He breathed out.
Luke walked across the slick concrete floor of the cool-room, at one with its frigid heart.
He traced a fingertip along the metal of the floor-to-ceiling shelves, marvelling again at the jumbo size of all the stores. The margarine in huge buckets; Vegemite jars as big as bread bins; blocks of cheese that took two people to lift them. He made his way right to the dimness of the back where the vegetables were stored and then he heard the door creak. Zac had never seen the coolroom; he probably wanted his turn to check it out, Luke figured. And today was his lucky day. Chef Nick usually sent one of his crabs in here to make sure no one stole too many packets of jam, scoffed too many pieces of cooking chocolate. Luke smiled.
Then stiffened.
He didn’t turn, but he knew. Zac was not in the coolroom, but someone was. And this person wasn’t interested in the cooking chocolate. Casually, he bent forward and prised up the lid of a tin that stood taller than his knees. He heard the person behind him move closer.
‘Checking up on me, Zac?’ he said, still facing the back wall of the huge fridge. ‘At least you can come back here and help me carry this bag.’
The other presence was a hot spot in his cold cave. Maybe eight steps behind him now. Almost lunging distance, especially for someone that tall. Abrafo. Why he’d be here, he had no idea, but Luke knew it was him.
He bent again to the tin at his feet and pulled, crashing it to the ground. At the same time that Luke sprang sideways, ten litres of canola oil glugged from the tin, sloshing a syrupy wave of grease across the floor.
Luke grabbed the frigid metal of the shelving unit and climbed quickly, feeling the whoosh as Abrafo’s hand grabbed for him and just missed. Abrafo’s hiss, and the shooshing sound of his feet as he tried to stay upright, mingled with the hum of the fridge fans. Luke allowed himself a glance across his shoulder. He wished he hadn’t. Angled inwards, pointing towards his wrist, in a position that looked entirely too comfortable for him, Abrafo held a silver blade.
Luke pulled himself frantically along the shelving, towards the door, but Abrafo was quickly regaining his balance. His long arms were outstretched, his feet still slip-sliding, but he had discovered a way to half-skate towards Luke’s wall and Luke knew he had no chance. Abrafo’s pink lips twisted into a grin as he slithered closer. Another slide would do it.
Scrambling, using all his strength to pull himself a little higher up the wall, Luke spotted something. Knowing he had only a second, he hooked his feet into the metal frames of the shelving and reached as far inwards as possible. Stretching, his chest crushed into the sharp shelving, he just managed to hook his fingertip through the string. He pulled as hard as he could. The fat cylinder slid towards him, and he manoeuvred it sideways on the shelf to allow it to roll. From the corner of his eye, he saw it was too late. Abrafo would have a hand to his ankle in five seconds. Four. Luke clawed at the heavy tube, rolling it to the edge of the shelf, where it teetered. He held his breath and ducked. With just enough momentum, the fifteen-kilogram salami free-fell from the shelf and slammed straight into Abrafo’s chest and chin. Luke stared as Abrafo’s feet shot out from under him, and for a full second he was completely airborne. And then he fell. Luke heard the crack, but he didn’t stop to look, scrabbling along the shelving until he reached a clear patch of floor.
He dropped and ran.
‘Some bodyguard you are, bullet boy,’ said Luke, wrapped in his towel, waiting his turn on the bench in the shower block. He huddled as close as he could to the strip heater, but goosebumps stood at full attention up each of his arms. The steam from the showers offered no warmth.
‘Well, at least I warned you he would come,’ said Zac, his eyes on the tiles, skinny shoulders slumped.
‘How’d he get past you then?’ said Luke. ‘It seems as though you’re not the only sneaky one out there, hey?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Zac, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry. I failed you.’
Luke laughed. ‘You really are a bit mental, you know that, Nguyen? You
Zac just stared at him. Sighed hard.
‘Chef Nick is going to be in all sorts of hell right now,’ said Luke. He gave a laugh. ‘I swear to you, I don’t know what was worse, sprinting out of that kitchen straight into Holt, or seeing Abrafo in the fridge with the knife. Did you
Zac chewed a thumbnail.
‘Anyway, Chef Nick’s gonna cop it,’ said Luke. ‘But I’m sure Holt will find some way to make it all our fault.’
‘Well, I don’t think we should hang around for that,’ said Zac.
Luke laughed. ‘Yeah. I’m with you there, bullet boy.’ He paused, wrapped his towel a little tighter and stared hard at Zac. ‘You’re serious?’ he said.
Zac stared back.
Luke forgot about the cold. He’d been planning on leaving this lovely establishment for a while now, but he hadn’t quite put everything into place. While it had been as good as anywhere else when he’d first arrived, Holt and Toad had taken the shine off things in recent weeks. When they’d first turned their attention to him he hadn’t been too bothered. Bullies and boofheads were standard fare where he came from, but he’d watched Toad gradually become so obsessed that he’d become the fat boy’s only prey. Toad looked at him as hungrily as he watched his dinner plate. And then there was Holt. Holt had a hatred for something. A cold, clinical revulsion that Luke recognised, but couldn’t understand. He did know that Holt would always have that hate. And he also knew that right now he represented everything Holt could not abide. Holt was bent on trying to crush him, and Luke didn’t feel like hanging around to oblige.
He had a plan to get out, but it had a few holes. The first of which being that they were watched in here twenty-four-seven. Okay, so this arvo was a one-off thing – Chef Nick’s love for vodka had temporarily overcome his attention to the rules. By age eight, Luke knew that vodka, beer, Valium or whatever – choose your poison – could overcome any rule, law, moral, or common human decency known to man. But addiction among the officers was not predictable. At least, not predictable enough to plan an escape around.
He had an idea about how to get out the gates. But it was getting out of the dorm that was the problem.
He gave Zac an appraising glance. ‘What are you thinking?’ he said.
‘Abrafo will be back,’ Zac said. ‘We need to leave.’
‘Like now? Should we just walk out?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Zac. ‘We can’t afford to wait.’
‘You do realise that we’re locked up, right, Zac?’
‘I know. We have a few things left to do, but I’ve already got things underway.’
Luke twisted uncomfortably in bed. His jeans had bunched up under his pyjama pants and the lock-picking set in his pocket jabbed into his hip. He just wished that something would happen. He couldn’t spend the whole night like this.
‘Do you think you used enough?’ he whispered to Zac.
‘We’ll know pretty soon,’ said Zac. ‘Shhh.’
Of all people to have on dorm duty tonight, they had to have Holt. He sat ramrod-straight at the front of the hall, watching over the forty-eight beds, six per Section, that made up Dorm Four. The trusted inmates made up Section One, up the back of the Dorm. They were first into the showers and first in line to march to the dining hall. Lucky Luke was in Section Six, up nice and close to Mr Holt. No one moved past their bed without Holt’s say-so. If
