State Ward (5 page)

Forget the Scrag. Hepa Wiringi punches too hard. And anyway, Hepa Wiringi was the kingpin and he told Charlie to his face, “You try me again, brother, and I’ll kill ya.” And as Hepa was the kingpin, and he was from Auckland where they breed ’em tougher and meaner, and he was two years older and a couple of stone heavier, forget the Scrag, Charlie told himself.

A movie on Friday night. A cowboy one. Not bad, it wasn’t too old-fashioned although in black and white. A bit of free time after the movie, to talk and check out the boys from B Wing. The wing Hepa lived in, though he ruled the whole place. Only a fool crossed Hep.

He came sauntering over to Charlie his second Friday after the movie and told him he wanted a chocolate bar Charlie was enjoying — the first canteen purchase he’d earned since he’d lost the first week’s wages in punishments. Charlie said no. Hepa said ya bedda. Charlie gave him a small piece of choc. Hepa said you’re gonna die for that. Charlie stopped Hepa halfway back to his ever-present gathering of friends and crawlers.

“Here. I didn’t want it anyway.”

Hepa took it, told Charlie he was lucky. Charlie felt miserable, the more so that everyone except Tommy wouldn’t come near him.

OK then, I’ll run away, he promised himself for the umpteenth time. Just as he alternated between extreme happiness and sadness umpteen times.

Saturday. No school. Cleaning duties first, then it’s sport. Take your pick: rugby or hockey or basketball in the gym. Rugby. Charlie took rugby, of course he did. Didn’t near everyone.

He got put in the reserves for the first half of B versus A Wing. It was never the other way round. Not with Hepa in B Wing, it was explained to Charlie. He challenges you.

There were some good players from both wings. Though Hepa Wiringi stood out as the charging bull prop. But there were enough who showed courage in tackling Hepa not to make the game one-sided. The ball went along Hep’s side backline, got to the winger, a dark-skinned Maori boy, lean and muscular, and everyone, even the several staff watching the game, started yelling, “RUN, GEORGE! RUN!” And laughing.

George? The same George written all over in the cell? And why are they laughing? Is he a clumsy player? Does he drop the ball at the crucial moment? Charlie intrigued.

But nothing clumsy or incompetent about George, as he swerved and sidestepped his way down the touchline, finally to score a try in the corner. Everyone yelling and cheering and still they were laughing as they cried, “RUN, BOY! RUN!”

But no time to ask questions on this George, (and anyway who said he was the same George?), as Charlie
got called on to the field at halftime. Flanker. Leftside. Like Kel Tremain, every flanker’s All Black dream. Charlie played well, too, as he hoped he would. Would have made the school third fifteen this year if it wasn’t for this. Nor did he feel deprived or missing of home, not out there on the paddock that could just as well have been home anyway. Rugby’s rugby.

George started another weaving run and Charlie raced to get the dark kid. He could hear the “Run, boy, run!” yelling going on as he raced far behind the backline defence moving up on George, as he’d been taught to do by a succession of coaches and teacher coaches. And he launched himself at the flying figure, brought him down in a copybook tackle.

But George freed the ball to his support, and Charlie was still patting himself on the back when he saw who else but Hepa Wiringi bulling through several weak tackles to cross the tryline. And Charlie hated Hepa at that moment. Just as he hated George for getting the ball free from his great tackle. So he shoved George before he turned to join his team-mates behind the goalposts as the conversion was being taken.

He heard something said in Maori. Stopped Charlie in his tracks. When he turned he caught the sideliners laughing. At him. Not George. For George was running the other way, in that cat-like, graceful style of his. Leaving Charlie the more mystified.

Hepa’s team won: 17–6. No tries to Charlie, but Mr Wakefield, the only Maori housemaster, said Charlie had played very well and next week he’d be in the team, not just a reserve. Happiness again. Singing in the showers.
And some of his team-mates joining him. Then Charlie noticed that not only was there no housemaster with a stopwatch measuring their time in the showers, but two and three boys to a cubicle had the place filled with laughter and singing, both teams. Oh, happiness.

He stepped out of the shower and was met with an offered handshake. The hand was dark and veiny. He shook the hand.

“George,” it said in a shy voice. “You good tackle.” As if he had difficulty with English.

Charlie smiling. “And you’re very fast — and you got the ball away.”

George’s smile painfully shy. “You push me, no ball, eh?”

“Sorry about that. I got wild you got rid of the ball. You allowed down in our rec room?” Charlie asked.

George nodded. “I think so.”

“Wanna come down? They sing some good songs there.”

George broke out in a big grin. “B rec same. They sing very good.” He thumbed his bare chest, muscular it was, too. “Maori boy, they sing good all the time, eh?” And Charlie nodded.

“Sure do.”

