State Ward (9 page)

George had no plan, and Charlie was astonished.

“We have to have a plan, George. Or we’ll get caught like you always have before.” But George said it didn’t work like that, not for him it didn’t; the Maori warrior with the tattooed face would just appear in his dreams, and no matter how hard George resisted, it always won.

“Run, Hori. You got to run away.” But Charlie wasn’t joining him without a plan.

First they need clothes. Outside clothes so they looked like anybody else out there walking the streets.

“Where from?”

“The laundry. Your mate Brownie works in the laundry, get him to get us some. Money, we’ll need money. But where to find that, other than try and steal some from an unattended housemaster’s jacket, but even then they took precautions where that was concerned. Not as if we’re training to be priests, eh, George?” Though George didn’t get Charlie’s humour with that one.

“OK, if money is not much chance then how about a car? Can you drive, George?” Sure he could, he was driving a farm tractor at age nine. Good, because Charlie couldn’t drive.

“Do you know how to convert a car then?”

“No, can’t convert. Convert is bad, Charlie.”

“Yeah, well so is escaping, George.”

So Charlie came up with a plan — a wild plan that if it didn’t come off would be a disaster.

Destination was known: Ruapotiki, George’s home ground. But he still wouldn’t say exactly why, other than it was to do with something he intended in an effort to end, he hoped, the makutu, Maori curse.

That night, so George reported in the morning showers, the dream had grown so bad he didn’t think he’d last the day without leaping the fence by the rugby field and just going for it. But Charlie implored George to hang on just one more night, to give Charlie time to organise their escape. Charlie figured the first part would be the hardest, but once they were away the possibilities would spread, in keeping with the landscape Charlie had no trouble picturing, in his mind’s eye, his excited mind’s eye.

Morning. No sleep the previous night. Not for Charlie, nor George. One because of excitement, the other to deny dream visitation. Outside trousers and shirt, organised by Brownie Timu, hidden in the bushes near the front main entrance. Oh, please don’t let me get all this timing wrong.

Mr Dekka the duty housemaster in B Wing. Mr Wakefield (good old Mr Wakefield) Charlie feeling guilty about, knowing what he intended was going to destroy what relationship they had built up. But no matter. Too late to have doubts. Think of the cell, what the school did to you, what Mr Davis did in betraying your trust in him. Think of George. Yes, think of your best pal and only him.

“You ready, Brian?” Charlie making sure of his necessary decoy.

“If it’s Mr Dekka, Charlie, I’m always ready.”

“Tommy, you know what you have to do?”

“Course I know,
Charles.
Though I been thinking, if you don’t let me come then maybe I won’t do it.”

“You have to!”

“I don’t
have
to.” Tommy, cheeky to the end.

“Good morning, everyone,” Mr Dekka in his usual first-morning striding as he greeted the boys as though he was the loved not the hated one. Dropping in his comments about God — don’t forget God loves you as only He can when the chips are down. As if that was gonna have boys stop hating the Dutch housemaster, let alone believe his words.

Breakfast a for ever. Saturday sports activities preparations another for ever. Lining up out on the concrete parade area.

“Ten-shun!”

Dekka doing his general act of walking with hands clasped behind back, shoulders back, chin high, eyes lidded, and Charlie fixing on the image to give him courage: I’m gonna get you.

“Disperse and get ready for hockey.”

“Aw, not hockey, sir. Why do we always play that stink game when you’re on duty? None of the housemasters makes us play that stupid game. It’s for sissies.”

“Hockey is a fine game. Holland is the world champion.” And the kids laughing between themselves, repeating in Dekka’s accent:

“Holland is the vorl shampion. Vowee!”

Only two boys not joining the laughter, and maybe Tommy was looking a bit nervous, too. Brian Jones, his usual dead-straight face. Though Charlie saw a light in Brian’s eyes not seen before. He ruffled Brian’s hair, as a thank you, and with a feeling he mightn’t see Brian again. Not that they were good friends; it was just something they had in common. Maybe it was soul.

