that stuff. That’s for the brain dead. I ate as much as I wanted but cut down on fats and sugar. My zits had gone, bonus. My skin looked better than it had for ages. I felt heaps better than I’d felt for years. Kylie still had a cast on her arm. I hadn’t seen her smile much since the episode. She’d lost face. I’d become a hero. Suddenly, I had some respect. Some street cred. The guys looked at me differently. They looked at me as if I could handle myself. They saw me as some kind of rebel. I felt respected, even if it was by a bunch of crims. What’s more I had some self respect. I’m not proud of assaulting Kylie. As a kid I’d hidden from Dad and Gary ‘cos they were angry and violent and I never knew when they were going to lose it. I’d hate anyone to think that about me. I knew Kylie hadn’t finished with me. I knew she was waiting for an opportunity to strike. Like a cat playing with a mouse.

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Packin’ it!

It was hard to believe that it had been a week since the Kylie episode. Today was the day. I was going up for my Sentence Planning Meeting. Kath told me she’d written a great pro g ress report. I hoped it would help. She warned me that everyone would have put in a report about me and would be there. Even Donna. A responsible family member had to be there. Normally that’d be a parent or guardian, but with Dad gone and Mum in the loony bin, Donna agreed to come. I doubted if she’d be much help but it’d be great to see her. I mean responsibility isn’t the first quality that springs to mind when I picture Donna. I knew that the Kylie episode would look bad. But, I’d rehearsed what I was going to say: I wanted to go to TAFE; I was going to give up the grog; I’d also give up Kylie, I’d already given her up. The meeting was important. I pretended I was really cool about it but I was packin’ it.

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Kath collected me from the classroom. She tried to calm me down, as she could tell how nervous I was. By the time we reached the conference room I was a mess. Kath told me I’d be fine. ‘Just look interested,’ she said. She told me about kids who looked bored or swore at the Superintendent when they didn’t get their own way. She told me a story about one kid. The panel told him he’d have to go on a drug r e h a b i l i t a t i o n program before they would consider early release. He told the Superintendent to stick his rehabilitation up his arse! Michelle told me to imagine that every one interviewing me was sitting on the dunny. She said it wouldn’t be half as scary. It didn’t work. We waited outside for a while. I felt nervous. When I went in I couldn’t see anyone. It was a blur. I couldn’t focus. Then I saw Donna. She winked. That felt good. I didn’t recognise her at first. She was wearing dif f e rent clothes. She calls them her ‘interview clothes’ which is a joke ‘cos she never goes for interviews. She’s not the employment type. I can’t remember much about the room. It was big and empty. There were dot paintings everywhere. Everyone does dots in here. I get bored with them. Mind you they look good. Kath’s report on me was boss. When they were reading it, I couldn’t stop smiling. She told them how I’d been doing really well at school and everything. But, she was honest and said I’d had a few problems with another detainee. She said that I had grown from the experience and realised that I was responsible for my own actions. I thought that was neat. She told them about my training program and

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getting fit and all that. They nodded and smiled at me. I felt like a specimen in a jar. All my teachers gave me great reports. Best school reports I’ve ever had. The panel asked me what I thought and how I felt and everything. I think I said the right things: I’ll be good; I’ll control my temper; I’ll work towar d s getting onto a course. Kath was sitting next to me. She nudged me. She was supportive. I was really glad. The Superintendent told me I’d have to watch my temper. They told me that I’d have to do an anger management course before they’d consider releasing me even as much as a day earlier. Kath and the psych had warned me this would be a condition. I was half way through my sentence. If I was lucky and kept my nose clean I’d do the rest easy.

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Getting angry

There were no prizes for guessing the outcome of my case conference. Michelle wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear that I’d be in the next Anger Management squad. Or, that I wouldn’t be considered for early release until I was willing to mend my ‘violent ways’. I wasn’t looking forward to the Anger Management sessions. I’d heard stories about them. But, there was no way I was getting out of them. There were six of us in the group. The psych was all set up with a white board and a bundle of marker pens. They were unsniffable, non toxic. Anything s n i ffable in this place usually goes walking. Someone’s always lifting stuff from the workshops, solvents and paint thinners. Sniffer’s dream! They keep a close watch, or else someone is off their face. A n y w a y, as soon as we were in the library the psych was trying to find a missing marker pen. If it

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wasn’t used for sniffing it’d be great for graffiteeing. So, before we’d even started, one kid was removed from the group for concealing a marker pen down his jocks — YUK! I’m sure the psych didn’t want it back. T h e re was another guy there. He looked too young to be a psych. I think he was a uni student because his eyes were out on stalks. I reckon he thought we were going to axe murder him or something. We were all over the place, sitting on bookshelves, reading magazines, generally not paying attention. It’s another ritual in here. Tr y everyone out, test them, see how far you can go before they snap. The group worker came back with the pen pincher and got everyone sitting. She wrote ‘Anger’ in big red letters on the board. One girl in the group totally freaked. ‘Not this shit again. It makes me so angry!’ She slammed her foot against a table and two chairs toppled over. I sniggered. The psych looked at her as if her reaction was the most normal thing in the world. The psych was really patient and asked the girl why she was angry. It was like something out of The Simpsons. The girl told her she’d been going to these shit programs for ever and they did shit for her. Everyone else joined in with ‘this is shit’, and ‘poxy anger management’. Everyone was getting angry now. I didn’t think I needed this. I wasn’t angry like these guys. I mean I could control my feelings. The psych asked if anyone wanted to work through some of their anger issues, like in a role play. I figured I was here so I might as well do it. I surprised myself and volunteered. I talked about the 77

Kylie episode. I was amazed that the whole group wanted to listen. I told the whole story and about how she got to me. ‘Do you want to role play this? Then, maybe we can think of some strategies to help you next time you get into a confrontational situation, Debbie.’ Was this woman for real? Anyway, I went along with the idea. This girl jumped in and said she’d be Kylie but the psych wanted her to be me and I had to be Kylie. What a laugh. First up I couldn’t take it seriously but, after a while, I got into it. I did a really good Kylie. The other girl wasn’t so hot being me. I mean she was all for smashing my face in and finishing me off proper. So, we swapped and I was me. That worked better. My partner did a good, smarmy Kylie. I found myself getting really angry. ‘I want to hit her …’ I screamed. ‘I hate her …’ The psych stopped us. She could see I was getting upset. By now I was sobbing. The other guys must have thought I’d cracked. The psych left me to it. They started on someone else’s problem. I didn’t hear everything they were saying. I was just gulping back my sobs and watching the others. One of the spunky guys from the gym did a role play with another guy who played the policeman. ‘The spunk’ was himself. He was always getting into strife with the cops. He’d been in Forston three times and each time for roughing up a cop. Not very intelligent. He said it was the cops provoking him. I suppose they knew his weak spots just like Kylie knew mine. He had a reputation and the cops knew how to slot him. He reckoned the police came

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looking for him when he was on the outside. They’d accuse him of something and he’d go ballistic and accuse them of being racist. He’d end up giving one of them a black eye and then he’d be up on an assault charge. It seemed to be the story for most of the guys in the group. They could explode at anytime or in any place. When it was nearly time for lunch the psych made me breath deeply and asked me what I thought about my role play. I told her I knew that if I hit Kylie I’d probably land myself on an assault charge or I’d find myself in Cabin 6. That was an experience I didn’t want to repeat. What could I do instead? Scream was one suggestion. Talk it through or walk away was another. The amazing thing was that the guys were giving me sensible ideas. Some of these guys’d go over the edge much sooner than me, but in their heads they knew what they should do. At lunchtime I couldn’t move ‘cos I felt so miserable. The psych tried to explain what had happened. She said that sometimes we behave in a certain way because it’s habit, like biting your nails. Sometimes it isn’t until they’re bleeding that you realise you’re biting them. Or, like when I was a kid and I had to be sensible and responsible ‘cos nobody else was. Going ‘off the rails’ was a kind of rebellion. She said the fight with Kylie was all about getting in touch with my anger. It sounds like a load of crap but I was ready to listen to anything that might make me feel better. She encouraged me to try to really feel what it was like when Kylie got to me. That pain in my guts. The

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crawling skin. Feeling vulnerable and exposed. The psych reckoned all those feelings were my monsters and I’d have to live with them so I might as well get to know them. She called it my de-tox. Changing my ‘habits’ would happen with time. It sounded easy but the psych said it wasn’t. It felt good talking it over. I even asked if I could see her again. I needed some help. The next session went quickly. I enjoyed it in a strange way. It made me laugh ‘cos at lunch when Mich asked me how it went I told her it was a heap of crap. In here if anything good or positive happens you don’t admit it to anyone. The place was getting to me. That afternoon I ran around the oval while the boys played footie and others barracked. The exercise was just what I needed. It was good therapy. I was feeling s t rung out and I had a lot to think about. I was feeling pretty exposed, anything anybody might say, particularly Kylie, would cut into me. Like sand on sunburn. My mum used to say I wore my heart on my sleeve. Now I know what she meant. It was best to keep out of everyone’s way, even Michelle. I wasn’t feeling very sociable. On the oval ‘nice pecs spunk’ winked at me. It wasn’t a ‘you babe’ wink it was an ‘everything’s cool’ wink. I liked him. It was a shame he was a psycho. Everyone was out on the oval. Everyone including Kylie with her shadow. She was still throwing me those Kylie looks, but I figured it was better to keep out of her way. So I ran. Some of the players ran with me to warm up. We didn’t speak. You don’t have to

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talk when you’re running, you can just focus. I get lost in the rhythm, the sweat and my racing pulse. I got thinking about everything. My pre-Forston life. Well, it hadn’t exactly been a life, more like an existence. It wasn’t a life I wanted to continue. No way. I thought of my mum who was never there for me. I thought of my sister who was a waste of space. I thought of my brother who scared me. And my dad, what had he ever done for me? Nothing but t rouble. I thought of Kylie, supposedly my best friend but all she did was manipulate me like I was some dumb puppet on strings. Running around that oval I saw my life for what it was. I was the only one who could change things. First up, I’d have to learn not to react to Kylie. She wanted me to lose control. I made a pact with myself that, from that moment on. I’d listen to my feelings. If that meant br e a k i n g Kylie’s other arm so be it.

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A week can feel like a lifetime

For the next few weeks my life consisted of training, Anger Management, visiting the psych and sitting in my cell. I still saw Michelle. There was no more watching vids and drinking hot milo in minimum security but I still got to see her at school and lunch and stuff. She’d become a good friend. I reckon she thought I was going in the rats with all this psych stuff so I mostly kept quiet about what went on. As for Kylie, we tried not to get too near to each other. I reckon she was getting wary of me. The guys all treated me like an equal and I reckon she was jealous. She was getting a reputation as a real bitch and a stirrer. She had a run-in with one of the girls from up bush. This girl was built like a brick dunny and she could throw a spack like you wouldn’t believe. Kylie made the mistake of mentioning that the girl’s guts were hanging over her tracky pants.

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Big mistake Kylie. I mean this girl was fat-as but you don’t say something like that to someone who’s three times your size. Not if you value your life that is. It was a surprise to everyone that Kylie didn’t get another broken arm when she got decked. They both got hours of cell confinement and work duties. Kylie got it for ‘incitement’. She’d picked the wrong victim. I reckoned she was losing it. No one was hanging around her anymore. I started to feel sorry for her. Can you believe that? I must be going soft in the head. But she looked really tragic, like my mum. I started to notice lots of people. Rocket for one. We didn’t have much to do with each other in here. He told me that hate was the only way he could survive this place. Heavy or what? It’s funny that I thought the exact opposite. The sad thing is he’s nice. Underneath all his shit he’s solid. Donna visited me every week. She was piling on the weight, reckoned she was feeding for two. It was good to see her. Mum was still in hospital and she’d p robably be there a while, so’s it would be me, Donna and Gripper when I got out. Happy families — not. Gripper stopped coming to visit with Donna. He said the place made him nervous. I wonder why? Kath was still giving me support. I didn’t need it as much. I could motivate myself. I still wasn’t allowed in the weights room but sometimes I got hold of a skipping rope. They wouldn’t let me take it to my cell, but. I might just lose it and hang myself. The psych was giving me a lot of support. She said that some of the guys in here can’t break the cycle but I had, and I was beginning to believe her. I had

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seven days left until the Release Board meeting. I knew I’d be out. It was only two weeks before I completed my full sentence. I wanted out. In here a week can feel like a life time.

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Party time!

I worked hard at school. In here there’s not much else to do. I completed almost every certificate possible. For once I was proud of myself. The teacher organised an interview for a course on the outside, she even helped me write my resume. I looked quite good on paper. Of course, I didn’t tell them about my criminal past. I didn’t reckon that’d impre s s them much. The classroom was a sort of haven. The teachers treated us like human beings. I’d averaged ‘B’s’ for English and ‘C’s’ for maths, surprised or what? The night before I went up to the Supervised Release Board I was invited to a kind of birthday party. You don’t get to rage inside but sometimes when it’s someone’s birthday their Youth Worker’ll put on a cake and cordial. Anyway it was Rocket’s seventeenth birthday. I was glad I hadn’t had a birthday inside. Depressing or what? Rocket had

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invited a few mates. Some I didn’t know and Reggie, Michelle, Kylie and me. He’d invited Kylie and me for old times sake, partners in stupidity. Reggie was Rocket’s one on one mate. It was only when they were both slam dunking that Rocket seemed happy. Poor bastard, he still had months to go. Michelle was there ‘cos Rocket fancied her. They all did. She was full of life and popular-as. I gave him a birthday present, a Michael Jordan poster. It was out of the sports magazine Kath had given me as an incentive. Anyway I didn’t get off on that kind of thing but I knew Rocket thought Jordan was boss. He was rapt. He looked half normal in his new Chicago Bulls cap. Everyone started going on about how we’d be celebrating our birthdays on the outside. Jacking up, running amuck, getting layed. It was a sad party. I could tell Rocket was low. He reckoned he was rotting in here. He reckoned he’d have to get out. I laughed but I know he was seriousas. He asked me if I reckoned I’d get out tomorrow. I told him probably. I told him I’d done my time easy. The Kylie assault, well I’d almost forgotten about it. I was practically sitting next to her and she didn’t have a hold on me. A few months ago I would have been edgy, uncomfortable. Now she was just another loser in a room full of losers. I reckon I was de-toxed. Kylie de-toxed. She didn’t speak to me anymore. She’d lost face. Mostly the guys in here liked me. They reckoned I was odd-as but I could give the boys a run for their money. Kylie was mad because I’d be out before her. She couldn’t resist having a go at me when I handed Rocket his poster. She hissed under her breath, like a

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snake, and just loud enough so’s I could hear. ‘You’ll be lucky if you reckon that’s enough to get a man.’ I wanted to say something but why bother. Anyway Rocket snapped at her, ‘Well then, what you got for me?’ ‘Can’t give it to you in here, Rocket,’ she told him with a laugh. Then she slipped her arm around his neck and gave him a tonguey. Everyone cracked up. Even me. I was over Kylie. I was first up for the Board. I knew I’d be all right. When Kath came to get me from breakfast I was calm. She told me that I probably wouldn’t know many of the guys on the panel. She said it wouldn’t be as friendly. This would be more like the court room. I remembered how scared I’d been then. They all sat around a big table and looked at me. Then they looked at my reports and my release plan, they’d organised for me. What I was going to do when I got out. Education, curfew, off the grog. That kind of thing. It was drawn up like a contract and I had to sign it. They asked me some questions. I can’t remember how I answered but it must have been okay ‘cos they said I could leave the next day. When I got back to school the teacher told me she was pleased I was getting out. One loser said, ‘She’ll be back.’ Miss looked at me and rolled her eyes. I wasn’t the same Debbie, the dumb-as Debbie of three months ago. I’d got myself a life. Anyway I was getting one.

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Freedom

I woke early. I was bleary eyed. The night had been long ‘cos I lay awake for hours. I felt as if I hadn’t slept at all. I was too excited. It was hard to know the exact time. We aren’t allowed watches in here. I watched the morning light slowly fill my cell. The light crept over my bed like a warm blanket. I heard footsteps coming down the corridor. I h e a rd voices and echoes and two-way radios buzzing. Familiar sounds. A key clanked in the lock of my cell door. ‘Yes!’ I said through my teeth. I clenched my fists and punched the air. I showered and dressed in no time at all. It was half past seven and I was being discharged at eight. A Youth Worker brought me breakfast. It was the same breakfast I’d had for the past three months. Two weetbix with milk, two pieces of leathery toast, vegemite, margarine and a cold cup of tea.