George was the same who’d written his name all around the cell. Same as in the other cell. He told Charlie, over two successive Saturdays after rugby in A then B recreation room, that he’d been in the place two years and a bit more, he wasn’t sure. Told Charlie in halting English because, as he put it, “I speak Maori all the time home.”

“So where was home where they still did that?”

“Ruapotiki,” he said with a distinct rise in the ‘a’, so it sounded musical to Charlie’s ear.

“Small. My pa. Not many people. Me, I am not bad, get sent here for nothing. Not do. Sorry, my Pakeha not very good.”

He’d been sent here for rape. Rape? Charlie at first horrified. Till another kid, a friend of George’s, Brownie Timu, started acting as a kind of interpreter for when George got lost with the language. A girl visiting his village in the Eastern Bay of Plenty had apparently been raped by a group of local boys. She could not identify them, but George had made a so-called ‘confession’ to the police. “Yet how could he when he couldn’t hardly speak English?” explained Brownie who had been raised speaking both languages fluently, living not too far from George’s village out in the wops.

So why the name written in the cells? Charlie wanted to know. But the pair suddenly clammed up at that. And they hardly even acknowledged him thereafter.

His enquiries amongst the boys revealed that George was a chronic escaper. He never lasted long at large because his English was so poor that people became suspicious, or so the stories had it. But no one said why George kept escaping.

On Saturday after rugby, Charlie asked George a question: “Does kehua mean ghost?”

You’d have thought George was the ghost the way even his dark features paled. He nodded.

“So why’d you write all that on the wall of the cell I was in?”

George played dumb till Charlie kept pressing him,
even followed him to the showers and hopped under the same one with him.

“Come on, George. I only want to be your friend.”

But George shook his head. “No friend with half caste can’t speak Maori.”

“Not my fault. Least I’m Maori.”

“Half.” George lifted a soapy finger to his shower companion, with a little smile.

“But the best half, eh?” Charlie with his own guarded grin.

“You a cop why you say about kehua?” And they both laughed. Then George grew serious; and the world did not exist outside the clear plastic curtain; and nor was it strange, or unnatural, that the two of them should be about to share a secret standing naked as the day they were born.

“You know kehua?” George hard to hear over the sound of the shower.

“Ghosts, yeh.”

“Bad ghosts, Ch — Say your name again to me.”

“Char-lie.”

“Char-lee. Bad ghosts, Char-lee. They come all the time to me. They say me, Run, Hori. Run.”

“Hori? That your real name?” George nodding that it was. “But why would these ghosts —”

But George cut him short with a shishing.

“No tell, Char-lee. Please you no tell.”

“But why do they tell you to run? And why do you listen?” Charlie as the water cascaded off George on to him, as if George was trying to hide beneath the fall of water.

“Makutu …” Then George stepped out. Left
Charlie wondering what on earth George meant by that.

He approached Brownie later, asked him what the word meant. Brownie too went suspiciously pale of complexion. “Curse,” he said. “Maori curse.”

So George had a Maori curse on his head.

Took another few Saturdays for Charlie to weedle the story out of a combination of George and Brownie. His uncle and aunty, who’d brought him up, had used timber meant for building a meeting house towards building their own house. The local tohunga had put a makutu on the heads of the entire family who had sheltered under the house of stolen timber. So poor George was stuck with this for life.

“But this is the sixties, we’re nearly into the seventies, we don’t believe that stuff no more, not like our dumb parents,” Charlie tried to persuade. But not to George did such things mean nothing, or why, he wanted to know, would he keep having this same dream vision so strong he had to do as it told?

He spoke of a Maori warrior coming to him in his dreams and telling him in English, “Run away, Hori. You have to run away.” And so he did. The first chance he got he was gone. And always to no avail. Nor even a point. He didn’t want to keep getting into trouble. He didn’t want to spend any more time at the Home. He just wanted, like most of the boys, to get back to his own home and live life as it turned out. But how, when such a terrible thing haunted him?

And in between times, Charlie suffered his own little curse — Hepa Wiringi. Hep had gotten a thing about Charlie, regarding him as a threat, even though no one
could possibly be that to the ape-like kingpin. Even some of the staff were afraid of Hepa. Not chocolate bars, nor a packet of minties, nor anything else would shift Hepa’s fix on Charlie. Only a fight would, he told Charlie. “But you’ll kill me, Hepa. And what’ve I done wrong anyway?”

“You’re a doink.” That word again.

So, George haunted by his mind, and Charlie haunted by the presence of Hepa. What to do? Escape? That occurred plenty of times to Charlie. But what use? He’d get caught like George always got caught. And the cell would be there and so would Hepa, and so both his and George’s time would extend further and further at this place.

One day Charlie and George were heading for the gym to play basketball when Hepa stopped Charlie.

“Round the back of the gym. Now.”

“No, Hepa. I don’t wanna fight you.”

“Now. Or I do it right here.”