Charlie was by the building when Tommy came running and burst into the office where Mr Dekka and Mr Wakefield had just gone in to organise the morning’s sport. He heard Dekka begin to protest at Tommy, but Tommy’s shrill, high voice beating him to the gun:

“BRIAN’S HAVING A FIT! Brian’s choking on his tongue!”

Then the two housemasters emerged at the double, followed by Tommy, who paused to give Charlie a culpable look, as if there was still a chance of him being included in the escapade. But Charlie shook his head, sorry. Patted Tommy’s shoulder, shot into the office looking for Mr Dekka’s jacket.

Felt so different being in here as the thief. Terrifying and yet so exciting at the same time. Charlie wanted to yell out — scream. He rifled through the pockets. Could hear the clamour outside as Brian acted out having an epileptic fit, with Tommy adding his acting part to the noise. The keys? Where’s the bloody keys!

They weren’t there. Now what? Sweat broke from him. Legs weak. Heart hammering. He spied another jacket, realised he had the wrong one in the first place, dived for it. Nothing. Panic. The other pocket. Still nothing. Panic right at the door. He glanced over his shoulder, went
to turn back to search the outer pockets when his eye caught someone step into view into the doorway. Caught.

I’m damn well caught. His heart sank to his feet, he couldn’t look. But he did. Expecting a housemaster, and dreading that it might be Dekka, of all of them. Tommy?

“Tommy! What the —”

“They’re coming back any minute, Charlie. You better hop it.”

Oh, God! Plan was out the window. One more pocket. Charlie plunged a hand into a pocket and hit the spot. Keys. Keys!

Out he came, gave Tommy a thank-you pat. Went off in a sprint down the passage. Nearly died when he looked up to see a stern familiar face stopped at the far end staring at him. Done for.

“Slow that run down to a walk, Wilson!” It was Mr Davis, coming in on his day off as was customary and which Charlie had forgotten.

“Sorry, sir. I forgot.” Charlie having to muster all his inner strength to slow to a studied walk. But Mr Davis just standing staring at him. Did he know? Maybe he’d found the hidden stash of clothes as he came in. Charlie walked. The keys in his pocket jangled like an alarm bell. He had eyes to the floor, with occasional liftings to Mr Davis. And still the boss did not move.

Charlie reached Mr Davis’s large, polished, leather feet. Black today. He looked up.

“Morn —” the rest caught in his throat. He saw Mr Davis’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

Heard him, “Wilson …?”

Forced himself to look the boss right in the eye. But
couldn’t hold it. Not this time. The game was up. He knew.

“And what would you be up to, Charles Wilson?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Really?”

“What would I be up to, sir? It’s a Saturday.” Then the idea came to him. “Well, I was hoping to get out of hockey, sir.” Took his hopeful eyes up to the giant manager.

“You see, Wilson? You can’t fool an old sea-dog like me.”

And Charlie near wetting himself with the agony of this confrontation ending. He could see, just out of the corner of his eye, another suspiciously lingering figure — George. Mr Davis only had to turn and it was up, surely.

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s wrong with hockey then?”

“Hate it, sir.”

“Hate? What have I told you about hating things, Wilson? You don’t hate, you dislike.”

“I dislike hockey, sir.”

“Hockey, or the man who calls it?” Mr Davis with an arched knowing eyebrow.

“And that too, sir, to be honest. Oh, but no —”

“Think I’m blind, Charlie?”

Charlie? He called me Charlie. He hasn’t called me that since I blew the school thing.

“No, sir. Can’t fool you, sir.”

“Just as well, Wilson. Nothing more irritating than boys who think they’re pulling the wool over my eyes. All right, back the other way and out to the hockey paddock.”

“Sir, I wasn’t going to hide. Billy James borrowed my boots and hasn’t given them back. I was just —”

“Then get to it — and make it snappy, lad!”

“Yessir.”

Down the passage to A Wing Charlie went, not daring to look over his shoulder, dreading that Billy James might come and not know what Mr Davis was talking about if he asked about the borrowed footie boots. Charlie pretended to trip, stumbled forward, turned to see where Mr Davis was. Gone. Just a big sweet mirror of grey lino floor throwing off dark reflections of varnished wooden doors. Charlie raced back the way he’d come. Forced himself to slow up to a walk. Just in time, as Mr Davis stuck his head around the corner.