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I didn’t feel like eating. There were knots in my stomach. Excitement. Anxiety. Nerves. Fear. I wasn’t sure which. I looked around the cell for the last time. It wasn’t mine anymore. Kath came to collect me. We walked towards the discharge room. Rocket was washing the corridors half-heartedly. He stopped and leaned on his mop. I thought he was going to wish me luck but he didn’t. ‘On yer Debs, you’ll be back, but. Nobody comes in here just the once.’ ‘ Wrong! ‘Bye.’ I escaped into the bare and unfriendly walls of the discharge room. A grafitteed door led to a toilet. A table stood in the middle of the room. On it was a large plastic bag. It contained all my personal pro p e r t y. I’d forgotten about it. It wasn’t mine, that property had belonged to another Debbie. Kath checked each item off a list and handed them to me. Jeans, T-shirt, jacket, bra, pants, socks and a pair of Nike Airs. Kath gave me my little silver ring and a Mickey Mouse watch that Gary had given me last Christmas. It was probably nicked. And my old-as wallet with ten dollars sixty cents and a multirider ticket. It had faded blood stains on it from the accident. I needed a new one. Maybe I could nick one on the way home. Only joking. I signed for them. Kath was talking away to me while I was changing behind the screen. I wasn’t listening. I was reading the graffiti on the door. I wondered about JST ‘97. At that moment I wished I had a tag to scratch on the door but I didn’t do graffiti. But, if I did maybe someone would wonder about my story. My clothes slipped on easy-as. It felt as if I’d never

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had them off. My jeans felt looser. That felt good. I placed my Forston uniform on the table as if it were fragile. For the past three months it had been my identity. I shook Kath’s hand. She handed me an envelope. ‘It’s a month’s membership to ‘The Body Club’. Don’t give it up Debs, you’ve come too far.’ I choked back the tears. I was filled with fear and excitement and trepidation. It was all running past me like a movie. Through the grill I saw Donna outside. She was waving. All I saw was her stomach protruding. I didn’t feel angry. I was never going to change Donna. The grill opened and we hugged. We usually didn’t do that kinda stuff but it isn’t exactly usual being released from a detention centre it is? We left the main building together. It was a bit like walking out with a stranger. We walked towards the electric gate. It clicked and buzzed open then buzzed and clicked shut behind us. I filled my lungs with air, fresh free air. My heart lifted.

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Part 2

ANNA DONALD

Squat down!

Rocket leans up against the heavy wooden door and looks deep into the thick glass rectangle set into it. He eyes his reflection in the pane, then leans forward and presses his lips on it. ‘You in love with yourself, or what?’ asks someone behind him. ‘You bet I am. But, that was to celebrate my last trip through this door.’ ‘In your dreams man!’ ‘In your face!’ The exchange sputters and dies as the door is unlocked and they are ushered into a room. They have quietened down. Resigned. ‘Take all your clothes off’.’ No eyebrows are raised in surprise. No bro w s furrow in resistance. On one face a top lip tightens and in the pit of another’s stomach, a bubble of sick moves.

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The instruction is delivered in a dead, dull tone. No hint of embarrassment, no sliver of apology, no wheedling, no aggression. Just do it. The four prisoners stand with their hands clasped in front of them, listening to the instr u c t i o n s . Bangers looks at the sign on the wall: ‘Detainees’ Reception’. He reads, ‘Dainty Reception’, and is puzzled. ‘Put them in the clothes bag hanging on the wall behind you.’ The man’s voice echoes. The slim bodies of the youths begin to move. They have their backs to the man. The room is part of an old building. Once the tiles on the walls were white and smooth and neat, but now most are chipped and ragged and black on the edges where the grouting has given up. A row of large curved hooks is set on one wall. It is against this wall that the four boys are lined up, and stripping. Although there are humans in the room there seems to be no sense of life anywhere. Can sadness do that? Or fear? Or resignation? The nakedness of the young men emerges as their clothing is peeled off. The uniform of the streets: baggy pants, gym boots, caps and large tops and Tshirts advertising some far-removed sporting team. Safety in those clothes. Now, buttocks and thighs can be seen. Paler marks show the seasons. Chests and s t rong arms on some. Small thinner shanks on another. One cups his hand on his penis as he stuffs his clothes into the storage bag. His one-handed clumsiness draws attention. ‘Get on with it. No one’s looking at you for Christ’s sake.’

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For whose sake? A couple of the boys are tall and stand proudly naked knowing there is insolence in the high firm curve of their buttocks and the wide vee shape from shoulders to waist. Their feet are set apart just a strut wider than the others. These are the signs that speak, whether in a police line-up or in a crew, whistling and baiting girls. Authority speaks again, ‘When you’re ready stand on this line in front of me.’ A truncheon points down and taps the cement floor. Authority is quiet and efficient. He’s been through this routine thousands of times. He’s a big bloke with the first signs of a beer belly. He’s got one of those short haircuts, flattened with hair oil so that it hugs his head like an old, wet flannel. On his broadening belly he wears a belt, littered with keys and a two-way radio. No guns. One of the four youths standing in front of him studies the tapping truncheon for signs of blood or hair. This is his first time in gaol and he is remembering the stories told to him by friends, big brothers and uncles. The youth, whose nickname is Bangers, is really just a boy. He swallows; his throat feels dry yet his hands are sweating. He doesn’t want to stand naked in front of these people. He’s heard horror stories about guys in gaol so he stands as close to the wall as he can. He feels a tightness way down in his guts, as if parts of his body are trying to get high up inside him for protection. In his head he is working out a plan if one of the guards (or anyone else) starts undoing the zip in their trousers. Then he takes a good look at the guards. Nah, the closest these guys

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probably get to excitement, if you could call it that, would be driving past the Skimpy Bar on Friday night with the old cheese and trying to see in through the window. Nah, no worries, reckon I’m pretty safe here. He relaxes. Almost. He looks across at Rocket who he sort of knows. Rocket is tall and muscular. And, he is funny. Bangers draws a bit of comfort from his presence and tries to stand near him. A couple had kept their pants and trousers on until the last. With just them on and their shirts and shoes off they still seemed to be people with lives of their own — until they stand naked and shoving their clothes into the storage bags. A couple carefully fold and arrange their clothes, and take their time. They are packing away their lives and each goes about it in a different way. Finally, each turns to face the keepers. O rders start for the inspection. The guard is looking for sores, disease, razors, drugs, whatever. ‘Right. One at a time. Arms up, hands spre a d , open your mouth, tongue up, turn around, soles of your feet, squat down (one of the boys is hoping he doesn’t drop his guts). Okay, stand up.’ Authority gives his instructions while the others look on. The room is still quiet but the boys waiting their turn become conscious of sounds outside. Someone is shooting baskets, a bucket or something is being filled next door and someone is using an electric drill somewhere. A camera overhead records everything. Bangers wonders who’s at the other end watching. He looks at Rocket and sees that he’s still looking pretty relaxed.

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‘Hold your ears forward. Forward. Right, turn around. Run your hands through your hair. Okay. Through here.’ At the command of ‘hold your ears forwar d ’ Rocket almost laughs. He thinks of Bugs Bunny for some reason, and has to resist the desire to say, ‘Ah, what’s up Doc?’ He’s done all this before and he knows the smart thing is to shut up. He manages not to laugh and takes his place in line to watch his companions go through the bizarre ritual. When the next in line is commanded to ‘squat’, a smirk plays across his lips again. He knows the boy is worrying about dropping a bundle on the concrete in front of them all. Rocket concentrates on keeping a straight face and closes his eyes. When he opens them the guard with the greasy flannel hair is looking at him. ‘Something funny son? Or do you have a problem?’ Rocket uses his well-practised innocent face and replies, ‘No, and no. I have no problems yet, but thank you for asking.’ The guard gives him an ‘oh, one of those’ looks and says, ‘Watch your step sonny, you’ve only been here five minutes.’ The surly tone reminds Rocket of what’s happening. Yep, you can’t joke your way out of this one, Rocket. He suddenly feels deflated and depressed. The guard motions toward the door to the shower block. The four naked young men file through. The guard follows them. A quiet, neat little procession. ‘Right, into the shower, then put these on. You’ve got three minutes.’ The four move into the shower units. As they pass

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the handbasins, Rocket turns and looks at his reflection in the stainless steel safety mirror. Looking good bro, considering … Bangers, following behind him, is too short to even see the top of his own head. He looks at Rocket’s bum, and his muscles, then looks quickly away and keeps his head down. The showers stink of urine. The red light on the surveillance camera clicks on, the lens swivels. As the water gushes down Rocket feels revived by it. His voice rises up and through the steam, he sings the words of a shampoo advertisement. As he sings he thrusts his groin out and sways his hips back and forth. He soaps himself and deliberately sends his voice up annoyingly high. ‘Ooh, this is wicked, innit bro?’ No one answers. One of the guards walks over closer to Rocket’s shower. Rocket looks at him. ‘Hey, you not looking at me privates I hope.’ ‘Don’t get smart,’ the uniform snarls. ‘Hey, lighten up, I was only joking.’ His brown eyes sparkle and he flashes a smile. ‘Give it a miss, and hurry up.’ The other three in the showers keep their heads down and say nothing. They soap and rinse their bodies. Of the four, three including Rocket are well built and muscular. Their hands, arms, and chests are scarred with tattoos. The white boy has ‘Tupac’ tattooed on his arm. One boy has a snake tattooed around his ankle. Bangers has the puny frame of a twelve year old who has not been fed pr o p e r l y. He too has been b rought back to reality by the surly tone of the guard. Now he is scared. The water is too cold. That

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and his fear have started him trembling. He digs his fingers into the soap. His head throbs from the effort of holding in sobs, which have crept up on him. He is worried because he doesn’t know what is going to happen even though he’s heard all the stories of this place so many times. He’s been threatened and advised but … here he is. He finds himself wishing he was in his Mum’s kitchen, or … He realises he is scared and feels ashamed of his fear. He never felt fear when he was at the wheel of cars he’d stolen. No fear during a high speed chase. Now, he’d give anything to be sitting in the mall with his mates, smoking and laughing and planning. He wants to turn back the clock.

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Locked in

Down in the cell block forty-seven young people are p reparing for the night ahead. Males, females, various nationalities and ages, losers, victims, fools and thugs. All in together, this fine weather. The four new prisoners, or ‘detainees’ as the guards keep saying, are now showered and dressed in baggy, second hand navy blue tracksuits. They file down the corridor behind the guards. On their way from the shower block to the cells the group pass the female cellblock. The girls hear the passing feet and sliding bolts being drawn. They hear the doors clang and some remember their own first night inside. The cell door closing, the guard looking back in through the small rectangle of re-enforced glass. The first few moments, noting the narrow bed, grey blankets, the toilet, a hand basin; up high the small window, too high to reach or to see out of; the microphone on the wall, also up high; the painted over graffiti of years;

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and the hollow silence of the space. As each prisoner is locked into a cell alone they leave their newly received second hand pair of trainers outside the cell door. When Rocket is locked in, he calls out jokingly, ‘Hey, no one better pinch me shoes, eh!’ No one answers. He stands looking around his cell in the silence. He tries again. ‘Hey, call the architect, I want to talk to him.’ Someone yells a stream of abuse. Rocket sits down on the bunk, then leans back against the wall, his eyes closed. In some cells, resolutions are being made. One young man begins to sing quietly to himself, someone down the end is sobbing. Maybe it’s Bangers. More than one is spanking the monkey. Nice and easy. Minds drift to the chicks … More than one is plotting a way to get out of the poxy hole forever. They think and think. They keep their music pumping to keep their bodies alert, hyped up, e n e rgized. Gotta keep those dreams real and energetic. Be ready for anything. Able to jump like a cat and sting like a scorpion. Yeah, Tssssssssss! The girls pass the time in their cells with useless rituals of makeup and hairdos. Who is to see us in here? But then, could be some spunk will turn up tomorrow in the roll call. You never know your luck. Some paint their nails and others do sit-ups. Others look at the budget second-hand tracksuits they wear and give up. In a couple of the cells girls are doing homework brought from the classroom. They dream of jobs in smart shiny offices with hunky guys in suits. Going out at lunchtime to window shop and to sit in the mall to eat a sandwich and have a ciggie or

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two. They bend their heads over the schoolbooks and concentrate to get the answers just right. They wish and dream and curse themselves and make resolutions for the future. One has made a little sticker with neat texta lettering. She has stuck it over her bed. ‘Hold fast to your dreams, for dreams can come true.’ Beside it are pasted pictures cut from women’s magazines of mothers and babies and husbands and scenes of domestic bliss. The radio pumps out HipHop and Mega Death. Then the lights go out. There is loneliness and fear all mixed up in one. Lots of the inmates cry, though none will admit it. In the male cellblock a voice floats up the corridor, ‘Goodnight Hole.’ ‘Hole yourself.’ ‘ Yo u ’ re a cockhead man I’ll make you piss tomorrow.’ Not exactly ‘Goodnight Captain Possum, Kookaburra, Kangaroo’ but part of the ritual to try to be the last one to yell out before the guard arrives and starts talking isolation or loss of privileges. Rocket lies back on his bunk dreaming. Ever since he was a little kid he used to love lying on his back on the grass or at the beach and looking up at the sky. At night he would count the stars or look at the moon or watch the clouds; in the daytime he would squint and try to see planes or birds. Now he can see nothing above and no chance to go outside to look. No chance of fresh air. He lies back and tries to forget his situation by thinking about, then longing for, his woman. The current one that is. He has great success with girls. He tries to be straight with them but they all seem to want to own him, so he finds he

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has to resort to telling little lies to keep them away. His brothers tell him he is oversexed but he doesn’t think so. He just loves girls. He dreams one day that he will be married and have kids and do all of that stuff. He closes his eyes, rolls onto his back and starts concentrating on the last time he was with a girl. After a while he opens his eyes and stares in a hazy way at the ceiling. Now he is feeling good. So relaxed, as if lying in a warm comfortable haven. But, soon his eyes focus. He sees the walls of the cell, he smells the stink of prison, like shit, or cabbage, or dirty drains. He clenches his fists, as his stomach seems to leap in shock and anguish. You idiot Rocket, you said you’d never, ever, end up in here again.