“But why?” Charlie beside himself with hurt and confusion and not a little fear at why Hepa should single him out. Then he felt the tap on his arm from George that he should go. Take up Hepa’s offer. But Charlie wasn’t moving. Not till Hepa punched him in the face, demanded again he come round the back to sort this out. Charlie wiped the blood from his bleeding nose and sighed. OK. May as well get it over and done with. He gave George an it’s-all-right-for-you look, which George gave no reaction to except urging Charlie with his eyes to follow Hepa Wiringi.

Round the back of the gymnasium they went. Hepa
was on his toes, fists up boxing style, ready to cut loose. Charlie groaned inwardly at the awesome sight. Again he felt that discreet tap against his arm, as if a signal from George that — somehow — everything was going to be all right. He even turned to George and said, “Oh, yeah? That what the kehua told you?” Then back to lift strengthless arms to Hepa.

The first blow felt like a train had hit him, and Charlie staggered and nearly dropped. He couldn’t even find the strength to throw a punch back, even though a confident Hepa came walking back in with no guard up. Then he saw Hepa’s face change to an expression of shock, and his face seemed to have exploded in blood. Then all Charlie saw was the back view of George and a flurry of George’s fists slamming into the kingpin. Unbelievable, Charlie watched Hepa — a boxer — covering up no different to those he’d belted around himself. Blows rained at him from everywhere. Head shots, body shots. A blur of dark-armed fists.

Next thing George was steering Charlie towards the gym where they took their places in opposing Wing teams. And Mr Marshall, a housemaster, asked did anyone know where Hepa Wiringi was?

The pair exchanged happy grins. And in the same shower cubicle after the game, where Hepa was noticeably absent, George told Charlie:

“My old people they teach fight. And they teach me Hepa’s not good fighter. Too much the yap-yap, eh? Too much the —” he cupped his dark hands together and made a farting sound. Their laughter rang in the shower cubicle.

Charlie was lying in bed, composing a letter in his mind:

Dear Mum — yeah, you, too, Dad. I’ve got my own room
now.
I
like
it
better
than
the
dorm.
Anyway,
thanks
very
much
for
turning
up
at
court
when
I
got
sent
away.
Not
under
proper
parental
control,
that’s
what
the
Magistrate
said.
Control?
You
w
er
en
’
t
even
there.

I
thought
it
was
the
end
of
the
world,
I
really
did,
Mum
and
Dad.
But
then
I
got
here
and
I
thought
being
in
a
cell
was
the
end
of
the
world.
Then
I
got
out
and
met
other
kids,
and
boy
they’re
worse
off
than
me.
Least
you
tw
o
were
around,
you
know?
And
Mum,
you
even
hugged
me
now
and
again.
Even
if
you
did
it
when
you
were
in
one
of
those
drunk
moods
where
everything
makes
you
cry,
you
get
wet
sentimental
over
things
like
kids.
The
same
kids
you
scream
at
in
the
mornings
to
“Get
outta
my
face!”

There
’
s
kids
here
who’
re
orphans.
I’d
never
met
an
orphan
before.
Sam
Chile’
s
mum
and
dad
got
killed
in
a
car
crash
when
he
was
only
three.
He’s
thirteen
now,
my
age
in
case
you
don
’
t
remember,
and
he
’
s
been
all
those
years
in
an
orphanage.
And
boy,
you
wanna
hear
the
tales
he’
s
got
to
tell
of
cruelty
and
misery.
And
he’s
just
one
of
them.

Hey,
guess
what
happened
a
few
weeks
ago?
Hepa
Wiringi
, the kingpin — a kingpin’s the toughest — well,
he got done by a real Maori kid, George, who’s my best
mate
now.
George
speaks
Maori,
can
you
believe
it?
Like
you sometimes do, Dad, when you’re drunk and making
out you’re a Maori warrior. Though we know you’re no
warrior.
It’
s
only
what
the
booze
makes
you
believe
you
are.
Mum
says
your
mates
call
you
an
idiot
behind
your
back.
An
idiot
who
backs
down
when
a
real
fight
comes
your
way.
Think
we
don’t
know?
But
George,
he
is
a
warrior.
He
thrashed
Hepa,
and
Hepa
is
a
boxer,
a
champion
one,
too.

I
learned
something
from
George
about
so-called
kingpins:
George
says
a
real
kingpin
is
the
one
you
don
’
t
know
about
because
he’s
got
nothing
to
prove.
He
didn’t
put
it
in
those
words
cos
he
can’t.
But
it’
s
what
he
meant,
I’m
not
stupid,
I
can
work
things
out.
(’Cept you
two.)
He
says
bullies
are
always
weak
or
they
wouldn’t
be
bullies.
Said
he
used
to
look
at
Hepa
and
wonder
why
everyone
was
afraid
of
him,
why
kids
let
him
take
their
choc
bars,
their
minties
off
them
just
when
it
suited.
George
said
Hepa
never
tried
it
with
him.
Can
you
believe
it,
Dad?
All
this
time,
over
one
year
they’ve
both
been
here,
and
George
was
the
real
kingpin?

