Leah Giarratano - Disharmony

Like the time Zecko had arranged for him to clean the second-floor windows at the rec centre. And then pushed the scaffolding out from under him. Luke had managed to grab hold of a ledge at the last minute, yelling and shouting until help arrived; Zecko was well gone by then.

And then there was that weekend when Zecko arranged a camping trip for twenty under-privileged kids. Zecko had been in a great mood on the bus all the way to the river campsite. He’d been smiling fit to burst when he taught them all to make damper. And when he got a rifle out of the back of the bus and told them he was going to teach them all to shoot, he’d been positively beaming. Luke dodged two stray bullets that weekend and slept under the bus with one eye open.

He knew there was no point trying to tell anyone about Zecko – who was going to believe him? But he’d spent a lot of nights after that camping trip coming up with a plan to get him out of the way.

Then Zecko tried again. This time, on the way to a new foster placement, he’d gone all out. In a backstreet in Stanmore, Zecko gunned his departmental Holden up to seventy and aimed the passenger side straight for the corner of a factory. Luke had seen the crazy in Zecko’s eyes just in time and hurled himself across the seat, pushing with all his might at the steering wheel. The Holden got a new front end after it hit a row of wheelie bins. Zecko got a bravery award for wrestling control of the car from a suicidal juvenile delinquent. Two civilians on the street got twenty grand from the media for their mobile phone footage of the crash. And Luke got eight months in Dwight. His past computer-fraud charges didn’t help in court.

Now, in the Dwight dining hall, Luke cut his eyes to the Section One tables, suddenly salivating at the smell wafting over from there. Toad waved back at him, gesturing to his plate as if it were a prize. Oh my God. They had meat pies. Sausage rolls. Sauce. And in the centre of each table – two-litre bottles of Coke. Oh man. Luke waved back to Toad and blew him a kiss for good measure.

‘Get even fatter, Toad,’ he said under his breath. ‘It’s good for your heart.’

‘Did you say something?’ said Zac, opposite him. ‘Oh no. Tuna.’

‘Shh,’ said Luke, too late.

‘Nguyen. Are you talking?’

Holt was at their table in three strides. He stood as close as possible to Luke, speaking across the table to Zac. He didn’t shout, but the hall was silent as everyone watched the show.

‘I just said that I can’t eat tuna,’ said Zac. ‘I’m vegan.’

Idiot, thought Luke. Are you that stupid? Don’t tell Holt anything else he can use against you.

‘You’re a vegan, Nguyen?’ said Holt. ‘So you can only eat lettuce, is that right?’

‘No…’ said Zac. ‘Other stuff too.’

‘Do you think that your dorm mates might like to eat some actual food today, and not just grass and leaves?’ said Holt.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Zac.

‘Well, Nguyen, inmates do not speak during meal service. Inmates do not touch their food during meal service,’ said Holt.

‘But the meals have already been served,’ said Zac.

Luke put his head in his hands.

‘And you do not eat lunch at all today,’ said Holt. ‘Stand, Section Six.’

Luke scraped his chair back, making as much noise as possible. Watson made a sound like he was trying not to cry. Watson was chubby and he’d lost maybe half his body weight since arriving in Section Six.

‘Because of your bunkmate, all of you will now take your sandwich, like so,’ said Holt, lifting Clarkson’s sandwich from his plate and dangling it with two fingers. ‘You will then drop it onto the floor at your feet.’ Holt tossed the sandwich onto the floor next to Clarkson’s sneakers. ‘And then you will stamp on it. You will then wait in silence at your table until everyone else has finished their meal. Ready now – lift your sandwiches, Section Six.’

Luke heard Section One doing everything they could to stifle their delight. Holt was not above punishing even his boys if control was not maintained. He watched Zac, Watson, Barry and Hooley take their sandwiches from their plates.

‘Drop them on the floor now, Section Six, and stomp on them,’ said Holt.

Luke knew he should just do as Holt instructed. I mean, it wasn’t as though he wanted to eat the foul thing anyway. But he had that feeling again. He guessed the sensation was as close as he was going to get to the anger that everyone else seemed to feel. He’d pigeonholed it as anger because it always seemed to pop up in these sorts of situations – when he was being told to do something by someone in authority. But while people in books described anger as boiling and seething until they erupted in fury, unable to control themselves, Luke experienced exactly the opposite. He felt just a little more cool, more still, more centred and quiet, and everything zoomed into pinpoint focus.

Clingfilm-wrapped sandwiches burst on the floor around him, the sounds cracking like gunshots. The no-longer-controllable merriment from Section One bounced off the walls and it suddenly felt as though Toad Wheeler was standing even closer to him than Holt, shouting laughter into his ear. Luke put a hand on the table to steady himself.

‘Black, I will not tell you again,’ said Holt, very quietly. He took a step even closer. ‘Pick up your sandwich and tread on it. Now.’

The laughter died and Luke sensed everyone almost breathing in synchrony, watching him. He smiled at Zac.

‘Did you have garlic for lunch, Mr Holt?’ he said, picking the sandwich up from the plate and tossing it high. Forty-eight pairs of eyes watched the wrapped sandwich spin in the air and then land splat at Mr Holt’s feet.

‘It’s just that your breath is rank, man,’ Luke continued, and lifted his foot. He skidded the front of his sneaker into the package, hoping for the best.

He got it.

The plastic skin exploded and projectile-vomited its tuna innards. An arc-like stream of creamy fish splattered its way up the leg of Holt’s military-pressed trousers.

Nobody moved. Even the movement in the kitchen stilled.

‘Whoops,’ said Luke.

Without taking his eyes from Luke’s, Holt reached for a paper napkin from the table. He bent and wiped at the goop. It smeared. He stood up again.

‘You are going to hurt, Black,’ he said, calmly.

‘I know,’ Luke said. ‘But don’t worry about me. It’s just a headache and a few bruises. I’ll be right, Mr Holt, but thanks for your concern.’

Samantha, Shofranka and Mirela draped the battered fold-up tables in cloths of crimson, gold and turquoise. Samantha bent to the grass for the stack of plates she’d carried down from Milosh’s truck. It was cooler under the trees, and despite the knot in her stomach she was very much looking forward to lunch. She understood that the anxiety she felt was just the floating fear from Lala and Esmeralda. She knew that the king wasn’t actually coming. No, they’d all just enjoy a lavish lunch without the men, and with the added bonus of Tamas.

I’d like him for dessert, she thought, watching him striding across the paddock from the campsite carrying a huge platter of food. He wore a dark blue singlet now, which thankfully did not cover those muscular shoulders.

At the last possible moment, before she could look like a dumbstruck idiot, she turned away to scan the horizon.

Milosh and Besnik had done well in choosing this place to spend a few weeks. It was just far enough from Pantelimon to be out of the noise and rush, but close enough to visit whenever they wanted. She remembered they’d stayed here several summers before. Even then, aged ten or eleven, she’d been in love with Tamas, watching him and his big brother Luca and Mirela’s older brother Hanzi at the river swinging from a rope with some local kids.