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Dreaming in the dark

As he lies in the darkness Rocket’s thoughts drift back in time and he begins to rake over his past in a way that he knows he shouldn’t: it never changes anything. No point in wishing he could turn back the clock. But still his thoughts drift back. He’s been in trouble for years. Pretty stupid stuff really. Began by wagging school in Year Seven after a suspension that was handed out for ‘insulting behaviour’ to the Principal. Never really went back for any length of time except to satisfy the truancy laws. It was much better fun and easier to sleep in late then go to the mall to hang around with the other kids. Besides he knew there probably wouldn’t be a job for him at the end of school, so why bother? He started shoplifting, then went on to housebreaks. After a while the momentum picked up and the thrill of getting the old dent puller to rip out the ignition, so he could steal a car, was a much bigger

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rush. He stuck to doing cars for quite a while. In doing houses you never knew if there was someone t h e re. Rocket has never liked the idea of kicking some old pensioner’s head in. Not for the sake of a few crappy bucks that’s for sure, though some kids had. He’s been in fights of course, and started plenty but somehow the thought of attacking someone in their house turns him right off. He’s heard stories of old people waking up screaming, or women getting hysterical and babies yelling. He knows kids who’ve come close to killing people who’d caught them in the act of pinching their VCR, or whatever. And, he knew a few who have killed. Rocket stretches out on his bunk and listens to the stillness of the prison at night. Again the silence seems to draw him back in time to his memories … He’d loved ram-raids. Wicked fun. Just like doing speed or E the first time. The thrill of tracking down a car to do the job, right through to the moment of lining it up and tramping the accelerator. Northbridge was a ripe spot for cars with gru n t . They’d go through the glovebox to see what was what. Pitch the poxy tapes or CDs out the window. Then, with a ‘Guess where your car’s going!’ they’d head off for the job and ram it. ‘There goes your poxy insurance, Yuppiefucker!’ Then the smashing of glass and screaming of metal. Usually though, he was not at the wheel. Usually he was one of the runners whose job it was to bolt through the gap and grab as much gear as possible before getting out again. The planning part was wicked. Looking for and lining up a get-away car. Chasing around in the

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middle of the night and laying low for a while. Then spending all the bucks on dope and speed and booze. It was living. Liquor stores were great for ram-raids except it was too easy to drop and break the stuff, or drink all the profits. Sport stores were wicked shit because it was so easy to flog the stuff on. Men’s boutiques full of leather coats were hellgood. In season of course. And gun shops. OOee now that was adrenalin! Four-wheel drives were usually the only things you could do those jobs with. But, he tells himself you are an idiot, a loser. Doing the deli in Winthrop with the dummy sawn-off for instance. He’d been desperate for cash and Metzer had been pretty cunning at talking him into it. But t h e re was no one to blame, he was a big boy, he should have said ‘No’, but he couldn’t resist it. The cops had come to the house with the usual questions and Rocket had sat in the kitchen giving the same old dumb-ass replies. He watched, with a smirk on his face as they drove off but he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone would dob on him, probably to save themselves, and then he’d been gone. That night after the cops had been he watched the news report of the attempted hold up on the television. He’d sat there in a detached way watching that prissy woman slathered with make-up and crap j e w e l r y, reading the autocue. She was about as involved in it all as he had been. Same blank face. Same spaced-out eyes. Who’d be a newsr e a d e r ! Sitting night after night reading other people’s stories out. Yet, they all thought they were media stars lining up for the Academy Awards. His mate Plugger used to deliver pizzas to the studio some

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time. He reckoned he rubbed his dick on a pizza once and daydreamed about that chick that thought she was so hot sinking her teeth into a piece of pizza. Probably all bullshit. Still, when Plugger told the story it was deadly funny. They’d asked him what sort of pizza it was and Plugger had said ‘Supreme, of course’. Suddenly, a shout from a cell down the corridor brings Rocket back to the present and reality. He remembers with a sick feeling where he is. He’s ashamed of doing that armed-rob, but he knew he would have to pay. It wasn’t even a real gun but it was still a crime. He knew that. He remembers the fear in the guy’s face when he’d pointed the ‘gun’ at his head. He knew he’d be caught but he’s determined to do the time proper then he’s going straight. For sure. Of course the irony was that it isn’t the armed-rob that finally puts him away again. It’s that night back in February when so many little mistakes added up to one big mess: the lift he got with Steven in the stolen car; the smash; then two people dead. Just like that. Then they’d also got him for the armed-rob. At this moment his mind kind of stops in the darkness. He is almost paralysed with wishing it all away. He gets that lump in his throat again and turns on his stomach on the bunk and presses his face into the pillow. His stomach is knotted up with regret, anger, bitterness, grief … He thinks of his old Pop … ‘You watch what you do every step of the way in your life. You make sure you never get put in that Chainman’s House. If you do, that bad spirit get up inside you, then it never let you go.’

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Old Pop had always been real worried about the young kids. He was a proud old guy, didn’t hit the flagon like the others. When they were drinking straight out, he’d be in bed or sitting on the back step smoking a dhurry and looking up at the sky. He always reckoned the only way to be safe was to stay well away from the white man and the police, or ‘Chainhands’ as he called them. He’d only been a kid when the cops and welfare went to their camp up on the peninsula. The cops shot all the dogs, and took away two kids who had pale skin. Pop had seen first hand what ‘Chainhands’ could do. He’d hate it to see Rocket locked up again. Rocket knew his Pop had been sad all those years ago when Rocket’s Mum had got pregnant to that big white bloke with the blonde hair who worked at Dawsons’ pub. Pop used to tell the story of how he had looked down at the baby Rocket and felt a big cold splinter run through this heart. He reckoned he used to lean over the cot and say, ‘You watch ya step little fella, you gunna be a handsome little bugger.’ Pop used to love telling the rest of the story about Rocket’s little dick jumping up and pissing in a big silvery yellow curve all over the cot. ‘Reckon it shows a bit of character, but that attitude could get him into trouble.’ Rocket feels the darkness of the cell closing in on him, so he talks to his Pop: It’s hard to stay out of trouble, Pop. I’m hot to go and the juice is running in me. You can’t just roll over like a dog everytime you see the Monarchs. Those bastards don’t forget a face. You know that. So here I am. Right here in the Chainman’s House. Maybe that bad spirit is already

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inside me. Maybe it’s too late already. Rocket pushes the fear away. He fills up those corners in his head by counting the spaces between the bars and mentally measuring the distance between the door and his bed. The bed and the toilet. The toilet and the window. Anything to block out the reality. It doesn’t work. He shuts his eyes hard and turns on his side to face the wall. Finally, he’s calmer and tries to get off to sleep. But, he begins to think again of the evil spirit. He imagines it wrapping itself around his neck and holding him tight in this cold cell, forever. Maybe it will end with him dangling from a bar in the darkness, tongue hanging out, eyes popped and shit dribbling down his legs onto his shoes. For a second he is wide-awake again in panic. Then, he gets some control back. Don’t be stupid Rocket, that bad spirit is just old men’s talk. You can get out of here. You just keep your head down and do your time proper. You can change the way things are. You got guts, boy. But, as the word ‘guts’ runs through his brain he thinks again of the car accident back in February. Don’t think about it. All that blood, all that screaming. He jumps up from his bunk and paces the small room talking to himself. Just get through these few months then get yourself well away. A new start, maybe up on a station somewhere, maybe Queensland. Where is that place, where they had the rodeo and the Stockman’s Hall of Fame? Sounds wicked. He’d never ridden a horse but hey, who’s to say he couldn’t learn? Could be good. His mind begins constructing a whole new life and he curls up on his bunk again almost content

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and sort of looking forward to seeing it all come true. Eventually he drifts off to sleep. The picture of Rocket on the video monitor in the g u a rd’s watch room is clear enough to show the boy’s fine forehead, and his strong, smooth jaw line. Despite his strong, muscular form, he still looks young and vulnerable lying there. The duty guard on the video monitor console has seen him in lockup before and has a soft spot for him. The thing is, the kid is so bloody cheeky, but real funny with it. You have to admire his spirit. He knows how far to push, then when he hits the wire he laughs and rolls his eyes, then backs off. Usually with some smart alec comment that makes you want to laugh out loud. Whatever it is, this kid’s got it. ‘Don’t encourage him,’ the Senior would say. ‘He’s a crim.’ It’s true. Rocket has been in and out on a string of stealing and other charges. He is no rapist or murderer, but he just will not toe the line. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Little by little losing sight of what is right and what is wro n g . Pushing the line just a little bit too far each time. His latest is an armed-rob with a replica shotgun. And, so bloody cheeky with it, he just won’t buckle down to the cops. Plenty of them have it in for him. Besides that, some of his rellies have been inside and some still are in the ‘big house’. There had been some real bad business a few years before when one of his distant relations had hung himself in Capinara. And, everyone remembers the kid who got shot trying to get out. The ripples from that have never re a l l y stopped spreading.

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The gaol

Forston Juvenile Detention Centre. Some people reckon it’s a bit of a holiday camp. It’s got television, football, swimming pool, a gym, a basketball court, warm, clean beds, and three meals a day. There’s laughter in there. The usual mucking ar o u n d , stirring, jokes being played. All that adults lose too quickly — the knack of forgetting their worries for a while and just chilling. In free time the kids line up in the sunshine around the walls of the high security compound. There’s gossip. They love to gossip, boast like hell, spin crazy dreams and just muck around. They talk, start rumours, exaggerate facts like crazy, but mostly they talk about what they are going to do, one day. There is a lot of that going on in the ‘holiday camp’. Talk of flash clothes, foxy girls, wads of cash, plantations of mull, gallons of Bourbon, escaping the demons, stashing a sawn-off, the ultimate high speed

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chase, notching up another Porsche. The real triers swagger around trying to look as tough-as (and some of them are). These young thugs have it all over the first-timers. The kid-brains that got dobbed on, or sucked-in. Some kids are even forced by their families to take the blame for something they didn’t do. They have to do time for a relative who already has a record. From the street when you drive past, it’s easy to miss the gaol. Lots of trees around and lawn, but as you get closer you get a proper view. The place stands with blank, barred windows behind a double row of very tall wire fences. The fences have thick coils of razor wire along the top. In a glass-paneled room at the entrance sit people who press buttons, watch, monitor and record the movements of those who come and go through the sliding electric gates. Considering the number of people behind the walls, it is quiet. Inside it is very boring. That’s what put Rocket away. The boredom of miserable houses and miserable streets and miserable lives. He wants a life like he’s seen on the screen. He wants money and women and glamour and clothes and cars and fame. He wants to be a basketball star. He doesn’t want a life like his parents had. He wants more.

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School’s in

In the classroom the teacher stands waiting and gazing across the bricked quadrangle. The sun is just over the high two-storey wall that surrounds it. The classroom is ready for the day. The lessons are ready, the papers out, the pens and the computers. Charts and posters on the walls, desks, chairs waiting to be filled. Almost a normal classroom except for the bars and the alarm on the wall, and the locks on the door. A c ross the quadrangle a door opens and two guards walk through. Tumbling through the space behind them is an assortment of young people of both sexes. Kids aged between eleven and seventeen. Aboriginal, Italian, English, ‘Aussie’ (what ever that is these days), Kiwis, Asian … the lot. A mixed bag of licorice allsorts. Some laugh and leap, pushing and grinning, swiping baseball hats from heads, stirring the pot

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until pulled into line. Others walk slowly with shoulders hunched and hands in pockets. They mumble and curse quietly, with straight grim lips, eyes all the while on the prowl. Uniforms hang loosely on some, stretch tight on others. On their feet are the cheap prison issue running shoes made by the inmates of the adult prison some ten ks away. ‘Hey, reckon my dad made these for me, eh’ is often heard when the shoes are handed out. The shoes don’t have laces in them, they have Velcro straps. So far no one has hanged themselves with a Velcro strap. The kids push through the doors of the four classrooms. The teachers tick off their names as they enter. Then, the doors are locked. Each teacher is locked in with a group. As in any classroom, the kids push, making for ‘their’ corner, ‘their’ desk. Voices are raised and eyes meet until they settle. They turn to their teacher. ‘What are we doing today, Miss?’ ‘I ain’t doing nothing today. I’m opting out. You can’t make me do nothing.’ ‘Give us it then, I wanna start.’ ‘I’m first on computer, Miss.’ ‘Can I paint when I’ve finished my other stuff?’ ‘Hey, he’s got my pen.’ ‘Miss, where am I up to?’ And so the day begins. The teacher goes on quietly. She knows the steps of the ritual. She knows that soon most will be quietly getting on with their work. And many of them will do it well, better than they ever have done on the outside. She has a new student this day, new to her class.

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Like many of the others he is not new to the system. She approaches him where he sits at a corner desk. His solid frame seems to dwarf the desk and chair. As she approaches him she smiles. He studies her face. She pulls up a chair next to him. He has that wild fresh look that seems to survive in some kids even though they are locked up. Fairish curly hair and a good tan combine to make him look healthier that he probably is. ‘I’m Miss Purcell, and you are Alex? She smiles again but there is no response. ‘You’ve been in before, so I got out your old school record. You were doing really well last time you were in. Yo u ’ v e almost completed all the maths, so if we can get that done, you can get your certificate.’ He half smiles, but it’s a bit of a smirk. ‘And your English …’ ‘You like teaching here, Miss?’ ‘Yes I do.’ ‘How come? You like seeing people suffer, like the power, eh?’ ‘No, I like trying to help people.’ ‘I don’t need no help.’ ‘I’d just like to check that you know what we expect in the learning centre.’ ‘Yeah, Miss, I know what you expect. But you and I both know it’s all bullshit.’ ‘Why is it?’ ‘Okay. I’ll give you an example. Last time I was in ‘ere I did that bricklaying course in that TAFE book. I finished it. The whole thing in two days.’ ‘Great.’ ‘Yeah, great. Take a reality check, Miss. I didn’t

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ever touch a brick. It was all just the book. No bricks no cement.’ ‘Yes, well that’s because …’ ‘Nah, no ‘because’ Miss, you know what I’m saying. It’s what this whole school business is about. Make believe. Busy work. Pretending.’ Rocket stops and looks around at the other kids. They are working. For what? He looks at the teacher and knows she can never understand. ‘Oh, doesn’t matter, eh. Give us some work then. What about that fencing one you got. That’ll be handy, how to put up a fence without touching a bit of wood or a piece of w i re.’ He looks at her again but can’t read her expression. She moves to the filing cabinet. ‘At least you’re pre p a red to try,’ she says. She hands him the TAFE booklet. ‘In your dreams, Miss. I just been saying this is not gunna make no difference. Won’t get me a job, won’t stop me doing crime. I’ll stop when I want to. It’s easy.’ ‘So they say.’ ‘Yeah. Anyway, I’ve already stopped.’ ‘Have you now?’ ‘Yeah, I’m sixteen now and next time I stuff up I’ll be going to Capinara, The Big House.’ ‘Does that worry you?’ ‘No, but I got things to do with my life. Plenty of my relations in there, but I’ve got plans. Plus no one’s buying my arse. I spent enough time in this poxy place. This is the last time in ‘ere for me, Miss.’ Rocket is starting to rattle on because the depression he plunged into the night before has not really lifted. He tries to work through it but he feels aggres-

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sive and hard-done by. He’s got that old ‘picked on’ feeling sitting on his shoulders. ‘Wasn’t supposed to be ‘ere this time. I didn’t do nothing except get a lift in a car.’ He doesn’t tell her about his pr e v i o u s charges, or holding a dummy sawn-off shotgun in the face of a terrified shop owner. ‘Sounds a bit harsh.’ ‘Yeah, well the car turned out to be stolen, then this stupid chick drove straight into us. Killed herself and my mate. (He says ‘mate’ just for effect.) Hell drama it was.’ ‘Listen Alex, you know we’re not supposed to talk about your crimes, so let’s talk about your learning contract.’ And so they talk. He knows that on the first day it is always wise to do what is expected. Besides he’s got his plan. Do the time without a fuss. Just get on with it and get out of it. Once and for all. Last time. He picks up the Fencing booklet and flashes the teacher a wide beautiful smile. ‘Me old Pop used to play a song on his guitar called Don’t Fence Me In. Well, here I go.’ He turns the page and cheekily, ‘Page One, how to build a fence.’ He bends his head, grasps his biro and sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as if in intense concentration. He watches out of the corner of his eye as the teacher moves away. She hasn’t responded to his game, but then turns, ‘You’re okay, you know, Alex.’ ‘Rocket.’ ‘What?’ ‘My name’s Rocket.’ ‘Okay. Rocket.’

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She smiles and moves to another desk. Rocket twirls his pencil and, singing a little rap song quietly to himself, he begins to work on the task before him. Maybe by working, the time, and his mood, will pass. Around the room at individual desks seven other teenagers are variously involved. Then, ‘Hey Miss he’s a troublemaker. You spendin’ too much time talking to ‘im. It’s your job to teach us all. That’s not fair Miss, y’ know.’ The teacher looks at the boy in front of her. He is fifteen and is in gaol for repeated break and enters and aggravated sexual assault. Yes, you would know all about what’s fair wouldn’t you, she thinks. ‘Who are you complaining about this time David?’ ‘Him you just talkin’ to.’ ‘Alex?’ ‘Yeah him. He reckons he’s better than everyone else and you givin’ him too much of my time. You not helpin’ me at all.’ ‘Okay. What can I do to help you? Though you did say earlier that you didn’t need any help.’ The boy looks down sulkily, ‘Yeah, well I don’t need your help but …’ ‘I think you should get on with your own work David, and …’ ‘He’s a black hole, Miss.’ ‘I don’t like that expression, David.’ ‘I tellin’ you Miss, you watch him.’ The teacher moves away to other tasks. She doesn’t take the comment seriously. There is something ‘safe’ about Rocket. Other detainees who come in to the classroom keep her on edge the whole

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day. There are some you never turn your back on, especially if they had just come in and were detoxing. It is wise in the classroom to get rid of all sharp objects, for they can be used, not only to cut your face but also to gouge eyes and wrists. Though most of the inmates were more a risk to each other and themselves. Some had scars from suicide attempts, as well as self-mutilation. Also, there are so many rivalries between groups that fights break out frequently. A sharpened pencil can be an effective weapon in a close contact fight. One boy is inside because he picked up a bit of wood during a fight and caved in the other kid’s head. Manslaughter. The teacher does not let her emotions show in her relationships with the inmates. They have already been judged and are now paying the price. Still, it is difficult to sit and go through maths problems or social studies’ assignments with someone who is doing time for raping a seventy-five-year - o l d woman, or a three-year-old child. There is an alarm bell on the wall that the teacher can press if there is real trouble. A ‘code one’, that’s if she can get to it in time. Also, around her waist, she wears a leather belt with an alarm on it that she can press. Within a few seconds guards, or PSU (for Program Support Unit), will be bursting through the door. Those guys are terrific and really know their stuff. They are tough, yet with the inmates they are (mostly) fair and reasonable. The teacher looks over again, at Rocket. No, somehow she couldn’t see him attacking her … Still it’s as well to keep alert for that moment when those little spirals of venom start darting around the room.

