Maybe

  I stand up and try to think fast. Maybe there’s a window somewhere that’s not locked.

  All the ones in the dormitory are. But I heard one of the boys say that the men in charge here all have bedrooms at the other end of the building. If I can find a heavy sleeper who likes a bit of fresh air through his open window . . .

  As I turn towards the other end of the building, I thank Yuli for also teaching me how to go into a room silently.

  A large figure blocks my way.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ hisses an indignant voice, and two big hands clamp around my neck.

  In the gloom I can’t see who it is.

  Not Mr Scully. This person is too tall.

  Then more moonlight comes in through the skylight over the door.

  It’s a boy. I noticed him today in the potato field because of his size. He doesn’t look much older than me, just taller, wider and thicker.

  Big head, big arms and big hands.

  ‘Let go,’ I wheeze. ‘Or I’ll hurt you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ hisses the boy. ‘How are you going to do that?’

  I decide to tell him rather than show him.

  ‘I had a partisan mother once,’ I say. ‘She could kill with her bare hands. There’s a place on your throat, I can see it now. If I jab it hard, I’ll send a blood clot so deep into your brain you won’t know what day it is. Somebody else will have to carve the date on your gravestone.’

  Gabriek taught me how when you’re threatening somebody, doing it with a bit of humour makes it even scarier.

  The boy looks uncertain. His big hands loosen around my throat, then go tight again.

  ‘That’s bull,’ he says.

  ‘Listen to my accent,’ I say. ‘Where would you say I’m from? An Australian church choir or a forest hideout full of ruthless partisans and killers in Nazi-occupied Poland?’

  The boy’s hands stay where they are.

  ‘You don’t scare me,’ he says, his voice wobbling a bit. ‘There are rules here and you’ve broken one.’

  I don’t know why this boy is so worried about rules, and suddenly I don’t care. His hands are too tight around my throat. I lose my temper.

  ‘Listen to me,’ I hiss. ‘I’ve travelled thousands of miles to get away from war. But if I have to, I’ll fight one here. Back off in the next five seconds or I’ll kill you.’

  I start counting.

  The boy lets go of my neck and takes a step back.

  We stare at each other, both trembling. The boy because he thinks I meant it, and me because up till the count of four I did.

  Suddenly, the boy sags.

  My throat still hurts, but there’s something about his big round droopy shoulders that makes me feel sorry for him. If he’s in this place, chances are his parents are dead.

  Before I can let him know we’ve got something in common, he sticks his face close to mine again.

  ‘Just don’t forget the rule,’ he says, trying to sound tough again. ‘The rule is I’m the only one who does the thing with the paper and the key. So if you want to sneak down to the kitchen and steal food, you get permission from me and then you share the food with me.’

  ‘I don’t want to steal food,’ I say. ‘So get lost.’

  I turn away from him.

  Too quickly. My envelope of precious things slips out of my shirt and thuds to the floor.

  The baby book slides towards the boy’s feet.

  He picks it up and looks at it.

  ‘I get the picture,’ he says. ‘It’s not food you steal, it’s dirty books.’

  I grab the book back from him.

  The boy starts to say something else, but before he can, another voice rings out, an angry one.

  ‘Gosling, what are you doing?’

  I look round.

  One of the men from Mr Scully’s table in the dining room is coming towards us.

  I grab my things and put them inside my shirt.

  ‘I haven’t seen today’s roster,’ growls the man, ‘but I’m guessing, Gosling, that as you’re up so early, you must be today’s pig boy. Did Mr Olaf tell you to wait here? Or are you just lounging around wasting time?’

  Before the boy can answer, the man turns to me.

  ‘And you, new boy, if this lump of lard’s showing you the ropes, you’re not gunna learn how to be a pig boy standing here, are you? Shift your lazy carcasses, both of you.’

  I can see the alarm on Gosling’s face. I can see he wants to explain something to the man, probably about pigs. But I can see he doesn’t dare.

  The man unlocks the door and we follow him outside.

  I understand why we’re called pig boys now.

  There’s a pig.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ whimpers Gosling.

  He’s been carrying on like this ever since the man led us into this small hut, brought a pig in, and then left, locking the door.

  In the dawn light I can see a knife hanging on the inside of the door. And a blood-stained apron. And hanging from the rafters are lots of hooks, big metal ones.

  Empty hooks.

  The floor, which is concrete, has grooves in I leading to a metal grille, so liquid can drain away.

  I know what this place is.

  I saw one like it when we did a partisan raid on the farm of a Nazi-sympathiser.

  It’s a slaughterhouse.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ Gosling is whimpering. ‘I can’t kill an innocent animal.’

  I look at him, wondering how he’s avoided doing it up till now. There’s a roster, so all the boys must take turns. And with this many hungry boys, a lot of pigs must get killed.

  ‘Haven’t they made you do this before?’ I say.

  Gosling shakes his head.

  ‘We’ve got a special deal,’ he says. ‘Mr Olaf and me. I go to his room some nights and he makes sure I’m never on the roster.’

  I stare at Gosling, sympathetic.

  But also horrified.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ mutters Gosling. ‘I take him food and I’m teaching him chess.’

