Wrath. Anne Davies

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      CHAPTER TWO

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

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

      “Come on, look lively!”

      I jump off the bed and move towards the door.

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

      One of them is staring at me, his face hard. His orange hair clashes oddly with his red face, and he glowers at me as though he hates me. Then I realise that he is at the head of the row and they are all waiting for me to get in line and start walking. I turn to the right and step in behind the guard. He strides off towards the doors, which open with a loud whirring noise as we get closer.

      Beyond the doors is a large room so brightly lit that I wince, with rows of tables and benches. On the back wall is a line of older boys standing behind steaming pots of food, large ladles ready in their hands. The boys in the long line I had seen on the other side of the corridor are grabbing trays, and as they file past each upraised ladle, food is tipped onto their plates. As the line moves along, there is no talk, just the sound of the plates rattling and shoes scuffing across the grey linoleum floor.

      I follow the guard to the end of the first line, and then he steps back, motioning me forward with an impatient wave. I take a tray from the pile and step back to the line to wait my turn for the food. He nudges me and mutters, “Table Five.”

      I turn and see numbers in metal holders in the middle of each table, and then it is my turn at the first counter.

      “Soup?”

      I nod, and a quick ladlefull is dropped in a bowl and pushed towards me. I put it on my tray and then move along. The food looks watery, but there is plenty of it—boiled potatoes, beans, carrots, sausages—and I nod for all of it. At the end of the counter are tubs of yoghurt and small dishes of jelly and custard. I load up, shoving the plates close together to make room, and then, eyes straight ahead, I walk to Table Five.

      Boys sit on the benches lining the tables all over the room, and low chatter and the odd laugh merges into a low, swelling undercurrent of noise. I put my tray on the table, step over the bench and sit down, trying not to hunch over too much, and then I start eating the soup slowly even though I want to slurp it down fast, grab the tray and run back to my room.

      “What ya’ in for, Skinny?”

      I force myself to count to five and then turn and look straight at the rat-faced boy next to me.

      “Flattening arseholes with big mouths,” I say quietly and then keep eating my soup. I will my hand to keep steady, but my heart is jumping.

      A laugh bursts out of the dark boy opposite me. “Good answer, kid,” he says.

      I look up, keeping my face blank. He’s about 17, with a snub nose and warm, deep-set eyes, his round face split with the white grin of his teeth. The only thing really memorable about him is his build. I could only see him waist up, but man, is he a tank! The T-shirt he wears isn’t baggy like mine or that of any of the others at the table, for that matter, but stretches taut across his swelling chest, the bands of the arms and neck straining around the bulge of his muscles.

      “What’s your name?” he asks.

      “Luca.”

      He nods, not making any comment, and then smiles. “Luca, the smart-arse next to you is Tim, next to him is Johnno, then Aaron—he’s the brains around here—and there’s me, Archie. I’m the brawn.”

      I look in turn at each face. Tim squints back at me with that shy, eager look of a weak kid whose only hope is to attach himself to someone stronger by ingratiating himself. That’s what he was trying to do with his comment to me—ingratiate himself to Archie, who looked to be the boss man of this little group, by making him laugh. Johnno sits next to him. He gives me an unsmiling, appraising stare, nods almost imperceptibly, and then turns back to his food. Aaron sits opposite him, next to Archie. He looks at me coolly through clear blue eyes. He has the face of an angel—short blond hair, firm mouth, strong jaw and nose—but it’s those eyes, deep and searching, that hold my gaze.

      He smiles, says, “Hi, Luca,” and holds out his hand across the table. I take it without hesitation and nod. What the hell could he have done? Whatever it was certainly didn’t show on his face. I knew though, instinctively, that asking that question would be a mistake, just as it had been when Tim asked it. Nobody’s business.

      Archie is leaning back in his chair, a smile on his face, and he looks at me expectantly. “Anything you want to know about the place?”

      I hesitate and glance around the room, which is now noisy as the boys use their mouths as much for talking as they had been for eating. “I guess you’re the main man around here,” I say.

      He raises an eyebrow. “You applying for the job?”

      I shake my head. “Nuh. Just figured you were by the way you’re built.”

      “Size doesn’t make a guy the boss,” says Aaron, shrugging. “No real bosses amongst the guys here. Just people who are okay and people who are dangerous bastards.”

      “Well, who’s the most dangerous here, then?” I ask.

      “Don’t turn around real obvious, but three tables across, there’s a big guy with tats on his face they call ‘King’—not ’cause he’s a boss but because his real name is Neil Brown.”

      I look blankly around the table, and they laugh.

      “Never heard of a King Brown?”

      “What, the snake?” I answer, puzzled.

      “Yeah, the snake,” says Aaron quietly, glancing across at the other table. The others look at him, forks suspended above their plates. “Did you know it’s got more venom than any other snake?”

      I shrug. “I know that if you get bitten by one, you’re pretty much dead.”

      “Well, unless you happen to get bitten by one right outside the hospital, you’re pretty much right. The thing with them, though, is they just won’t get you once; they’ll keep striking you over and over, more venom pumping in each time.” Aaron pauses, spears a piece of sausage with his fork and then chews on it slowly. “That’s why we call him ‘King Brown’. You cross that mongrel, and he won’t let up. He’ll make it his sole mission in life to make your life hell. His brain isn’t big, but man, once it latches onto something, he doesn’t let go.”

      The table is silent apart from the sounds of the boys’ eating. I am interested, despite myself. I had come in here determined to sit down, eat up and shut up, but I want to know a bit more. I open my mouth СКАЧАТЬ