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Those little shakedowns. Like dogs sizing up to a lamppost. Over in the corner a few boys are poring over the daily newspaper. They go straight to any articles they find about high-speed chases, or they grab the paper and practically eat the ‘cars for sale’ section. Right now one of them is fantasizing about what he would steal if he could. Bangers, who has ended up in the same class as Rocket is cutting out a picture of a Porsche and pasting it into his file. He is still scared but trying to forget that he is now a moving target. The boy he dobbed on is also in Forston. Bangers is not really a ‘dog’. When you are twelve and in the lock up with a couple of cops leaning over you for information, you don’t hold out too long. When you see them reaching for the phone book to put on your chest so the bruises won’t show, you know it’s time to dob. He starts to write his assignment: ‘I like luxury cars such as Porsches, Maseratis, BMWs, Ferraris and some sports cars such as Trans Am, Commodores and a few other types of cars. My favourite car would be a Porsche 928S4 and then would come a Porsche 930 Turbo.’ Bangers dreams of himself at the wheel. He continues: ‘Some Japanese cars are good, like the sporty Mazda’s. For example an RX-7 Turbo 11, MX-6 Turbo and 626 Turbo. Some of the really expensive cars can range from 25 000 to 100 000 plus, so you really need big money if you fancy buying one of these cars.’ Bangers knows his days of pinching cars are numbered. He looks across at Rocket who reckons he’s going straight. Free to walk the streets. He goes on mapping out his life. Get

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out, get a job, buy a car. Hook some gorgeous babe. What a life. Visit Rocket; talk about the old days. He looks across again at Rocket, who he thinks is a bit of a hero. Rocket doesn’t think of himself as a hero, he knows he’s a fool. He could’ve been home, free but … He thinks again of that night when Steven Hallam pulled up next to him and off e red him a lift. He asked Steven whose car it was and the reply had been that the car belonged to an uncle. So Rocket got in, and they were cruising along when Steven spotted Debbie and Kylie walking along and offered them a lift as well. They’d been travelling south down the highway, too fast, but that was the way Hallam always drove. Then, ahead they saw a cop car coming toward s them with its blue light whizzing around. Steven swore and put his foot down. None of them understood how they’d been sprung. They never did find out where the cop car was going, but the big joke was, that it hadn’t even been looking for them. What happened next, was that a woman driving towards them seemed to get dazzled or panicked or something. Anyway, she suddenly sped up, and then hit the median strip, jumped it into their lane and slammed right into them. The rest was history. She was dead, so was Steven. The others were in gaol. If only he could turn back time, if only. He curses himself over and over because he should have known that cone-head Steven was lying. He should have known the car was stolen. He has made a hundred promises to himself to think before acting. He’s going to stick to that resolution now, like cheese to a pizza. 123

Passing time

The days roll by and turn into weeks. The calendar on the classroom wall tracks the sentences of the school group. Each one marks off their days with a different colour. Most of them, that is. The ones with years to go, don’t. The daylight hours pass surprisingly quickly in the classroom. There’s a constant coming and going of guards to the classroom doors, calling out detainees for visits to the nurse, the dentist, police, lawyers, visitors, the psych, counsellors, case conferences. Rocket finds it distracting. The constant locking and unlocking of the door to let people in and out, the constant ringing of the telephone to tell the teacher who’s next. The phone rings, ‘Ah, rip it off the wall,’ yells Rocket. The teacher turns, ‘What is it Rocket?’ ‘I can’t concentrate in here. I’m trying to do me work and all I can hear is the poxy phone or the

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noise of them keys. It’s driving me crazy.’ ‘Do you need time-out, Rocket?’ ‘Yeah Miss, good idea.’ ‘Five minutes, then.’ She opens the classroom door and Rocket moves out into the quadrangle. He finds a patch of sunlight, sits staring up into the sky for a minute or so, then sits with his head in his hands. The teacher rings the security console. ‘One out in quadrangle from Room Three, five minutes, Alex Bertram.’ She hangs up and crosses to the window to check on the boy. He is sitting as still as a rock and looks pathetically sad. Later, at lunchtime, the kids are sitting around on the concrete in the quadrangle eating their lunches. They lean back on the brick walls and some talk. Others eat silently. Rocket has sat himself down next to a real pretty looking snackpack. She’s got long black hair and is foxy-as. She’s nibbling away at an apple. He sits beside her without a word. She flashes her eyes at him and then looks away. She goes into overdrive with her peripheral vision and checks him out. Nice, solid, mmmmmmm. Another girl walks past with her lunch and sees Rocket. She hesitates slightly but keeps walking. Rocket greets her with a, ‘Yo Debbie.’ She returns a half smile to him, but does not speak, nor does she stop walking. She looks very sad and keeps walking to a vacant spot on the concrete. The girl nibbling the apple starts the conversation. ‘Doesn’t look like she wants to know you.’ ‘Yeah, I think you’re right.’

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‘How come?’ ‘Oh, we sort of know each other already.’ ‘Sort of?’ She’s wondering if Debbie’s an old girlfriend. ‘Yeah, we were both in a car a couple of weeks back that smashed.’ ‘When that woman was killed?’ ‘Yeah. Bad scene. Shouldn’t have happened.’ ‘No?’ ‘Nah, she caused it.’ ‘Debbie?’ ‘Nah, the woman driving the other car.’ ‘True?’ ‘Yeah, useless driver, jumped the median strip. Drove straight into us head on.’ The girl is silent. ‘Yeah, and the car I was in turned out to be hot.’ ‘Oh no!’ Rocket decides to crank things up a bit. ‘So, what’s your name anyway.’ ‘Michelle.’ ‘I’m Rocket, so what about you? Bit of a yuppie — what’re you doing here?’ ‘Same as you.’ ‘Yeah, you talk different. Nedlands, I bet.’ ‘No way.’ ‘Been in trouble before?’ ‘Not real trouble. Even this time I don’t think I should be locked up.’ ‘Yeah, me, you and everyone else. Bit unreal and dumb-as. So many people in here who’ve done heaps of crime, real hard crime but hardly anyone seems to think they deserve to do the time.’

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‘ Yeah, but they all say, “Do the crime, do the time”.’ ‘That saying shits me. It makes it all sound so easy. In a sudden moment of honesty Rocket adds, ‘I reckon we get what we’ve deserved, everyone outside does too, I bet.’ The girl sighs and looks miserably around the depressing scene. Caged up at this age. ‘Well, I don’t know if I deserve it or not, probably not. I think I was just dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb.’ She drops her head. ‘We’re all dumb but hey, time passes quick in ‘ere.’ He doesn’t mean it. The school days do but not the nights and certainly not the weekends. Slow boring torture it is. She looks up at him and into Rocket’s beautiful eyes. They prove to be good medicine. She gives a bit of a smile. Just then a tall, handsome boy approaches. He stops in front of Rocket. ‘Hey, I seen you before today.’ Rocket looks up squinting because of the sun. He looks at the face and remembers where. ‘Yeah, same here.’ The other guy sits down. ‘How long you got?’ ‘I’ll be out by October.’ ‘I got a couple in here and a couple on top.’ T h e re’s a silence. Usually ‘a couple’ indicates heavy and big-time. The stranger introduces himself. ‘I’m Bazz.’ He looks closely at Rocket. He sees a pretty tough looking guy. Someone who looks almost his equal. Rocket introduces himself and the girl. He doesn’t

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like the interruption. Something unsettling about this guy. They talk for a while. Rocket says very little. He’s being careful. Don’t get involved. Don’t get into fights. Just talk. Enough to prevent the guy getting the sads, but not too much. The girl notices a difference in Rocket. She keeps quiet too. Finally, Bazz moves on. Rocket is quiet, watching him go. He relaxes a little. Stretches in the sun. ‘You going to eat your lunch?’ She shakes her head and hands him the sandwiches. While he eats, he makes conversation. ‘What do you reckon about those guys who talk about doing their time easy? I’ve seen the looks on their faces when they come in with two big ones, knowing they’ll go to the Big House when they turn eighteen. The Big House. In there boys’d be in trouble first night. ‘Spread em’ they get told, or, they have to get down on their knees. And, they’re not saying their prayers.’ The girl drops her head, ‘Gross.’ ‘Nothing they could do about it really. I’ve heard some of them end up in hospital. Some of those crims in the Big House’ve been in for years.They’ve got nothing to lose’. The girl listens quietly. She hates what she hears. Her eyes rest unfocussed on the guard across the compound. ‘I remember after that accident you were in that everyone was looking at the paper. It had a huge headline. Something like …’ ‘High Speed Death — Juveniles Arrested.’ ‘Yeah, that’s it. We were all reading it because we

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thought we knew some of you. That guy called Figgo reckoned he knew who you were.’ ‘Figgo, yeah I know him. Figgo’s his tag.’ ‘Typical. A graffiti moron.’ ‘Yeah, kindergarten finger-painting.’ The girl’s spirits are lifting a little. ‘When he’s not listening I call him Thicko. I’ll get my head punched in one day because he is a full-on psycho.’ ‘Yeah, you get that.’ Michelle decides to go for a bit of flattery. ‘I heard you were a big man in class the other day.’ ‘No.’ ‘Yes, you were. I heard that some kid lost it and chucked all the computers on the floor and went for the teacher. You stopped him.’ ‘Well, actually I was pissed with him because he knocked paint all over my work. That’s why I grabbed him.’ ‘ Yeah, Yeah. I think what you did was cool. Chivalrous, my Dad would say, saving a lady.’ Suddenly Rocket feels sick remembering the tears and the pain in his mother’s eyes. He realises he is disgusted with himself for getting into trouble again. He is quiet for some time. ‘What are you thinking about?’ asks Michelle. Rocket hates the way girls always want to get inside your head. ‘My Mum.’ The honesty of that should throw her. ‘Your Mum? What’s she like?’ Rocket is trying to hide his feelings and change the subject. ‘Well, she’s just like any Mum I s’pose. A bit fat, great cook, always used to be telling me to clean my room …’ he falters again.

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‘She’s nice?’ Michelle encourages him to go on. ‘ Yeah, she’s nice …’ He stops, and can’t say another word. Suddenly, the sun over the rooftop is all sparkly and glittery. He looks down and traces a pattern in the dust on the concrete. They are both quiet. ‘She won’t come near this place. She hates it. Frightens her.’ Michelle says nothing for she has sensed that this hunky guy beside her is about to break wide open. She changes the subject. ‘I reckon I’m gunna lose heaps of weight in here. I just can’t eat the food. I hate mashed potato and sausages. What wouldn’t I give for a huge hamburger and a bottle of Coke? That’s the first thing I’m gunna eat when I get out. What about you?’ ‘Dunno, same probably. Or pizza’. He then thinks of Plugger … ‘Nah, not pizza. Dunno.’ Again he stops. Getting out is a beautiful dream that sometimes he hates to think about. His Nana had all these little glass ornaments on her mantelpiece and they were all covered in dust. He remembered once asking her why she didn’t dust them. She said they were too precious to touch and she was afraid that if she took them down to look at and hold and enjoy then she might drop them, smash them, and they would be gone. For her, they were too beautiful to touch. For Rocket his release date was something to hoard, to hide, to keep special and precious … superstitious really. Like if you think something bad, it will happen. Suddenly, he leaps to his feet. ‘Hey come on, we got twenty minutes before the bell, let’s go shoot

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some baskets.’ He needs to run himself into the ground, to sweat, to strain and to concentrate totally on one simple thing. To block out everything else except that ball, that ring, the movement, the joy of energy. He needs to run and run and run. If he could he would have run until his feet bled and his lungs were bursting. Shooting baskets will stop those big sobs taking hold. Those big shaking loud sobs that had broken from him a few times in his life. He runs onto the basketball court and begins shooting baskets like a mad man. He runs up and down, back and forth, caged but trying to block it out. Bangers joins in, ‘Yo Rocket,’ he says. ‘Who’s that? Thought I heard a voice?’ He jokes around with Bangers, grabs him wrestles him down, sits on his chest. Bangers loves the rough and tumble and gets in a couple of good punches. ‘Youch, the kid can hit!’ Rocket pretends to grovel and whimper. The guard watches from the sidelines as they leap up and go on shooting baskets. It all passes the time.

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Reading each other

Back in the classroom for the afternoon session. Rocket is waiting to use a computer. He sits down next to a young guy who types very slowly with two fingers. ‘Hey Speedy, how long you gunna be?’ ‘This is the last word.’ The boy looks up and looks at him closely. Recognition shows on his face. ‘Hey I know you, You was in Year Seven at Meltham when I started there.’ ‘Hey, good memory man, that was years ago. How come you remember me?’ ‘Dunno, just do. I remember when you got suspended, too.’ ‘Yeah, great wasn’t it?’ ‘Sure was. You’re still a legend at that school.’ ‘Yeah? Hadn’t anyone seen a browneye before?’ ‘Not the way you did it. Assemblies have been boring ever since.’

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‘Best looking bit of arse the principal had ever seen, I bet.’ ‘After you got suspended they kept lecturing us about health and why we should wear underpants all the time. The girls kept running around pulling each other’s shorts down or skirts up. You don’t know what you started.’ ‘I bet that Mrs Duncan walked around with a mouth like a fish’s backside for a while. She hated me right from the beginning. Anyway, who you writing to, anyone from school?’ ‘Nah, me cuz up North. Would you read it and see if it’s okay?’ ‘Sure.’ Rocket takes the paper and reads, ‘Yo Fred, How’s ya going man. What have you been doing lately (nothing I suppose)? I’m inside again but I’ve only got six weeks before I get out of this poxy joint h e y. The reason I’m not swearing is because my teacher has to read this before I send it away. Karen and Josh come and visited me on Sunday with the kids and the old cheese and Julie. When I get out I’ve got a job doing brick paving with one of my old man’s mates. I’ll be earning $100 a day (packet a day keeps the doctor away). So when I save some money I’ll come up and visit you. I wrote a letter to Clayton and he wrote back saying that he has bought some Oscars and he is gunna give me a couple of them, hey. So me uncle is getting me a six foot tank for them. Bargain, hey. I might get some Yabbies to put in the tank with the Oscars too. That will look boss. Catch you. Reggie.’ ‘Yeah, that’s good Reggie, interesting. Why not put a PS though?’

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‘Like what?’ ‘Ah, why not tell him about some of the chicks in here.’ ‘Good one, then you can use the computer. Thanks Rocket.’ ‘No worries.’ Rocket thinks for a bit. ‘There’s a book you might like about a kid and some fish. Fighting fish. It might be on the shelves here. I’ll have a look.’ He looks along the rows of tattered books then crosses to the teacher’s desk. ‘Miss, you got a book about a boy and his mates. Something about fighting fish.’ She thinks for a while. ‘I think you mean Rumblefish. I don’t know if we have it but I could get it in. Is it for you?’ ‘No, it’s for that intellectual Reggie. He’s mad about aquarium fish. Maybe he’ll like it.’ The teacher looks up at him. His fair hair is all messy curls and his face has its usual cheeky grin. ‘You’re a good person, Rocket.’ ‘You a bit slow, Miss, if you only just noticed.’ He laughs. She laughs too, ‘Do you like reading?’ ‘Used to. Don’t seem to have time any more. Too busy doing other stuff.’ He laughs. ‘Yes, well perhaps you’ll have more time when you get out eventually.’ ‘Sure will, Miss.’ ‘So, any favourite books?’ He thinks. ‘Been a long time Miss … But, there was one about a white dog I used to like.’ ‘A white dog?’

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‘Yeah, a dog which didn’t get treated well and is real savage. Then someone takes him on and things get better.’ ‘I think you mean White Fang.’ ‘Yeah, maybe. You got that?’ ‘No, but I’ll order it for you when I or d e r Reggie’s.’ ‘Okay. That’d be good. I’d like to read it again.’ Rocket stands fiddling with the pens and things on her desk. Moving bits and pieces around. ‘Miss, do you reckon there’s a book for everyone? A book with a message just for one particular person?’ ‘Like the Bible, you mean?’ Rocket rolls his eyes. ‘No Miss. A story. A book with a story in it.’ ‘A novel. I don’t know Rocket. Could be. I’ll have to think about it.’ ‘You do that, Miss.’ He salutes and moves away. ‘I got stuff to do.’ Rocket moves off to wait for the computer, and sits d reaming out the window. Year Seven, Meltham. What was it Auntie Nene used to say? ‘Lot of water under the bridge since then.’ Yeah Rocket, lot of water. You bloody fool. He felt his spirits start to slide and he knew the night ahead would be a long and silent one. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was far away. If I could just open up my eyes and be on the outside. What would I give to be out there again. Soon Rocket, soon. Just keep your head down and hang on.