  I sigh.

  So far I don’t like Gosling much, but one thing you learn in wartime, you don’t blame a person for trying to survive.

  Plus I know how he feels about killing innocent animals. I used to feel the same. But it all changes the first time you’re so hungry your guts feel like they’re eating themselves. Then, if somebody gives you a lump of pork fat, just one bite makes you understand why sometimes bad things have to be done for good reasons.

  I put the apron on and take the knife off the door. Gosling whimpers again and turns his back to the pig and closes his eyes and puts his fingers in his ears.

  I test the knife on a piece of straw.

  It’s very sharp, which is good.

  I crouch next to the pig and whisper to it. About how I’m sorry our first meeting has to be like this. How I’ve been trained medically, so I know about cardiovascular systems. How I can promise it won’t feel any pain.

  Gently I put my hand over the pig’s eyes.

  I remember what Yuli told me about the Nazis she used to creep up on when they were doing bad things.

  She said her job was to kill them, and if she was quick and quiet and her knife was sharp and she knew exactly where in their throats it should go, there was no need to make them suffer.

  I take a deep breath, grip the knife hard, put my arm round the pig, and try my best to do what Yuli did.

  Afterwards, when the meat is hanging up and the guts are in the buckets and I’m rinsing my hands and the knife, Gosling comes over.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says.

  I don’t reply.

  I’m trying hard to think about all the hungry people who’ll be grateful to the pig for giving up its life. The thought isn’t making me feel any better, not as much as I hoped it would.

  It’s not the blood, I’m used to that. OK, there was more here than in a clean and heat, but blood is blood.

  It’s somethin
g else.

  An experience I’ve never had before.

  Taking a life instead of trying to save one.

  Gosling shuffles his feet for a while and then clears his throat.

  ‘Earlier,’ he says, ‘when you were sneaking out of the dorm, you were trying to escape, weren’t you?’

  I still don’t reply.

  I’ve just done him a big favour. The least he can do is see that I don’t really feel like chatting.

  ‘You can’t escape from here,’ says Gosling. ‘Not from inside the fence. Scully used to run a military prison camp. The whole fence has got electrical alarms.’

  I watch the last of the blood running down the drain and I think about how Anya is going to feel when they take her baby away from her.

  I won’t let that happen.

  Somehow I won’t.

  ‘Nobody’s ever escaped from inside the fence,’ says Gosling.

  When will he be quiet?

  For a kid who’s so concerned about innocent creatures losing their lives, he’s taking a very big risk, making me feel this annoyed while I’ve got a sharp knife in my hand.

  Not really.

  I put the knife down.

  ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about it,’ says Gosling. ‘And I reckon there is a way to escape. Not over the fence. Another way.’

  He’s got my attention now.

  I look at him.

  His eyes are bright and it’s hard to believe that five minutes ago he was a blubbering mess.

  ‘What way?’ I say.

  ‘Cricket,’ he says.

  this is why the plumbing here is so bad and the beds are so uncomfortable and the food is so weevily and the educational activities are almost totally non-existent.

  It’s because Mr Scully spends most of the boys'-home money on cricket.

  That would explain why these cricket nets next to the pig shed are so big and well-maintained and completely covered in very good netting.

  ‘Bowl again,’ yells Gosling.

  He hunches over, tapping the dirt in front of the wicket with his bat.

  I run up and bowl.

  Gosling swings.

  I know it’s good netting because when Gosling hits the ball, he does it so hard you’d think the ball would rip through the net.

  But it doesn’t, and only very expensive tank-trap-quality netting is that strong.

  This time, Gosling swings and misses.

  The ball smashes into his stumps.

  ‘Amazing,’ yells Gosling.

  He hurries towards me along the bowling strip, panting and beaming.

  ‘Who’d have guessed,’ he says. ‘A kid from Poland, a demon bowler.’

  He says that a lot, even though I’ve explained that if he’d seen the partisans training me to throw grenades, he wouldn’t be surprised at all.

  It’s basically the same arm movement. Same balance. Same position of the feet. All I’ve done is speed it up and add a bit of spin.

  ‘I reckon you’re nearly ready,’ says Gosling. ‘Bit more batting practice and we’ll show Scully what you can do. When he sees you bowl, I reckon you’ll be in the team for the next match.’

  We look at each other.

  We know what that means.

  I glance around to see if anyone else can hear us.

  The other boys are working in the fields and the men are supervising them. Me and Gosling are on special privileges. When Gosling told Mr Scully he was training a new star for the cricket team, Mr Scully said we could have an hour in the nets every afternoon.

  ‘Have you decided if you’re coming with me?’ I say to Gosling.

  He looks at his bat. Rubs at a red mark.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I’ll be playing in the match.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I say.

  Gosling steps closer to me. Puts the bat in my hands and makes it look like he’s helping me with my batting posture.

  ‘When my mum brought me here years ago,’ he says quietly, ‘she didn’t want to. But she had to because she was very sick. She made me promise on the Bible not to run away. Then she didn’t get better and I never saw her again. But I’ve kept the promise I made to her.’

  I stare at him. That’s crazy.