“Boots? Where are the boots, then?”

“Ah, Billy’s not in his room, sir. He must be outside. Oh, and I forgot to say, Brian Jones is having a bad fit.” Last gambit.

Charlie holding back his smile as he watched Mr Davis stride off in the direction of the office. Charlie stepped out the front door. George was waiting, sweat pouring down his dark face. Charlie threw him the keys.

“I got clothes ready under Dekka car,” George informed him as he reached underneath the car to retrieve their stash of clothes. Charlie hurtled around to the passenger side, waited an eternity for George to unlock, then bundle the clothes in, before he reached over and unlocked Charlie’s side.

They sat there as George fiddled with the key, and Charlie saw George couldn’t even find where to put it!

“George, you sure you can drive?” George just
nodded, looking reasonably calm about things, which Charlie realised was from experience. Though that hardly made Charlie’s wait easier.

He tried and tried to start the car, but to no avail. Now what? Charlie about ready to get out of the car and just make a run for it. Anything was better than being discovered possibly by Mr Dekka himself in his car.

In his frustration Charlie cried out, “Well haven’t you got no good Maori ghost to pray to!” And two attempts later the engine kicked into life.

So now they were reversing. Then George hit the brakes too hard and they lurched forward in their seats. But the engine still revved with life, so then did hope. Charlie looked frantically for any sign of life from the Home building. But nothing. Good. They jerked forward.

Charlie turned to George. “You can’t drive can you?”

“I drive. But tractor. Used to tractor. Now shuddup.”

Down the driveway they went, jerking, George all frantic hands, feet grabbing at the gear stick, hitting the pedals. And the flankings of flower garden outside reds and yellows and blues in the sun.

Charlie pressed up against his seat urging through his teeth, “Come on, George. Come ONNN! Get us out of here!”

Charlie’s heart pounded. Sweat soaked his clothes. The driveway looked a mile long as it jerked and shook before his eyes. He wanted to piss his pants. He wanted this moment to reverse back like a film being rewound. He didn’t want to be part of this escapade, wondered why on earth he’d agreed in the first place.

Then the entrance gates wide open passed by and George swung right and the road, Mountain View Road, was spread out gloriously before them. Houses. Freedom? Oh, please, let it really be freedom, Charlie in so much early hope.

The houses he’d known only two weeks from walking along, to catch the bus to school down the end of Mountain View Road, walking the same route back. Two weeks and then it was over. And already a boy’d forgotten what the houses looked like, what ‘free’ air looked like, what free will felt like.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Yeah. Good. Car better now. Don’t worry.”

George sped up, the jerking was gone, Charlie glanced out the corner of his eye at George making the gear changes. He looked at the speedo: 35 MPH and rising. Excitement started to spread, to take over the fear, the sick feeling, the stomach aching. Then they were at the end of the street, and there was the bus-stop the Home boys used. And at this intersection the traffic flow a surprise of busyness, a sort of shock to Charlie that the world still carried on beyond Riverton Boys’ Home and didn’t take a scrap of notice. Not even at two of its inmates escaping in a stolen staff car.

“George, no one even notices,” Charlie expressed his thoughts.

George nodded in his serious manner.

“I think that every time I go. Nobody notice. No one care. Only cops — oh,” looking at Charlie, “And Mr Dekka this time, eh?”

And the laughter burst from Charlie like a dam was
broken. George laughed too, though in his quieter way. Charlie got a thought then.

“Hey, George, ya know what?”

He waited for George to cross into the stream of traffic.

“I know why I get into trouble sometimes. Because it’s, like, it’s sorta like feeling wanted, you know?”

“Nope. Dunno that.”

“As if you’re making up for all the bad things, the rotten things’t went wrong in your life. Yeah,” Charlie grinning all over. “Trouble makes me feel good — good.”

And the sign said
Two
Lakes
sixty-two
miles.