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Planning and plotting

In another classroom Bazz is talking to himself. Bazz the Bastard as all his mates on the outside call him. He sits alone and gouges the paper in his work file in front of him with his pencil. He draws his tag and baseball designs. He’s a million miles away and he’s talking his life through in his head. And, the words are loud. Again and again. He talks and explains. Conversations with himself. Maybe talking it all over will change it all. I hadn’t meant to kill her but the papers all called me ‘Killer’. Big headlines. Sixteen plus and in gaol. It wasn’t meant to be like this. ‘Piece of piss, mon.’ We used to do this narky dreads talk. Like we were black. He goes on drawing and daydreaming and talking in his head. No one in the classroom goes near him. Grab a Commodore, ram it in. We had this rap we’d do. Shout it out, chicks would clap and scream. He rambles on and on.

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He writes his chant on the paper. Looks hell-crap on paper but when we rapped it, then went into a soccer ro a r, it was filth. We were cool. Demons couldn’t touch us except they did. His mind roves over that night. It’s always night. He prints the letters on his exercise book and begins to incorporate them into a design. Got us out on the highway where Kane lost it at 140. Slid across the road then rolled. All the booze we’d hooked in the raid was crashing around in the boot. Couple of loose bottles lying on the front seat crashed around and smashed Nick in the face. He screamed then and we were pissing. The steering shaft went right through Darren’s guts and M i l l e r ’s shoulder bone ended up poking out the sleeve of his shirt. The car was a pile of tin by then. He’s looking now through the window but still not seeing anything. No sounds from the classroom, just the talking in his head. When the cops hauled us out we were wet with blood and booze. ‘Having a party boys?’ but no one was laughing. It was about five weeks before the others turned up here. They’d spent all that time getting stitched up in hospital. Nick’s face was sort of patched up and Darren had a line of stitches from his neck to his belly button. Miller had a frame holding his shoulder together and the rods went right through his skin into the bone. He got into a fight in the line up for breakfast one day with Brownie. A real dog who ended the stand off by grabbing Miller’s arm and yanking it out sideways so that the rod was crushed up against his neck. Miller lost it and screamed like a pussy. He flicks back through his file and reads some of his work. This is his private stuff. When he’s allowed

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to take his file paper to his cell he sits and writes and writes. He knows most of it is crap but some of the lines are worth a second look. I’m chilling in gaol … a place I hate Running amuck trying to escape Razor wire, high walls and bars I’m chillin’ here because I steal cars Locked away I build a hunger I want to get out and smoke big gunga I miss my drugs, boss clothes and air max I check out my veins seeing only old tracks It’s stickups I did to get me in trouble I was expecting 2 years, but 4, that’s double Though being without drugs makes me kind of queezy four years is nothing and I’ll do it easy. It’s the people in gaol that I’m gunna thank When I’m kicked back laughing after robbing a bank. Bazz raps his memories over and over in his head: Leaving the scene of my crime, Making a getaway so I don’t do time, Armed Robbery Squad and TRG, Just poor dogs trying to tail me. He stares around the room while his mind keeps going over and over the same old phrases: My adrenalin rushes keep me going, Adrenalin, drugs and the cash is flowing, A Uzi, an AK or a nine millimeter, Each robbery I do I get better and better.

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Bazz looks around and turns the page. This one’s his favourite. He knows it off by heart. He leans back, closes his eyes … If you keep stuffing up we’ll have to go for a ride Out in the bush … just another homicide To mad dudes like us it just don’t matter We’re demented sicko’s madder than the mad hatter It’s a crazy world full of criminals and thugs Murdering stealing and dealing in drugs. Bazz comes back to reality suddenly. Memories of pain have a way of making you hone in to the p resent. A big kick in the guts, in the brain, will remind you where you actually have got your arse sitting. And it is here, in this poxy hole. Now, his hand is gripping the pencil like a knife and he snaps it and flicks it across the room. Turns his attention to the immediate and looks around at everyone. He feels a rage and a hot desire to bash someone senseless, to break out. To get out forever. His mind now closes down on that thought and he shuts his eyes to think about getting out and life on the outside. He talks to himself … The day I get out I am going to steal a wicked silver SS 5 speed with a 3-inch exhaust and blow that deadshit Wolfman in his six pack screamer. Holy hooting bass munga! But how to get out? How, how, how?

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A special day

‘You can play this, Alex.’ The teacher hands him the red guitar. ‘Ta.’ Rocket takes the guitar. He runs his hands over it, then plays a riff. ‘Hey, I’m a bit rusty.’ ‘Don’t stress!’ This from the tall guy who is practising on the didgie. ‘Reggie will make so much noise on those drums people will be lucky to hear anything.’ They laugh. ‘Yeah that Reggie, what a dude. Got no shame.’ It’s NAIDOC week and a sort of ‘open day’ at the prison. Lots of visitors and people passing through. Got to put on a show. Everyone gets involved. Even though it’s an Aboriginal thing, all the white kids get into it too. No real racism. Rocket’s never had any trouble. He doesn’t really think about himself in any particular way. Seems to be the way with everyone he knows.

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Later, up on the stage looking out over the mob. Rocket plays the red guitar and provides a fair sort of backing to the singer. Reggie has been tamed by a few harsh words. Rocket plays on through the set. The music and the rhythm are helping him mellow out. He shoves his pelvis out the way he’s seen a million times on Rage. He sings along though the lead guy is belting it all out a bit fast. The chick Debbie, looks at him from the mob, is she sneering or laughing or what? She swings back her hair to the beat of the music and looks up at him. Rocket wonders if she too curses that night she accepted the lift from Steve Hallam. She probably goes over and over it in her head the way he does. Time and time again. Rocket deliberately turns his mind off his memories and concentrates on the music. Reggie is hammering on the drums like a demented man. ‘Shut up Reggie,’ yells Rocket. ‘You forgotten we threatened you?’ NAIDOC day and here we are. All the rellies come visiting. First part of the show are the dancers in white loincloths with make-up on. Not bad, but they a re so skinny they could all do with a couple of Whoppers and a few hundred French fries. S o m e h o w, the dancing doesn’t work here in the concrete confines of the white man’s world of punishment. A joke re a l l y. Telling tales of wild kangaroos and glorious hunts. Only hunting we do is for some money or for chicks. He lifts his head up from the guitar and gazes far out over the heads of the watching mob. His fingers keep time with the music and the rhythm but his heart takes off over the wall. He’s up there flying in that wild blue sky.

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The music comes to an end and the cr o w d whistles. The applause is a bit over the top but you get that. Rocket walks off the stage. He pushes the guitar into someone’s hands and moves off to sit alone. A didgie player comes on and the deep t h robbing sounds of people and places far away, flood around the red brick rectangular space. Those old sounds weave through the barred windows and over the skinny Aboriginal kids standing there in their baggy prison tracksuits and second-hand shoes. They seem to outnumber the others by about six to one. The young men dance and shift their weight from foot to foot. Their dance is of a secret language, a language mostly lost to them now. As if sensing this, the sound swells up and lifts over the wall, out into the other world where it withers and dies amid the movement of the suburban traffic. When the dance finishes they all walk with dignity from the stage. They are replaced by a woman from the Bible School near the gaol. She sings a hymn. She is so terrible that no one moves, or makes a sound. Most of the mob are used to this bullshit-goodie-two-shoes -crap. They are past being angry or derisive. They sit and watch her. Others are stunned into silence and shame for her. Does she think she’s here to save them? Their lives are so removed from each other, that there is no way they can communicate. Rocket’s not watching her. He stretches out on the grass in the sunshine pretending he’s miles away. He stares up at the clouds high above.

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Some talk

Debbie sits not far away watching him. That Rocket, he sure is different. She thinks back to that night when they both got a lift in the same car. She closes her eyes to block out the nightmare of what followed but some of it squeezes back into the corners of her mind, like pus through a Band-Aid. She remembers sitting in the ambulance, watching as the bodies w e re dragged out of the wrecked cars. One was Steven. He lay like a fish on a jetty with the hook still through its jaw. His eyes were open and glazed. Fish eyes staring blindly at the night sky. She needs a distraction so gets to her feet and pushes through the crowd. She finds herself next to Michelle. ‘What do you reckon?’ ‘I’ve had enough. I want to go back to my cell, but that fat leso bitch on duty won’t let me.’ ‘What about me. My sister Donna’s been here

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with her dero boyfriend. Such a loser. Her skirt was way up at the back. She says she likes it short. Reckons she’s got good legs. She’s always having a go at me because I’m fat. Wait ‘til she sees me after my weights program takes effect. I love that gym. Reckon it’s starting to work?’ ‘Yeah, I do. Where’s your sister now?’ ‘Gone. Only stayed about half an hour. She kept apologising for leaving early but I wanted her to leave. How about we go and sit over there with Rocket. He’ll make us laugh.’ They wander over and the three sit in the sun talking. NAIDOC day goes on around them. The visitors to the gaol wander from classroom to c l a s s room to see what the inmates do in class. A couple of adults pass the group on the grass and say, ‘It’s good to see that they are made to keep up with their learning while they are in here.’ The teenagers snigger. ‘And,’ mimics Michelle, ‘they meet a lot of other lovely young people.’ The group laughs out loud. Michelle reverts to her own voice, ‘Yeah lots of new friends — ones your “olds” would rather you didn’t know.’ She pauses. ‘My Dad couldn’t make it today. Good job too. He’d be shocked if he saw some of the psychos in here.’ ‘Oh thanks, Michelle.’ They laugh. Then Debbie, seriously, ‘It’s okay for us older ones but I don’t reckon it’s right that those two little kids f rom the desert are in here with mur d e rers and rapists. They don’t even speak English properly.’ ‘Oh, shut up. Who cares? You sound like Mother Mary preaching. Hey, there’s Reggie. Come over

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here Reggie.’ Reggie sees them waving and starts walking towards them. ‘You want to get with him, don’t you Michelle?’ Debbie and Rocket start teasing her. ‘Mind your own business will you? Yeah, okay. I like Reggie. He’s great. He was telling me about a cat job he did at Cremorne where he climbed up on the verandah of the second storey. He got heaps of stuff while they were all downstairs watching television.’ ‘But, someone dobbed him.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘It happens.’ ‘Too often.’ ‘Dad used to say there was no honour among thieves.’ ‘He could be right.’ ‘Anyway, Reggie’s another one who reckons he is giving up crime. He’s getting a job doing brick paving or something.’ ‘Hope he’s done that bricklaying course I did. You know the bricklaying course without any bricks.’ They all snigger. Reggie sits down. ‘Hey, you’re hot on those drums,’ says Michelle. Reggie looks pleased and then puzzled when Rocket and Debbie start laughing loudly. ‘You could make a career of that, Reggie,’ says Rocket. Reggie realises he’s being baited and he jumps on top of Rocket and starts to playfully thump him. ‘Bet I get a job before you,’ he says to Rocket. Michelle looks a bit depressed. ‘I don’t re c k o n we’ll get a job do you? They always say that

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juveniles’ records are kept a secret but I reckon that’s bull.’ ‘Once you’ve been tagged by the demons, that’s it. Debbie and I had no chance of getting our story heard when we had that smash. Because we both had records, the media just went crazy.’ ‘ Yeh, they made us sound like mur d e r i n g criminals, and it was an accident for God’s sake.’ ‘Didn’t you say that it was the woman’s fault, Rocket?’ ‘Yeh, she panicked trying to get out of the way of the cop car. Hit the median strip and slammed right into us. But the TV and the papers just went on about us. The stolen car, speed, crap, crap, crap.’ ‘They labelled us the same as those high speed chase guys. You know that one everyone’s talking about.’ ‘Yeah. What do you reckon? Is it murder if you don’t mean to kill some one? For instance he didn’t go out and say I’m going to smash someone to death tonight.’ ‘He ran a red light. That’s suicide.’ ‘ Yeh, but he survived and others die. So, the papers call him a murderer. I don’t reckon it’s quite the same.’ ‘S’pose not, but because he already had so many convictions and he was being so reckless, it kind of amounts to the same thing. Murder.’ ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Oh, give it a rest you two,’ says Debbie. ‘You’re depressing me to hell. I came over here to listen to you telling jokes, Rocket.’ ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘how about this?’

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‘What happens when a magician gets tired of pulling rabbits out of a hat?’ The two girls start to laugh. ‘Dunno, what?’ ‘He pulls hairs out of his bum.’ The girls shriek with laughter. ‘You’re a kid-brain, Rocket.’ He smiles and shrugs. ‘My Mum always said never to tell filthy jokes to women.’ ‘Oh, thank you Rocket, you are a gentleman.’ ‘I know,’ he says. Reggie says very seriously, ‘Hey Rocket, that Bazz is planning a break.’ ‘So?’ Rocket does not even want to think about it. ‘Do you reckon he’ll do it?’ ‘How do I know? Maybe.’ Reggie again. ‘I’d like to get out.’ ‘Just be patient man. Time will pass and you’ll be out. Easy.’ ‘You not thinking of going with Bazz?’ Rocket eyeballs Reggie. ‘Listen to me Reggie. Don’t have anything to do with that guy. Steer clear. He’s dangerous and you don’t need it.’ ‘I reckon I’ll just stay here and keep trying to get with a woman, any woman. What about you …’ Reggie moves over to Michelle. ‘Piss off pervert,’ she laughs but rolls a bit closer to him. They all lie on the grass looking around. Then they see a pair of official looking shoes standing next to them. ‘Enjoying Open Day, you lot?’ They look up. It’s the Superintendent. The boss man. ‘Yeh, it’s wicked.’ They all laugh. The Super smiles knowingly. He knows kids

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through and through. ‘I’ve got a headache sir,’ says Michelle. ‘Can I go back to my cell?’ ‘Cabin, Michelle, Cabin. And in a word, no. You just stay and try to tough it out.’ ‘Aahh.’ She rolls around in mock pain. ‘Haven’t you got any visitors or friends?’ ‘No everyone’s sick of us. We got BO or something.’ ‘Yeah, we’re like that Alan Price.’ ‘Who’s he?’ asks Michelle. ‘He was this poor kid who got discharged at nine in the morning and sat outside all day waiting for his old man to come and pick him up.’ ‘Why didn’t he just go home?’ ‘Duh, not allowed to Michelle. You have to leave prison in the company of an adult.’ ‘Oh. So what happened?’ ‘His father didn’t turn up. Come tea time, Allan had to come back in for another night.’ ‘Shame. I’d be so cut if that were me.’ ‘Yeah, having no visitors is different from having nobody to pick you up.’ ‘He finally went home about three o’clock the following afternoon. With a Bail Officer. Took him to a half way house. So far he hasn’t been back in.’ Just then a fight breaks out between members of two rival families who are visiting their respective kids. There’s a lot of shouting and shoving and name-calling. The Super leaves to sort it out. ‘Another successful NAIDOC Day of Reconciliation,’ says Rocket. ‘Come on Michelle, tell us the story of your life.

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We’ve got half an hour before this finishes. We’ll lie here in the sun and you talk to us.’ ‘Yeh, tell us a story.’ ‘What about?’ ‘What about how you ended up in here?’

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Sucked in

Well,’ she begins, flattered that they want to know, especially Rocket. He is such a mixture. ‘I’m a bit like you guys. I sort of shouldn’t be here.’ ‘Hey, we don’t want a fairy story.’ ‘Yeh, no fibbing little girlie,’ says Reggie putting on a stupid voice. ‘No, listen. Okay,’ she pauses. She looks beautiful sitting there on the grass. Even in her baggy blue tracksuit and daggy old sneakers. ‘I’d been doing shop lifting on and off for ages. Dumb really. I gave most of the stuff away. I don’t know why I stole. I didn’t need the money. I guess I don’t have anyone to blame for that bit. But, I sure as hell blame a bitch called Melissa for the rest of it. What a cow. ‘Because I’d been caught shoplifting I was on CRO with some strict conditions. Dad watched me all the time. He’d been really cut and nearly killed me. When I first got caught I swore I’d never steal again.