  But I don’t say anything.

  You don’t when somebody’s mother is dead.

  I could do it now.

  Jump off this cricket bus as it slows down at the next dusty corner. Sprint across that field of corn. Keep sprinting till I get to the girls’ home.

  No, too risky.

  I would have jumped when I was younger. And more hopeful. And convinced that things mostly turn out good.

  But one of the bad things about being fourteen is you know how the world works. You’ve learned how easily things can go wrong.

  The only way off this bus while we’re moving is through this window. It’d be a tight squeeze, so I couldn’t be certain about landing on my feet. And it’s very hard to make a quick clean getaway after you’ve landed on your head.

  ‘Nearly there,’ says Gosling.

  I know what he’s saying.

  Better to stick to the original plan. Make my escape from the cricket pitch.

  Rescue Anya that way.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say to him.

  I’m very grateful to Gosling. He’s very generous, teaching me about cricket. Helping me get into the team. Sharing his escape plan even though he won’t benefit from it.

  So I don’t mind sitting next to him.

  Despite the smell.

  The problem is that the boys’ home doesn’t have much hot water. The rest of us manage to wash in cold water when we have to, but Gosling can’t do that. He says his mum got sick from washing in cold water.

  ‘Look out,’ he suddenly whispers. ‘Scully.’

  I’m glad I’m not halfway out the bus window. Mr Scully is coming towards us from his seat at the front. He’s looking right at me.

  ‘So, Salinger,’ he says. ‘Big day for you.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I say. ‘It is.’

  I don’t tell him why in particular.

  ‘Your first match for us,’ says Mr Scully. ‘You must be excited. And what a match. Thirteen times we’ve played the Taranga town team and thirteen times we’ve lost. But I have a feeling that’s all going to change today. We’re counting on you, Salinger.’

  Mr Scully shakes my hand.

  Behind me, a couple of boys gasp.

  Mr Scully is moving his mouth in a strange way. I think he’s smiling.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ I say.

  Mr Scully heads back to his seat.

  Gosling gives me a stern look.

  ‘Just don’t forget,’ he whispers. ‘Make sure you take some wickets today before you nick off.’

  Cricket has made me good at maths.

  I’ve taken five wickets today for a total of sixty-three runs. That’s an average of twelve-point-six runs a wicket.

  Mr Scully is looking very happy about that.

  Gosling is good at maths too. Which is why he encouraged me to develop my long-distance ball-throwing skills. So I got chosen to field out here on the boundary.

  This way, as soon as the ball is clobbered over to the other side of the pitch and everyone’s attention is over there, I can dash into the trees. With, Gosling calculated, a fifty percent bigger start on all the adults in the pavilion than if I was fielding in the slips.

  I shouldn’t have to wait too long.

  The Taranga batsmen are licking their lips. The boy bowling for us at the moment isn’t very good. You can tell he’s never had a grenade in his hand.

  Shame. If I wasn’t leaving, I could help him with his arm movement.

  No, it’s not a shame.

  Time is running out for Anya.

  By my calculations she’s got about two weeks left till the baby comes. I need to get a move on.

  The loud whack of leather on wood jolts me out of my baby maths.

  Yes. That’s the sort of b
ig hit that’ll get people’s attention over to the opposite boundary.

  Except I can’t see the ball.

  It must be high in the air.

  Poop. It’s in the air all right. Heading in the wrong direction. Coming towards me.

  ‘Catch!’ everyone in our team starts screaming.

  I run backwards to get myself under it. I think about changing the plan. Dropping the catch and making sure the ball bounces over the boundary and into the trees. Chasing it and disappearing into the trees myself at high speed.

  Sure, everyone would be watching, but I’d be out of sight with a big start.

  Then I see Gosling sprinting from further along the boundary. I can see from his face how much he wants to catch the ball.

  In his future life in that horrible boys’ home, a catch like this would help him a lot.

  Except he’s not going to get here in time, poor bloke.

  Suddenly I know what I’m going to do. A small gift to say thank you for all of Gosling’s generous help and friendship.

  It means I’ll have to stay a bit longer, but I can bowl another over and make my escape after that.

  The ball is plummeting towards me out of the sun. I dive backwards as if I’m making a last moment adjustment to get under the ball. It smacks into my hands at the same time as my back thuds against the ground. I pretend the impact has jolted the ball out of my hands. I flick the ball back up into the air.

  Gosling is three paces away.

  He takes two and dives.

  And wraps his big hands round the ball.

  Our team erupts. As I pick myself up, I can see Mr Scully and his colleagues over in the pavilion throwing their hats into the air.

  All our team are racing across the pitch towards me and Gosling, screaming and yelling.

  It was a good catch, but why are they so excited? There’s more to be done to win this match.

  Then I see something that sends a chill through my digestive tract.

  Both Taranga batsmen are leaving the pitch.

  I must have got the maths wrong. That must have been their last wicket. They must be all out. The match must be over. We must have won.

  Oh no.

  Standing here doing the baby maths, I didn’t pay enough attention to the cricket maths.

  I feel sick.

  I’ve wasted my chance to get away.

  The next match might not be for weeks.