Disharmony

Luke laughed. ‘You’re a nutter,’ he said.

‘Yeah, well, Abrafo’s still going to try to kill you.’

‘You are completely mental. Do you do drugs? Abrafo escaped. Remember?’

‘He’ll be around here. Waiting for a chance,’ said Zac. ‘And that reminds me. We should get back.’

‘Well, that’s the first thing we agree on, Zac. Let’s get me, these mushrooms, and your crazy arse back out there to cop our punishment.’

Trudging back through the woods, Luke figured he’d see where Zac’s fantasy story took him next.

‘What makes you think that Abrafo would hang around to hunt me after he’d already escaped?’ he said.

‘Because I would,’ said Zac.

***

Pausing at the edge of the trees, Luke was sure he’d see Dorm Four in army lines at the head of the oval, with at least four screws in the fields searching for them. But when he stepped out of the woods, what he saw was Kitkat, Jonas and Barry shuffling along on the track ahead of him, deep in conversation. Travis, Toad, Clarkson, Hooley and the others were also still running laps. Mr Singh stood tiredly at the starting point.

‘What do we do now?’ he whispered to Zac, next to him.

‘Just run in and join them,’ said Zac. ‘Come on.’

Luke stared after Nguyen running back to the oval. He waited for the whistle from Singh, but Zac rejoined the rest of the dorm without incident and quickly overtook everyone on the straight. Luke knew he’d never be as lucky, but he set off fast across the thirty-metre stretch between the woods and the running track. He fell into step next to Hong Lo.

‘Hey, Black,’ said Hong. ‘Did someone really escape last night?’

Luke blinked. Hong seemed not to have noticed that he’d just bolted out of the bushes.

‘Um, yeah,’ he said.

‘Cool,’ said Hong.

‘Yeah,’ said Luke, thinking, I can’t believe we got away with it.

‘Who was he?’ said Hong. ‘You saw him, didn’t you? Everyone’s saying he assaulted Ms McNichol and Matron and that you fainted! Is it true?’

‘No.’

‘Well, what does he look like?’ said Hong Lo.

‘Oh, just your average bloke, really,’ said Luke. ‘Nothing much to look at.’

‘You reckon they’ll catch him, then?’

Luke concentrated on his sodden sneakers for a moment.

‘Nah,’ he said finally. ‘I reckon he’s long gone, Lo.’

A camp on the outskirts of Pantelimon, Bucharest, Romania

June 29, 3.38 a.m.

Oody kept her awake most of the night with his snoring and snuffling, but regardless, Samantha refused to let go of Tamas’s dog. She felt safer with him by her side. Although he slept deeply, Oody was always the first dog in the camp awake and barking if any stranger approached. But she doubted she’d have slept much at all, even if Oody had been settled. Her mind was an mpeg player programmed to random selection, and the images shuffled ceaselessly: from swords to nunchucks, glue-sniffing street kids to gunfire, tattoos to hissing ninja women.

And then to the wrath of Milosh and Esmeralda when she and Mirela had finally made it back to camp.

Breaking through the images were the thoughts about what she’d done to Scarface – somehow sending her energy directly into his mind, altering it. She’d always been aware that she could focus upon positive thoughts and concentrate her goodwill, and it seemed to calm people, but she’d assumed that it was the power of Goddess Gaia that gave them peace. But yesterday, she had felt her heart actually touch Scarface, inside him. And he felt different afterwards.

Lying on top of her soft, feathered eiderdown, Oody curled into her side, uncomfortably hot, she wondered what might have happened had she pushed harder.

Suddenly, it felt as though there were no sky. Nothing above her; the universe limitless, open to her. She wondered whether she could actually have made her captor use his sword to protect her. She dismissed the thought as soon as she had it. He’d felt sorry for her briefly, that was all.

And there definitely was a sky above her. An endless Romanian summer-night sky, an inverse inky ocean. She used the stars as a distraction, concentrating on mapping the constellations. But the memories of yesterday were too real. Two images in particular – Birthday being bashed, and Scarface tracing sword-circles above Mirela, unconscious on the road – made her shoot her thoughts up into the heavens. Somehow, imagining herself up there on a star, looking down at the camp, at herself cradling Oody, helped her to cope with the thoughts of what had happened yesterday.

But what had happened yesterday? She still couldn’t get it straight.

Down in the sewer, Birthday Jones had forced them to run through a tunnel thick with an almost chewable stench of rotten eggs. They’d splashed through filthy puddles and climbed over mounds of steaming, fetid refuse. And when she could run no further, when she was about to drop down into one of the green-sheened stagnant pools, the tunnel opened out into a room of sorts, a cavernous junction where other tunnels met. And there the street kids waited.

There was a flurry of whistles and catcalls, and then they’d cheered.

Samantha had bent forward, hands on knees, sucking air. Mirela had dropped to the wet ground beside her, cradling her head in her hands.

‘Are you okay?’ Samantha had managed, a hand on her best friend’s shoulder.

She got nothing.

‘Mirela, are you all right?’

‘Chill, Sam,’ said Mirela, breathing hard, her voice muffled by her hands. ‘I’m okay. But why are you so worried about me when you nearly became the wife of the fattest king in the world?’ Mirela raised her face and tried to smile. Stripes of blood were congealing on a livid graze on her cheek.

Fonso and several of the kids spread some rags and newspapers out on a concrete ledge. Samantha dropped gratefully into the nest, and looked up at Birthday. His eye was swollen shut. ‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘Look at your face.’

‘You should see yours,’ he said, with dimples.

She prodded at her swollen mouth. She felt a few tears escape her lashes. Only feeling everyone’s eyes on her stopped her from giving in to the sobs that pushed relentlessly at the back of her throat.

‘I just don’t know why the king would send those freaks after us,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘What the hell is going on? And who was doing the shooting up there?’

‘Well, firstly,’ said Birthday, lifting the bottom of his T-shirt to carefully wipe her face, ‘I don’t think it was the king who sent them.’

‘You don’t?’ she said.

‘Nope. Not his style. He would have sent his goons to bring you in. But I’ve never seen anyone like them around here before. How would he know people like that? And the way my Aunt Crina told it, he definitely wouldn’t have wanted you hurt. I think he likes you a little too much, Sam. Anyway, you should have seen who the shooter was! Okay, so there are these old dudes up there who play cards at lunchtime at the same table, every day, since I’ve been working – and I’ve been working those streets since I was five.’

‘Guaril and Gudada,’ yelled Fonso, beaming, slapping hands with the two kids closest to him.

‘Yep, that’s them all right. Anyway, Gudada does not like anyone wrecking his lunch hour,’ he said.

‘No, Gudada does not,’ said Fonso, letting loose with some breakdancing, his moves in time with his speech, unable to contain his happiness with this part of the story.