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And I meant it. I was going to go straight. Mum said she’d pay for me to do a modelling course. Mum’s from the Seychelles, so I’m dark like her. She loves all those models. Anyway she said she never had any chances when she was a kid so she wanted me to have them all. ‘On my second night of modelling classes I was walking into the railway station when a car pulled up. Melissa (big trouble) and some guys were in the car. She asked me if I wanted to go with them for a hamburger. I kind of knew as soon as I got in the car that it was all over. Somehow or other it was as if a bit steel gate slid across my life and locked itself. As we went along in the car they were all talking and laughing. Melissa was in the front and turned a round in the seat talking to us as if she was Madonna, all hands and lips. I was between two guys and I felt trapped. I kept thinking, “I don’t want to be here,” I wanted my mum. I wanted to be home but I just smiled and made out it was all cool. The guys in the back with me were total kid-brains. So dumb. Real losers. Rappers! But, there I was sitting between them, so I was just as dumb. Dumber!’ Her voice falters. ‘Now keep going my dear, it is very good therapy.’ Rocket pretends to be the psych. Michelle goes on, ‘After we got our hamburger we drove around for a while. Melissa was whispering away to her boyfriend who was driving. I wanted to go home but I didn’t want to say. I was stupid. I kept hoping something would happen and I’d be free.’ ‘Don’t we all,’ moans Debbie. ‘That’s what I dream every night in this place.’

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‘Anyway, finally they pulled up at my place and I went to get out. They said they’d come in. It was late and I was worried. Mum was home by herself because Dad was on nightshift. She didn’t look pleased as we walked through and into my room. We played some music and talked. It was okay. I began to feel a bit better. Then, as they were leaving, Melissa commented on how much storage space I had in my room. Dad had built me all these c u p b o a rds he reckoned I’d need when I was a famous model. He’s pretty cool sometimes. ‘Anyway, Melissa said she had all this stuff and no-where to put it at home. She asked if I could look after it. All I wanted to do was to get rid of them, so I said yes because I thought they’d go and I could tell her the next day that I had changed my mind. But, she sat on the edge of the bed and sent the guys out to the car. She was fiddling with stuff on my dressing table while we waited. I felt like screaming and telling her to piss off. My nerves were bad and I somehow knew it was not a good scene. Funny how you get that intuition or whatever they call it. ‘So, the guys lugged in all these bundles wrapped in plastic. About four big ones. They’d been jammed in the boot all the time we were in the car. They put them in the top of my cupboard. I thought it would all be okay. Melissa said it would just be for a few days. Then they left. ‘A week went by and one day I got home from school to see a cop car in our drive. Inside the house was chaos. Mum was bawling, there were new clothes like dresses and trousers and T-shirts all over the place. And, the four big black plastic bags that

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had been in my cupboards. My dad was in a rage and the cops were waiting for me.’ Her audience of three all register the same, ‘Oh No!’ grimace. ‘I got charged with possession of stolen goods, and remanded on suspicion of being involved in a ram-raid on a dress shop. ‘Court was a joke. No one would listen. I had a record and that was that. I got locked up.’ ‘What did you get?’ ‘Four months.’ ‘No shit. First time?’ ‘Yeh, the usual story. “We want to send a message to others that this is not on, blah, blah blah.” As if anyone stops in the middle of a ram-raid and says “Hey wait a minute chaps, this is not on”.’ ‘So here I am and I’m busted up bad about it! And mad as hell. I’ve really stuffed up. My family hate me. That’s why they aren’t here today. Dad refuses to come when everyone else is around.’ ‘You get that.’ ‘Oh God look! There’s that teacher. She’s crazy, sings all the time.’ ‘I like her. She’s okay.’ ‘She’s from Pommie land.’ ‘She’s been naturalised she said.’ ‘Isn’t that what they do to milk?’ ‘Naturalised you moron, when you take Australian citizenship.’ ‘Some of the guys reckon they are going to full on muck up on her.’ ‘Why would anyone want to work here? I wouldn’t.’

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‘There goes Mitchell, Debbie. You like him don’t you.’ ‘Do not.’ ‘You going to get with him?’ ‘Oh yeah, sure. Like I’m going to ask for a cell with a double bunk.’ ‘And a phone, and a TV …’ ‘And a spa bath.’

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Reggie and romance

The day is going well and everyone seems relaxed. It’s rare to have a slab of time to do nothing, just be together and talk. They lie on the lawn watching and listening and thinking. Rocket thinks that time might pass a bit easier than he’d first thought. But he knows there is still hard time ahead. Abuse from others, watching your back, the monotony of being locked up. For Michelle, it’s the sick fear of being locked up every night alone in her cell. Ten hours alone. She looks at Reggie. ‘What are you thinking about Reggie?’ There she goes thinks Rocket, trying to get inside someone’s head. What is it with women? ‘I was thinking about my last night on the outside.’ ‘Wicked?’ He smiles dreamily. ‘Parts of it.’

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‘Share, share.’ They nudge him and urge him. ‘Well …’ He rolls over and concentrates. ‘I was going to visit my friend and I was on the way when I met up with two other mates. They had a car so I asked them for a lift to my mate’s house and they said okay. They dropped me off about a block away f rom the house so I walked the rest. As I was walking I saw some people I knew. They were going to the same place. They told me that there was a party on because someone had broken into a pub and pinched heaps of booze. ‘When we got there police cars were driving around so I went inside. There were people everywhere and some of them gave me a bottle of whisky to drink. ‘After a while I started to get stung and that’s when I saw police searching the house. They arrested some kids, found most of the whisky, then left. About half an hour later I was lying outside with a girl. A couple of mates were sitting around drinking the last bottle of whisky. That’s when I started to touch the girl next to me on the leg …’ he pauses and looks at the girls, ‘and some other place.’ Debbie and Michelle roll their eyes, ‘You beastie boy, Reggie.’ He smiles and drops his head and goes on talking. Rocket is listening closely. All the activity is going on around them, as if they are in a vacuum. ‘That’s when I asked her to go inside and wait for me. After a few minutes I went in too. I walked into a room and saw her lying on a bed so I locked the b e d room door and lay down. One of her friends looked through the window but the girl told her to

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piss off. We had sex and then I got out of the window and went to my mates out the back.’ ‘So it was true love then?’ asks Rocket. ‘She was okay. It was all right.’ Michelle and Debbie say nothing. ‘So that was my last night. I got dobbed on for something and the next day the cops got me. That was it.’ He falls silent, thinking about the girl and the softness and the dark cosy hideaway room with all the noise going on outside. They are once again all thinking their own thoughts. Finally the visitors to the prison leave and the bell rings for tea. They get up and join the queue at the dining room door.

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Rocket’s birthday

The cake looks a bit pathetic but no one lets on. Rocket is seventeen. The group worker has organised the cake and told Rocket he could invite a few people to share it. They all sit around laughing and talking. There is the usual ritual patterns of verbal abuse. ‘Hey you, Barge-arse, you just had some chips.’ ‘Yeh, you counting?’ ‘Nah I can’t count, nor can you?’ ‘What did you say? Can’t count?’ ‘Hey cut it out you.’ This from the group worker supervising. ‘Sir, you got a dirty mind, I wasn’t swearing.’ ‘For once.’ They all laugh a loud hooting thumping laugh, all chips and teeth and cordial. It’s a motley crew. There’s Rocket and a few of his old mates, plus Reggie and Michelle and Kylie and Debbie.

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‘Light the candles Bro, so we can make a wish and eat this thing.’ The group worker produces the matches and lights the candles, ‘Hey let me do it, it’s my cake.’ ‘It’s my party and I’ll muck up if I want to …’ some one sings, then laughs. ‘Settle.’ The group worker finishes his task and puts the matches away. ‘Now you all have to wish.’ ‘Yeh, let’s all make a wish, you too.’ To the group worker. ‘You got any kids, Sir?’ ‘Yeah two.’ ‘Are they as ugly as you?’ The group worker laughs, ‘Uglier, but you should see my wife.’ They laugh then concentrate on their wishes. ‘No one’s allowed to tell. It ruins it.’ ‘I don’t want to know yours.’ ‘And I can guess yours you filthy sex fiend.’ Michelle flashes a big smile at Reggie. They’ve had something going, as much as you can in a gaol. When they are sort of alone they often daydream about what they’ll do on the outside when they can get together. For now, all they can do is look. Of course, every prisoner in the room wishes for the same thing. For time to pass quickly, to get out, and to never come back. The group worker wishes for a Lotto win. ‘Hey Sir, you got anything to put in this cordial?’ ‘No, that’s it.’ ‘What about a bourbon and coke?’ ‘Yeh, I’ll have a glass of Rebel Yell while you’re at

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it.’ ‘I’ll have one of those Harvey Whorebangers.’ ‘Wallbangers.’ ‘Yeh, one of those too.’ They all bellow with laughter again. ‘I got you a present, Rocket.’ Debbie hands over a rolled up poster. Kylie makes one of her usual nasty remarks but she is ignored. Michelle nudges Rocket, ‘She wants to get with you I reckon, Rocket.’ ‘Not!’ flashes the reply. She does look at him softly as she passes him her gift, but her smile is tinged with sadness. She feels sorry for him. He has such a beautiful smile, and is really hunky. He’s sitting there with his new Chicago Bulls hat on. Looking good. He’s seventeen today, but he’s slipping towards Hell. ‘Thanks Debbie, you’re a pretty good chick.’ He unrolls the poster. ‘Wicked shit. Michael Jordan, I’ll put it on my wall. He can watch me say my prayers.’ ‘Yeh,’ says Reggie, ‘He’ll be watching you tuggin’ the monkey too. Remember that.’ ‘Nah, I’ll turn me back. He might get jealous if he sees it.’ ‘So?’ Rocket smiles a real smile at Debbie who laughs and drops her eyes. He turns his head. ‘Well then, what you got for me Kylie?’ She laughs. ‘Can’t give it to you in here Rocket.’ ‘Oh, what a cop out.’ ‘Well how about this!’ She crosses over and slips her arm around his neck and kisses him deeply. The others yell and pound the table.

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‘Give her one Rocket, she asking for it.’ The group worker is getting edgy. ‘Okay you lot. Don’t push your luck.’ ‘Ah, spoil sport. Can’t get pregnant from kissin’ you know, Sir.’ ‘ H e y, who you “sirring?” asks Reggie ‘Yo u remindin’ me of school.’ ‘You was never in school, Reggie.’ ‘Wanna bet? I was champion Year 6 runner.’ ‘ Yeah, you still doing runners, with old ladies handbags you bad, bad boy.’ ‘Nah, not me. I’m Robin Hood I am. Just did tills to help me old lady out.’ The group worker rises to his feet. ‘Now remember you lot. No talking about your crimes. One of the rules of the house.’ ‘ Yeah. Okay. Can I have another piece of cake Rocket?’ ‘Sure. Second last slice.’ ‘Debbie, you have the last bit, you’re getting out tomorrow. This can be your farewell present. Sorry I haven’t got a real one for you.’ ‘Hey Debbie, you excited?’ ‘Yeh, I guess I am.’ ‘Don’t get too excited girl, you’ll be back in for shoplifting again if you don’t watch it.’ ‘Wanna bet! I gave that up ages ago. That’s what pissed me off so much about wrecking my leather jacket in that accident. It was one of the first things I’d bought fair and square, but no one would believe me.’ ‘Yeh, don’t you just hate that when people won’t believe you?’

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‘Kylie, if people believed you, they’d be mad.’ Everyone laughs including Kylie. She likes to play the rebel bad girl, thinks Rocket. He wonders if she has learned anything at all from being in Forston. Probably not. She was too up herself that one. ‘So tell us Deb. What’s the first thing you’re goin’ to do.’ Debbie tells the group of her plans. ‘Get a hamburger, get some clothes, do a course, get a job, find a place to live.’ They all listen, their minds half on her plans while they run through their own scenarios they rehearse in their minds every day. Rocket looks at her and notices for the first time her nice, sort of hazel coloured eyes. ‘When do you get out Rocket?’ ‘Well I got a long stretch, but I’m gunna behave and I should be out in a few months, with some probation.’ ‘What happens if you’re not out?’ ‘But I will be.’ ‘But if you’re not, you go to Capinara, because of your age, yeah?’ ‘I could do, but it’s not going to happen. I ain’t going in there.’ ‘No shit on my shoes, eh.’ This is a reference to people who hang themselves. The image of it seems to get stuck in their minds and they all go a bit quiet. The group worker chooses this moment of silence to tell them to finish up. Their mood revives a little and they tidy up the table, joking and laughing and congratulating Rocket all over again. Eventually they move out of the door with the guard following. But, in each one has been sown a seed of anxiety.

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Back in their cells, alone again, their thoughts begin to run down familiar tunnels, searching for answers. How to save themselves. How to escape the poverty and violence of their lives. How to live a life.

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A present from Plugger

It’s visiting time and all the ugly bugs and patchwork people are arriving. They sit around and check out everyone else. The boys watch out for good-looking girls and vice versa. Some count how many kids people have got. Some girls, and even one boy looking no more than fourteen years old, walk in and dump babies and toddlers into the arms of waiting inmates who are the mothers or fathers. Here’s Plugger. Swaggering in the door. ‘Yo, Plugger!’ ‘Yo, Bro!’ ‘What’s happening?’ Plugger relates the latest ‘recreational pursuits’. Who got arrested for doing a break at the deli, how many high speeds last weekend. He goes on and tells it all to Rocket with all the bravado of a campaign manager. He can see Rocket is a bit down

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so he asks him how he is. ‘It’s hellcrap, Bro. Time’s passing slow-as in here.’ ‘How long now?’ ‘Ages, months, forever it seems. So I gotta stay cool.’ ‘Yeh, well I got you something, Rocket.’ He carefully passes across a package, making sure no one has seen it. ‘A fit, Bro?’ ‘Two. Thought you deserved a good time. Don’t take ‘em both at once. Only joking.’ ‘Plugger, what are you trying to do to me? I got to keep my head down in here. Besides I’m clean. This stuff would probably kill me.’ He goes to pass it back but the guard is nearby. Rocket stares at Plugger. Plugger’s big face stares back blankly. He starts to stutter a reply ‘I … I only …’ ‘I can’t risk being caught with this, Plug. I gotta behave.’ ‘Well, what’ll we do?’ Plugger is still mumbling. ‘You can take it back out with you. I’ll give it to you when the guards aren’t looking. But, just watch your step.’ ‘Sorry Rocket, I thought …’ ‘Yeah, yeah, I know Plug. But this is a rathole and I can’t make a wrong move or I’ll never get out.’ ‘Yeh. I thought I was gunna be joining you last week …’ ‘What happened?’ ‘Just the usual hassles. I’d just come home from community work when the police grabbed me and told me they were taking me to the station with them. I asked them what charge, but they said it was

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a surprise. Big joke. They chucked me into the van. When we got to the station they took me up to the second floor to the CIB. They took me into the video room, you know, the interview room and then this detective came in and asked me where I was when some robbery was done. I was in there for ages and getting worried because I didn’t know nothing, but they didn’t believe me. I knew one of the cops from before and he gave me a can of Coke. They finally let me go, about two hours later. I was out of there man. Fast-as.’ ‘You were lucky.’ ‘Yeh, I saw that freak Sammo downstairs. He’d been fighting outside Timezone and had sprayed pepper in some guy’s face. Then, tried it on with the cop. I reckon he was gunna end up in the tank. He’s a psycho.’ ‘Yeh, I know what you mean. There’s a couple of crazies in here planning a break.’ ‘You in on it?’ ‘Get real Plugger. Do you think I’m crazy too? I just finished telling you … if I keep out of trouble I should get out early. Might end up home by September. There’s no way I’m getting sucked into any stupid ideas.’ ‘They’ll probably never do it anyway.’ ‘That’s what I reckon. Bunch of kid-brains.’ ‘That babe’s still waiting for you, Rocket. She’s working at Sibson’s Chemist in High Road. Reckon she’s got all the condoms on lay-by for you.’ ‘Don’t remind me Plugger, I’ll be up all night dreaming of screwing the pooch. I reckon that’s one of the worst things about being inside, hanging out

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for one. I’ve even been thinking of trying to get with the old nurse who works in the sick bay.’ ‘They’ll be lining up for you when you get out, Rocket. You’ll wanna come back in for a rest.’ The two laugh and spend the rest of visiting time trying to out do each other with stories of the night they ‘got one’. When the bell to signal the end of visiting hours is rung Rocket tries to pass the illegal package back to Plugger but there never seems to be the right moment. Someone is always watching them. In the end he shrugs and shoves the bundle up under his tracksuit top. ‘Good job the sniffer dogs aren’t here today.’ ‘Sorry Rocket,’ says Plugger. He is feeling bad about how his present backfired on him. ‘Forget it, Plug. I’ll think of something.’ The metal grill slides back and he steps through it into the prison courtyard. Plugger gives a thumbs up sign and walks out through the visitor’s area. The door slides shut behind him. As Rocket crosses into the walkway to the cells he hears his name called on the PA with the instruction to go to the Duty Officer. His stomach is churning and he glances down to see if the bundle under his top is obvious. It isn’t but still he looks aro u n d anxiously for somewhere to chuck it. But, it’s no use. He knows the surveillance camera is on him. It’s normal practice when anyone is in the courtyard. He’s feeling like a sitting duck as he approaches the Warder’s window. The guard leans forward across the counter and grins at Rocket.