That’
s
what
I
mean,
Mum
and
Dad.
I
don’t
miss
you
so
much
—
at
all,
in
fact
—
because
there’s
so
many
interesting
things
happening
here.
And
I’m
learning
so
much.
Not
schoolwork
stuff,
they
haven’t
sent
me
to
a
school
yet,
not
till
they’
re
sure
I
won
’
t
be
a
problem.
But
I
sat
my
I.Q.
tests
and
guess
what?
I’m
one
hundred
and
twenty-nine.
That’
s
high,
boy,
believe
me.

Mr
Davis,
he’
s
the
manager
here,
says
I
might
even
go
to
Riverton
Boys’
High,
and
if
I
do,
I’ll
be
one
of
only
two
going
there from
here
because
you
have
to
have
a
few
clues,
eh.
See?
See
what
I
might’
ve
become
if
y
ou
’
d
looked
after
me,
all
of
us,
properly?
Booze,
eh?
It’s
more
important
than
anything
and
anyone,
even
your
own
kids,
in
your
lives.
Lives?
Hah.
Hardly
lives
if
you
drink
all the time. Wait till I’m old enough to drink, I’m gonna
go into a pub and order a beer, then I’ll tip it out on the
floor,
tell
the
guy
to
stick
it
right
up
his
arse.
Then
I’ll
go
straight
home
to
my
kids
and
I
’ll
.
I
’
ll
—

Charlie having to give that one some thought as he had no reference point for how he’d behave as a parent.

I’ll give them a bloody big cuddle! Oh, and I’ll buy ’em
a
load
of
treats.
Yeah.

We
got
a
couple
of
kids
here
who’ve
been
tortured.
By
their
own
parents,
or
foster
parents.
Live
smokes
on
their
skin,
and
I’ve
seen
the
scars,
Mum.
Terrible,
eh?
And I’d say every boy here has a parent, or both of them,
who’ve
thrashed
the
hell
out
of
him
regularly.
Like
you
two
did
with
me,
with
my
brothers
and
sister,
till
Roger
up
and
hung
you
up,
eh,
Dad?
Hahahaha.
Boy,
now
that
was
a
sight,
to
see
you
hung
up
by
your
own
son.
Just
you
wait
till
I
get
older.
Might
even
be
when
I
get
out
of
here,
I’ll get George to teach me to really fight, not the fighting
I
used
to
think
I
was
good
at.
Not
here.
Too
many
kids
tougher. Hard to accept, too. But I’m getting there,
slowly,
slowly.

A
kid
came
in
the
other
day,
Tuesday.
We
thought
he
was
from
out
of
a
circus,
you
know,
a
freak.
Cos
he’
s
got
short arms. Like he’s got forearms that stick straight
out
of
his
shoulders
with
hands.
Toby
said
he
looked
like
a
penguin.
So
everyone
was
calling
him
penguin,
the
poor
little
bugger.
I
didn’t.
Though
must
admit
I’ve
laughed
at
some
of
the
things
said
about
him.
Like
when
he
gets
wild,
which
is
pretty
often
with
all
the
teasing,
Maihi
Aputu
told
him,
“Hey,
don’t
get
in
a
flap.”

Next
there
was
about
six
boys
surrounding
him
and
they
were
saying,
“Please
don’t
hit
me
with
your
wings,
Penguin!”
And,
“Hey,
Penguin,
how
do
you
play
with
yourself?
Bet
you
get
a
sore
neck!”
Things
like
that.
Cruel,
eh.

Penguin’
s
just
another
example
of
what
we
got
in
here.
We’ve
got
an
epileptic,
Brian
Jones.
He
was
sitting
at
my
table
a
week
ago
and
had
a
fit.
His
hand
shot
out
and
grabbed
the
stainless-steel
jug,
and
his
eyes
were
bulging
and
his
tongue
was
hanging
out.
It
was
awful.
Then
he
was
on
the
floor
jerking
away,
and
the
housemaster
had
to
use
a
spoon
to
get
his
tongue
out
or
he’
d
have
choked
to
death.
His
face
went
all
blue,
it
was
a
terrible
sight.
For
a
moment,
when
I
looked
at
him
in
that
state,
I
got
the
thought
that
he
wasn’t
one
of
us
then.
Not
a
human
even.
Just
this
…
this
thing,
lying
on
our
hard,
polished
lino
floor,
messing
it
up
with
spit.
As
well
scaring
the
shit
out
of
us.
And
I
mean
shit.
Cos
that’
s
the
first
thing
all
three
of
us
at
the
table
wanted
to
do,
was
shit.