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‘So, Alex.’ ‘Yes?’ Rocket is giving nothing away. ‘You got lucky.’ ‘Yeh?’ Rocket is getting worried. He thinks they know about Plugger’s present. ‘Yeh, the Super reckons you’ve been a good boy and can move into A Block.’ Rocket feels his stomach turn over in relief. ‘Yeh?’ ‘Yeh, seems you’ve been behaving yourself and they reckon you can look after yourself for a bit.’ He smiles at the boy in front of him. ‘A Block’ is the Minimum security block in the prison. Inmates have their own kitchen and have a lot of freedom to come and go as they please, within certain rules of course. ‘So, get yourself down to your cell, pack up your gear. Someone will collect you soon and take you over to your new abode.’ ‘Cool,’ replies Rocket. A very relieved Rocket. ‘Someone must be looking after you.’ ‘Yeh, me mate Michael.’ ‘Michael who?’ ‘No, Michael Jordan.’ Rocket is okay. He is feeling cheeky again. ‘Plugger, you wouldn’t believe it,’ he thinks. But he knows he still has to find somewhere to ‘lose’ the fit.

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Anger management

They trail into the big room and sit around on the plastic chairs. The Psych is there with her notebook. This is an Anger Management Workshop. She starts off as usual with her talk about how anger must be controlled and managed. They watch silently for a while then begin to settle in. They have these sessions once a week. Today Poulos the big Greek guy says, ‘Hey Miss, I seen a movie on TV during the week. It was ‘A Cuckoo’s Nest’ or something. There was this part w h e re they was all sitting around just like this talking about things. You seen that Miss? That Nurse she was real harsh.’ The psychologist is starting to write on the white b o a rd and talks to him over her shoulder. ‘Yes, I know the one. It had a sad ending. The hero dies doesn’t he?’ ‘Nah Miss, the hero jumps out the window and

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runs away. He busts the window with the concrete water cooler. He gets away and runs across the grass.’ ‘Isn’t the hero the one who gets suffocated in the bed? He was the one who helped everyone.’ ‘No, Miss.’ They all join in. The ones who have seen the film arguing back and forward. They seem to have different ideas of what a hero is. Poulos wants the last word. ‘Nah Miss, the hero was that big guy who got away for certain.’ Some of the other prisoners agree with him. She leaves it at that and begins to print neatly on the board. Around each group of words she is drawing a puffy happy looking cloud. ‘All right, enough of that film, let’s focus on today. Let’s look at these words. They are all feelings you can have if you learn to manage your anger. I’ll read them for you.’ She points as she goes. ‘To grow, be s e c u re, increase esteem, have fun, to live, be satisfied, have pride, be energetic, to relax, to succeed, to love, to be healthy.’ As she calls them out the kid’s eyes begin to roll with boredom. They rock on their chairs. One begins to imitate her. Another one yells out that they can read and that she should stop treating them like idiots. One makes a loud noise with his lips. Lots of laughter. ‘Nigel, not funny, nor nice.’ ‘Sorry Miss, tea last night was rabbit.’ ‘Bit of calici virus in it Miss.’ Pressing on. ‘Let’s now concentrate on our anger, and try to think of times when we have been very angry. Then we will try to work out ways of dealing

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with our anger.’ ‘You angry too, Miss?’ ‘No, David, why?’ ‘You said “our anger”.’ ‘It’s just a way of talking I meant your anger.’ ‘Why’d you say “our” then? You always telling us to say what we mean.’ Getting annoyed now. ‘Yes, okay. Let’s move on now. Let’s look at your anger. Okay?’ They loll back in their seats. This is beginning to get interesting. ‘Kylie, I’d like to start with you. Can you share with us a time when you were angry?’ Kylie squirms. Eyes way down on her lap. ‘Marcus?’ Golden opportunity for Marcus. ‘I get angry and jealous when my girlfriend stuffs around with my mate.’ Bazz interrupts, ‘You’ve never had a girlfriend you ugly runt.’ ‘Now Barry, that sort of comment is not what we are on about in here. You sound very angry, do you wish to talk about it?’ Bazz goes quiet like a spider, because he is plotting. ‘Sorry Miss. Forgot.’ He sinks back into his own world and starts in his head with his rap songs. He imagines himself driving down the main street in Freo, speakers blaring and a girl by his side. He says no more for the session because he is content to d ream and scheme and plan. He is looking for helpers for his plan. Marcus is going on in his whining tone. Not him,

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thinks Bazz … Anger Management Sessions provide opportunities to check out who is who and what they are thinking. The psych is working through her plan step by step, and Bazz is doing the same thing.

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No worries

The days plod past. It is cold and wet and rainy most of the time. Lunch times are spent huddling around cups of soup and chunks of bread. At night the evening meal is hot and mushy but filling. There is time to play pool or work out in the weights’ room or watch television for a while. Life can almost seem a bit normal. Then it’s back to the cells. Rocket has what he considers to be the luxury of being in ‘A block’ where the ‘trusted’ prisoners are. He’s reading books and doing his school work and he’s crossing off days on his calendar. But, he has not c i rcled what he feels will be his release date. Somehow, he is still superstitious about that. He feels he must keep it precious and quiet, even though it must be inching closer and closer. They’ll probably tell him soon. In his class group, he is enjoying his painting sessions. He’s fascinated by a guy called Francis

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Bacon. ‘There’s one painting,’ he’s telling Reggie, ‘of a guy in a big chair. He’s got on a uniform. Khaki. He’s real thin, like a skeleton, but he still looks powerful and menacing. I keep seeing it in my head. It’s a bit like an Alien’s mouth, all stretched skin and sharp teeth. It kind of haunts me. My old Pop used to talk about bad spirits and it’s just like that.’ Reggie is struggling with the fourth math’s workbook and needs no encouragement to slack off. ‘Maybe you keep thinking about it because you might end up in the chair.’ ‘Reggie, you watch too much television. This is Australia. People don’t go to the chair here. They hang them. Or they used to. Last one was some bloke back in the early sixties. Anyway, that painting’s not telling me what’s going to happen. It’s more of a sort of warning I reckon, to stick to my plans.’ ‘Yeh, you been hell good Rocket. Must be torture.’ ‘It is. But I gotta do it.’ Just then the bell rings and Rocket’s glad. He hates to talk about his plans. As they walk out to lunch they see Bazz being escorted across the quad by two guards. The mood is black. ‘Where’s he going?’ asks Reggie. ‘The cops want to talk to him about all that stolen gear found in his belongings.’ Reggie always wants to know all the gossip. ‘What happened?’ ‘Bazz’s girlfriend nicked a whole lot of jewelry from a ram raid then brought it in here all bundled up in a pair of jeans and a top. Gave it to the guards and said it was new clothes for when Bazz gets out.

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Told them to put it away in the store for him.’ Reggie is all ears, ‘What a babe!’ ‘No, it was a dumb move. The guard thought it was a bit weird seeing Bazz has got to do at least two big ones here, then maybe two in the ‘big house’. By the time he gets out the clothes will be out of style.’ ‘Oooeee,’ says Reggie, ‘I’m getting the picture.’ ‘Right, the guard opens up the bundle and out drops all the sparkly stuff. Cops are trying to find out if Bazz knew about it or whether it was just her idea. She reckons Bazz told her to do it.’ They watch as Bazz disappears through the door. ‘Reckon he’ll be over there for a while.’ ‘And in a shit mood when he gets back.’ The two boys line up for their sandwiches. Later, that night Rocket walks into the kitchen, as the little cubicle that serves ‘A block’ is called. It is almost possible to imagine you are miles away and living a normal life. He takes a cup and measures the coffee into it. In goes the hot water. Stir, stir. Two sugars. Take a sip. Rocket begins to daydream as he wanders back to his cell. I’m sitting on the verandah of a house. It is early morning and it is summer. I’ve had a good sleep and I’ve got a big day planned. My car is sitting waiting for me in the drive, now I’m looking out over the lawn, past the fence to the street. People are walking past, but … Here he begins to falter. The pictures in Rocket’s brain are too flimsy to make something real out of. It is impossible to imagine himself in a life like that. He looks up at his big poster of Michael Jordan. He tries

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to concentrate, but the moment is lost. Like a kite, high in the sky, pulling against the wind, hard to hold on to, with a life of its own. These are Rocket’s thoughts and they pull away from him, dragging him into thinking about the uncertainty of life on the outside. Starting a new life. Keeping away f rom crime. Fulfilling all his probation r u l e s . Reporting to the police. Keeping away from certain people. Swimming in sand. Rocket can feel that stinking old panic and depression starting to grab him. He puts down his cup and throws himself on his bed. Anger begins to surge inside him and he struggles to maintain calm. He wants to shout and rage at the whole crappy world that makes it so hard to live a decent life. He thinks about how easy it would be to get out and relax back into his old routines. Suddenly, his strength leaves him and he curls up in a ball on his bunk. He pulls the blanket up over his shoulder and right over his head and tries to sleep.

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A missed chance

The next day Rocket’s energy is back. He wakes up feeling good and remembers his doubts of the night before. ‘What the hell was wrong with you, Rocket?’ He showers slowly and prepares himself for the day. He sings and dances around in his cell, practises a few little jabbing punches at the air and goes out to line up for breakfast. In the classroom, his teacher is settling in a new ‘student’. Giving him ‘the talk’. As Rocket goes past, he says, ‘Give him the Bricklaying Book, Miss.’ Over by the window Bangers is busting himself to finish his assignments. He is due for release very soon and knows if he gets all his work done he may be able to enrol in a real course when he gets out. ‘Now, see that guy who’s just come in, Bangers. He is a six-time loser. He’s had more chances than Dolly’s had operations.’

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‘Who’s Dolly?Õ

‘Parton …’ Rocket looks at Bangers, ‘forget it. What I’m saying is that he keeps coming back. Okay, okay, so I do too, but that guy is a total idiot. Here’s his latest. He goes to the Shell Servo on the corner of Beaky Road with a knife. He was going to do an armed rob. Anyway, inside he loses his nerve and hides the knife in one of those potato chip display stands. Of course the staff see him do it when they look at the video that night. They call the cops who take the knife and get his prints. Sure enough he rocks up two days later and spends about ten minutes hunting around behind the barbecue chips. The cops arrive and grab him. Now, here he is. What a reject.’ They both sit and look at the thin jumpy kid. He has sores all around his nose and lips. He’s a chromer. A sniffer. Usually he’d be seen wandering around the Council Gardens with a tin of paint or paint stripper and a brown paper bag. He would carry his parcel everywhere. Precious cargo. Sniff Sniff. Sit in the mall and try to focus enough to find someone with a bag to snatch. But, his brain is too addled to plan it and his legs would certainly be too weak to run. Maybe some petrol in a drink can. Sniff Sniff. Watch people pass by. Keep a look out for the cops. That’s his day. Rocket goes on talking to Bangers who asks, ‘How about we meet up when you get out, Rocket?’ ‘Yeah little bro, we will. I’ll introduce you to some chicks. You might even’ve got lucky by then.’ Bangers is filling out on the Forston meals and has got a little taller. He’s been using the gym and 178

playing a bit of sport. ‘You might be surprised when you see me again, Rocket. I reckon I’m going to give up crime too. That bloke from Worksyde reckons he can put in a word for me at the tile factory near where I live. I could start saving up for a car. Mungo Boss Man.’ He opens his file and shows Rocket the pages and pages of pictures of cars he has painstakingly cut out and stuck on to bit of papers and put into his file. He’s really talking to himself as he goes through them. ‘This one has …’ Rocket is looking over his head at the teacher who is waving an envelope at him. ‘Your certificates are here.’ She smiles at him. ‘The Fence Building Course. You passed.’ She passes Rocket the envelope. He takes it and smiles, ‘I feel sorry for you, Miss. You really believe all this stuff don’t you.’ She laughs. ‘Rocket, I’ve got a good feeling about you. You’re going to be okay.’ ‘Reckon I will be, Miss, but it won’t be Fence Building that saves me. Bridges maybe.’ Then, Reggie joins them reading out loud a letter he has just got from Michelle. She has been out for two weeks. He sits down at the computer and turns it on. ‘Gotta send off a letter to my woman boys, stand aside now will you.’ Bangers tunes in. ‘She was going to get her friend to meet me when I get out. Remind her that she promised me.’ ‘Hey, I’m not pimping for you, Bangers. Besides you too young. When you get out you can get your own women. If you know what it’s for, of course. How old are you anyway?’ ‘Old enough,’ replies Bangers and goes back to his 179

schoolwork. ‘Don’t ever ask me for anything Reggie, I won’t be listening.’ The class settles down, with each student lost in their own world. They work quietly until the bell goes for lunch. Then, they pack up. As they leave the teacher calls out to Rocket. ‘I ordered that book you wanted. The one about the dog, White Fang. It should be here tomorrow.’ ‘On ya Miss. But, remember I’m not in here t o m o r ro w. I’m in the metalwork room. I’ll get it F r i d a y. It’ll give me something to do on the weekend.’ He smiles and leaves. He’s in a hurry because he wants to get permission to make a phone call. He wants to ring his Mum. She’s been on his mind a lot. He wants to tell her how well he is doing, and all about his schoolwork. She loves hearing all that crap. Keeps telling him to respect himself and all that stuff. He reckons he’s in a good enough mood not to mind hearing all that today. He wants to try to fix things up a bit with her. As he approaches the duty guard to ask permission to make a call, the guard is closing up the front of the desk and locking up. ‘What’s going on, Sir?’ Rocket is being real polite. He wants to ring his Mum but he is also worried that the prison Superintendent has called for a ‘lock down’. When this happens all the doors in the prison are locked and everyone has to stay where they are. No one is allowed to move around the prison. This is done when the Dog Squad has been called in. A whole lot of real tough guys turn up. They’ve been trained to deal with prison riots and prison drug

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busts. Rocket knows that if this is what is happening, he is done for. The dogs will sniff out Plugger ’ s ‘present’ in no time. Rocket has it hidden in his cell because he’s never really found an easy way of getting rid of it. He’s got no intention of using the shit but knows he has to be real careful where he ditches it. He’s starting to sweat with the fear that the dog squad’s on the way. He’s seen those sniffer dogs before and nothing gets past them. Also, everyone’s cell is raked over by the blokes in the squad. They usually find every little bit of contraband, right down to the last little stick magazine. If those drugs are found in his cell he knows he will be on his way to the ‘Big House’. Rocket stares at the guard and waits for the answer. ‘Staff Union meeting. You lot are all going back to your cells for the afternoon. You can read or play tiddlywinks with yourself’. Rocket feels a huge sense of relief wash over him. Thank you, God. He’s safe again. But he still wants to ring his Mum, even more now. But, because he hasn’t arranged it previously he is not allowed to. He does a bit of grovelling but it doesn’t work. The g u a rd is in a hurry. Rocket’s too proud to beg, though he does say it’s his Mum he wants to ring. ‘ Yeah, bet she’s sixteen and stacked,’ jokes the guard. Normally he would make an effort but today there is too much to do. ‘Later, Alex, maybe after tea.’ Rocket is pissed off but doesn’t show it. He still feels like a man who has escaped death row and he promises himself once more, to get rid of that shit out of his locker. So, he just joins the others in the

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line waiting to be taken to their cells for a long boring afternoon. ‘What’s the meeting about, Sir?’ asks Reggie from the line up. He always wants to know everything. ‘What size Y-fronts you all wear or what?’ ‘It’s all about a new torture chamber we’re building for you,’ says the guard. But, in reality it is just one of those boring meetings where nothing is said and nothing happens and everyone dozes off listening to the minutes being read. He’d rather be in his shed bottling his home brew. He feels sorry for the kids missing out on a sunny afternoon top-side and he knows how depressed some of them get at being in their cells in the middle of the day. Still, nothing he could do, that was the regulation and that was it. Later that night, after tea, Rocket has gone off the idea of ringing his Mum. He decides to wait until the weekend. Plenty of time. Besides, he feels stale after lying on his bed in his cell all afternoon. He feels irritable and restless and doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He knows he’ll be better the next day. He’s always been one of those people who wake up full of energy. He decides to make himself a Milo and have an early night. He wants to get rid of his mood and wake up feeling good.

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The break

And he does. In the morning he’s in the metal workshop. There are just six of them bent over their benches working on various projects. There’s a guard and the teacher. Eight people. The teacher has been at Forston nearly two years, almost the limit. He’s a good bloke, bit corny with his jokes. He works hard at trying to make things as interesting as they can be in the workshop. He’s had some successes. Some of the kids really get into it all and make everything from letterboxes to go-karts. He does the round of the benches looking and talking and helping. It’s a noisy place because of the equipment. Steel grinds steel. Lathes squeal. The oxy torch starts up; strong hands beat the metal into shape. Rocket is making a weathervane to go on a roof. He has cut out four big arrows for each direction of the compass: South, North, East, West. He has a l ready attached two of the arrows, the ones for

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North and South. Now he’s working on a figure he’s going to put in the middle where all the arms of the compass meet. It’s cut in the shape of a man, a sort of dark avenger-type figure in a big coat. The figure is pointing and is going to show the wind direction. Rocket thinks it’s wicked and he’s now working away quietly. He always loves the sounds and the smells in the metalwork shop. The sparks and the sizzle of welding, the smoothing, the shaping, and the clanging. He often gets lost in his thoughts and forgets where he is. Right now, he’s miles away as he shapes a bit of a curve in the steel. Then, Bazz says, ‘Hey Sir, looks like Davo’s feeling sick.’ One of the smaller boys is hunched over his bench with his head down. The teacher goes to him. ‘What is it, David?’ ‘Crook guts Sir. Gotta go to the bog real quick. Those saveloys last night were a bit off.’ The guard comes over. ‘Better take him I suppose,’ says the teacher. The guard hesitates. ‘You sure you can’t wait five minutes until I call in a replacement?’ ‘You just want me to shit my pants.’ ‘Hang on will you.’ The guard is crossing to the phone to get someone in to escort the boy. ‘Aahhh, Sir,’ the boy grabs his stomach and drops to the floor, ‘I’m gunna do it.’ ‘Oh Christ, come on then.’ The guard hauls him up and rushes him to the door. He unlocks it and swings it open. Suddenly, three of the boys are on him. ‘Get the

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keys.’ The teacher shouts and runs for the alarm bell on the wall. He is tackled and brought to the floor by a fourth boy. The boy who was on his way to have the mother of all craps is on his feet and ripping the key chain off the guard’s belt. The guard shouts, the teacher is cursing. Everyone’s moving except Rocket who stands like a dummy in a shop window. He can’t think of a single thing to say or do. The keys are wrenched free and one of the prisoners runs to the breezeway door that opens onto the exerc i s e area. Three kids have escaped through there before. Each time the guards put up more razor wire, but Bazz has done a good job and the kids breaking out are fearless. The guard being pounded into the ground puts up a good fight. ‘Get the door open, will you,’ shouts Bazz. His adrenalin pumps big-time. The teacher’s head is bleeding from a blow with a pinch bar but he’s not giving up. He is getting the better of the boys struggling with him. The man’s pride has been dented and he is feeling betrayed. ‘You bastards!’ he yells, ‘you ungrateful bastards!’ His anger rises as he shouts and swears and he manages to throw the boys off and turns to run to the alarm on the wall. Only Rocket stands in his way. Rocket, with the piece of his weathervane in his hand. ‘Rocket, get him, stop him, Rocket! Move you useless bastard move, quick.’ The teacher reaches the wall near the alarm. Suddenly, the guard throws off two of the boys who

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are trying to hold him down. The other boy works through the key ring trying to find the right one for the door. Bazz curses and swears … almost hysterical. ‘Rocket, do something. Help us!’ He curses again. Suddenly, Rocket feels as if he’s two people. The one who is standing stock-still, not moving, just staring, frozen in time. And, the one who is moving forward. His fingers drop the piece of the weathervane to the ground and he launches himself at the teacher. He gets him in a headlock and drags him across the workshop floor. Out of reach of the alarm on the wall. Seeing this, the guard suddenly lets out a roar like a madman and fights like a bull to get free. He decks one kid, then smashes the other across the face. The boy at the door to freedom finds his fingers have turned to jelly at the roar from the guard. He drops the keys. His friends scream and howl at him as they renew their struggle with the guard. Rocket is still holding the teacher back. Bazz is going crazy laughing and cursing because he thinks they are almost out. But Bazz is wrong. It’s too late. The noise of the fight’s been heard, and the surveillance camera has lit up. The Code One, big trouble siren begins to screech. In other parts of the prison, heads lift up and people stop what they are doing. The inmates start milling towards each other while the staff leap into action. Doors are crashing open as more guards rush to the workshop. As they charge in, their hands are raised and they are holding weapons. Up high the

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camera swivels, this way and that, recording everything. It sees Bazz fighting desperately with the guard. It records the younger kids now looking shitscared at what they’ve done, at what will happen to them. And, it captures in its shiny eye, a picture of Rocket fighting and wrestling with the teacher. The teacher is bleeding from his head wound and his blood is now on Rocket.

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A door slams

The Superintendent leans forward on his black leather swivel chair. He leans over the desk to Rocket and looks with his pale-blue, watery eyes. Rocket thinks how much he looks like a pink pig staring over a farm fence. ‘You know Rocket, don’t you …’ deliberately stretching out his words, gives a kind of crinkly smile, ‘you have left us absolutely no choice but to …’ slows again and purses his lip, ‘rescind your early release condition. You will have to do your whole sentence inside, like the others involved.’ Rocket feels his guts turning over and the muscles in his bum contract. He feels like he wants to spew. He tries to keep his face calm. ‘Do you understand, Alex? Your part in the break attempt has made it necessary for us to review your case. The result is, as I have said. No early release.’ Rocket cannot find any words. ‘It means in effect,’ again that slowing down. Spit

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it out, you shithead. Put me out of my misery. ‘that you will soon be transferred to …’ Rocket has suddenly hunched over with his arms hugging his chest. His face, hidden from view, contorts in grief and pain, as if he has just been run through with a hot knife or seen his mother pulled from beneath the wheels of a train. ‘Alex …’ Rocket is far away in the alleys of his brain. He is running up and down those corridors looking for a way out. What is happening cannot be happening! He wants to stop the horror of the words he’s just heard. If he screams and shuts his eyes he may be able to block it out, or change it, or fade away, to disappear, to wake up somewhere beautiful far, far in the future … ‘Alex, you did this to yourself. You should not have got involved. We know the plan was not of your making, but you allowed yourself to be drawn into it. Why didn’t you keep out of it? You’ve no one to blame but yourself. You blew it.’ Rocket is agonised at the truth of it. Yes, he did. He did it to himself. He got sucked in. And, now he’s getting spat right out again. If only he’d stood his ground. If only he had remembered all his promises to himself. Promises about new lives, new dreams. Those promises we make to ourselves are the ones we should never break. The pain of what he has done to himself, that knowledge, hunches Rocket down into his chair. ‘Alex, do you hear me. I want you to answer me.’ Still Rocket says nothing out loud, but in his head

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he howls like a demon. ‘Alex, Look up, open your eyes. Do you want to see a counsellor? Look at me. We can’t help you if you won’t help us.’ The word ‘help’ burns like rocket fuel in Rocket’s brain. He breaks into a whimpering snigger. Help? Help? Help? What is ‘help’? Finally, some words force themselves to the surface: ‘Leave me alone. Leave me alone. I hate all you shitheads. You know nothing. Nothing.’ ‘Alex, settle your self down and listen for a …’ ‘I’m sick of listening. I don’t care do you hear me? I don’t care anymore. You’re telling me it’s too late. It’s all hopeless.’ He begins to scream and swear abuse at everyone in his world. He curses them all. Then, his head droops and he begins to rock back and forth grinding his teeth. His arms are crossed over his chest, and his fingers dig into his flesh. ‘Alex, the time will pass just as quickly in the adult prison as it does here. There is no real difference. You will be okay. Now pull yourself together, we want to get you back to your cell. You need to settle down.’ The pink-faced Superintendent has gathered a bit of spit in the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t like the emotion of the situation. He wants his office cleared. He wants a cigarette. Rocket is hauled to his feet and walked out of the door. He stumbles, hunched with his head down. On the way back to his cell they pass Bangers who’s going up to have his hair cut. He’s getting out the next day. Lucky for him, he hadn’t been in the

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metalwork room. Bangers stares as Rocket passes him. He’s shocked. ‘You all right, Rocket?’ There’s no reply. Bangers walks on with the guard, who says, ‘You’re getting out tomorrow Brian, and you should make bloody sure you never come back. Do you want to end up like your mate back there? He’s on his way to the ‘big house’. That’s the beginning of the end for him, and he knows it.’ Still, Bangers makes no reply. He feels sad, and frightened. He also feels disloyal because he can’t help thinking how glad he is that he is not Rocket. But, he wishes the guard would shut his trap and stop talking. He hates the sound of his voice. Behind him, Rocket has been ushered into the corridor that leads to the cells. He hasn’t been moved out of A Block yet but he knows it won’t be long. As he walks he keeps his head down and he’s making no effort to tough it out. He is crushed. The guard feels sorry for him. What a waste, he thinks.

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A chain rattles

Rocket is sitting on the end of his bunk. Above his head the poster of Michael Jordan reaching for the basket. Hey man, you were going to look out for me! Rocket is sort of talking to himself. The eyes in the poster follow him and the image seems to say, ‘You gotta look out for yourself, Rocket. No one looking out for you but you.’ That right? That’s the way it is. Yeh, well you’re all arseholes anyway. He begins to curse again. Voice comes over the microphone in his cell. Rocket sits still and quiet. Anonymous voice with a bit of static. ‘What’s happening in there Alex?’ ‘Nothing man.’ ‘You talking to yourself?’

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‘No.’ ‘Saying your prayers?’ ‘Yeah man, saying my prayers.’ ‘Say one for me then.’ Microphone clicks off Rocket sits for a while leaning back on the wall. He looks up again at the poster. He r e m e m b e r s Debbie’s smile when she gave it to him back then on his birthday, just before she got out. Wonder what she’s doing now? In the poster Michael is frozen in mid leap, arm outstretched reaching somewhere. His body taut, muscular, full of life yet not. Frozen in flight. Stuck for eternity. Reaching out fruitlessly. Reaching. For nothing. Rocket’s eyes scan the cell. So this is what it’s come to. He curses himself. You’re going to trade this hole for one in the ‘big house’. He leans back and stares at the wall, the windows, the bars. He thinks of all the kids who’d been in this cell before him. H u n d reds and hundreds over the years; most of them like him, living on the edge. Wonder where they all are now? Drunken shit-smeared ghosts lying around in parks, full of booze and covered in flies. Rotten teeth and stinking hair. Yelling out at passing cars. Fighting over nothing and shambling on endlessly through the days. Who said you were going to be different, Rocket? You are young and strong and handsome now, but Rocket they’ve got you and you will never, ever get free until you are dead and in your grave. And this place here, this is just a stinking

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memorial to all those graves out there. The lives gone unmarked. Stupid, miserable, nothing lives, ending in shabby, disgusting deaths. So many ghosts hanging around watching him here, in the dark. A lot of pain and tears. An okay place to cry, Rocket. So Rocket sits on the floor against the wall with his arms around his drawn up knees. He hangs his head and a great blanket of suffering engulfs him. Where is that kid who had all the answers? He’s gone, and it’s too late, Rocket. You are a man now and you are going to a man’s gaol. Rocket begins to sob. He weeps for himself mainly, but then for his Mum. Then, he could almost be weeping for the whole stinking world. He cries s o f t l y, then rages with rasping sobs. That fre a k Metzer and his sawn-off shot gun. That lying shit Steven and the stolen car. That bastard Bazz screaming at him. The list goes on and on. He rages against all the bad bastards he’s met in his life and he cries for all the things he’s done and all the people he’s hurt. He makes a hundred promises he would keep if only he could take back what he’s done. He cries for what he finally sees that he is.

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In the chainman’s house

A long time passes before Rocket moves. It could have been minutes or hours for all it registers with him. Then, he gets up on elastic legs. He reaches into his locker behind his pile of car magazines. Out comes the fit which had been jammed up behind the shelf. He’d never found a time to get rid of it. Plugger’s words, ‘Two here Rocket thought you deserved it. Don’t take ‘em both at once. Only joking.’ Yeh Plugger, you were only joking. But I’ve lost my sense of humour. He feels his eyes stinging again with tears and the lump rising in his throat as he tries not to sob all over again. He tells himself to be a man. You can do this Rocket. Plenty have before. Fear rises up in him but a greater fear overshadows it. The fear of life, and more failure, and more pain.

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Death has to come one day, Rocket. Why wait? He goes through the ritual of preparation. A good mate, Plugger. A minute or two of quiet activity. Now, Rocket is ready. He’s stopped the tears but racking sobs still crack through the cell. He tries to stifle them. Don’t want those rock apes rushing in here, yet. Good thing I’m not in a surveillance cell. He stares at the needle. At the lucky double shot. Funny thing is he was never really into this stuff. Plugger thought he was doing me a favour. And, in the end he has. The irony of it all flashes through him. His throat and chest feel as if they are being crushed. The gulping sobs seem to rise in his gullet and he realises he is going to vomit. He leans over the stainless steel bowl in the corner and retches. Only slimy bile comes out and hangs in strings. He tries to vomit again, but only more spit and slime. He sits down on his bunk. His chest feels as if it is full of stones bursting his flesh. He squeezes his eyes shut and wishes. But, they open again and he stares around. The reality is too real, and like a slobbering black dog it has pissed on his dreams. He thinks about making a rope instead, but the old saying of ‘no shit on my shoes’ pushes the idea away. He looks at the electrical cord to his television and thinks about the guy in the Big House who swallowed the exposed end and flicked on the switch. What a wanker. Cut the wrists? No way, too slow, and messy. Okay. Plugger, here we go. This will

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drive the Super crazy. Useless bastard. Rocket takes the needle and gets his arm ready. He slides the needle up into the blue vein which is standing out like a little bush track on his arm. Bush track to where? A sudden remembrance of eucalyptus and sunshine and the lazy clicking of summer crickets. Blue sky. Don’t think Rocket, just do it. His thumb trembles on the plunger of the needle, anger rises in him, then with a quickening of his guts he presses on the plunger. The mixture shoots into his body. Before he has a chance to empty the syringe, a white hot rush of a sparkling light and a growing flow of heat courses through his body … a rising tide of heat swells in his brain. He begins to feel incredibly good. He lies back on his bunk. This is a wicked hit. It’s huge. He wishes he could see the sky. He lies back and tries to imagine the stars outside. Is there a moon tonight, Mr Chainman? Time passes. Rocket begins to drop off to sleep. Opiates can be slow and gradual. He doesn’t really feel diff e rent, just real comfortable. No worries, Plugger. His pupils are contracting. He is asleep, numbed, calmed. Removed from it all. No sadness now. No anger. Just dreaming. He smiles in his sleep. He snores. A couple of hours drift by. Rocket is limp, his pupils pinned. His breathing is slowing. Little puffs, now and then, further and further apart. Slowly, so slowly. Finally, it stops. Rocket’s heart pumps madly, to get some oxygen to his brain. But then, it too, is exhausted. The night ticks past in the prison. Outside there is

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a moon that Rocket cannot see, and stars. Now they pale and the sky begins to lighten. The day begins. The young prisoners start to go about their routines. There is whistling and jostling and the usual shouted insults. Bangers packs his bag and looks around his cell. He takes some of his drawings of cars off the wall and puts them in his file. He thinks of Rocket and hopes he sees him at breakfast. At the thought of Rocket he presses his mouth to the door and kisses it. Yeah, like Rocket he’s decided he is not coming back. Not if he can help it. He hurries up, shoving his belongings into the bag and singing all the time. No movement in Rocket’s cell. Just the sounds f rom outside hanging in the air. The guard who opens the door stops, shock-still, and stares. Rocket’s body lies spread out. Some limbs a little twisted, his head to one side. The guard starts forward with a weird sort of shout of, ‘No, no, no.’ Useless words. He bends over the bunk and reaches out to Rocket’s hand as if to take a pulse. But he touches only cold, useless flesh. ‘Oh God, Alex, what have you done?’ Useless words and no possible reply …

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