Marcus picks up the pen, tucks it behind an ear and flicks through the pages in the file.
‘According to the police statement, there were three intruders that night. Not just you, like you claimed.’
I breathe in and let out a giant sigh.
‘Do you think your friends would have done the same for you?’ asks Marcus. ‘Do you think they would have lied? You got an extra six months for that, you know?’
I shrug.
‘I’d like to help, Nate,’ he says. ‘I’m not the enemy.’
‘So, you’re my friend, are you?’ I ask.
‘I could be. Why not?’
‘You’ve got a ponytail.’
Marcus isn’t sure what to say about that. He plucks the pen from behind his ear and finds a space on the page in front of him.
‘Doesn’t … like … ponytails,’ he says, as he writes. ‘I’ll highlight that later, by the way, in fluoro green.’
He’s really starting to annoy me now so I sit up straight in my chair. ‘Listen, Marcus … can I call you Marcus?
‘Sure.’
‘I know you think you might be onto something, right? You think you’re about to unlock something all the other counsellors failed to see. But the truth is, Marcus, you don’t know shit. Neither did the last bloke or the lady before him.’
‘I see.’
‘No, you don’t see, not yet, but you will. Do you want me to tell you how it’ll go?’
Marcus sighs. ‘Knock yourself out, Nate.’
‘Okay, so you’ll do this for a bit, you’ll have your little sessions with your table and chairs. You’ll ask your stupid questions and the boys out there, they’re going to answer. And they’ll tell you their stories, their sad little stories one after the other. Oh, it’ll be great at first. You’ll think you’re special. You’ll think you’re actually making a difference when no one else could. But then slowly things’ll begin to change. The days’ll become weeks and weeks’ll become months and before you know it all those sad little stories, they start to sound the same. And one day that smile on your face will turn into a sneer, and you’ll decide that life’s too short to be banging your head against a brick wall so you’ll pack it all in and take up mowing lawns.’
Marcus cocks his head. ‘Wow. That’s mighty insightful of you, Nate.’
I raise myself up from my chair and as I get to my feet I hear a familiar voice booming in the hallway outside the door. It’s the only voice that scares me in Croxley. I catch Marcus’s eye and throw him a smile.
‘Something funny?’ he asks.
‘Not funny,’ I say.
‘Really? Why are you smiling, then?’
I crane my head to the door.
‘You’ve got Jackson next,’ I say.
TWO
I don’t know what I was expecting. I suppose part of me hoped my father had changed. Every now and then, when it got closer and I let myself think about getting out, I imagined it like a movie. I imagined walking through Croxley’s huge metal gates, standing on the footpath outside as the cars and trucks darted left and right along the busy road in front of me. Then, just as I’m about to give up and look for a bus, there’d be a break in the traffic and that’s when I’d see him, my father, leaning against his battered Toyota, smoking a cigarette.
But he’s not coming. He never was.
Turns out someone else has come instead.
I make my way down to admin with Marcus, and there’s a man standing at the desk filling in forms. He’s mid-forties, wiry and weathered, like he’s someone accustomed to working outdoors. He’s dressed casually in a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and thongs, and he’s calling himself Uncle Mick.
From a distance he seems agitated, even annoyed. It’s probably got something to do with the last time I saw him.
When I walk towards him, he glances briefly my way then dips his head and continues writing. Soon enough he drops the pen, straightens up and stands in front of me, staring. He searches for something in my face, then his blue eyes stop moving and just for a moment they lock on mine. It feels like a test so I hold his gaze. I’ve been in Croxley too long to look away.
Despite his stroppy attitude and cold exterior, I see something familiar in his eyes. It’s something I used to see in my mum’s eyes. There’s hurt beneath the blue. A whole lot of hurt.
‘You got any gear?’ he asks.
Sanjay, one of the better screws, throws me a wink from behind the admin desk.
‘Here you go, Nate,’ he says.
I walk over and he slides a large zip-lock plastic bag across the counter. Inside are my belongings and clothes, the ones I came in wearing eighteen months ago. I touch the cover of The Old Man and the Sea. It was in my bag when I came in – the only thing of my mum’s I have. I toss it with my mobile into the backpack, and after signing some more forms I head for a cubicle to change out of my green overalls and white runners.
It feels weird when I step back out in my old clothes. I even smell weird. The nylon pants feel coarse against my thighs and the pale-blue shirt clings to my torso and arms.
I’ve grown.
The clothes seem so foreign now, the colours so bright and out of place. I’m suddenly all out of whack. It was easy, being green. For eighteen months I was green – green like everyone else – but now … I don’t feel right. It’s like I’m someone else.
Marcus wants a word. He’s stepped away from the desk and is standing against the wall holding what looks like a canvas shopping bag.
Walking feels strange too. My feet no longer fit the mould I’d left in my boots, and their soles make a squeaking noise as I walk across the polished lino floor.
‘A show bag?’ I say.
‘Apparently it’s a new thing,’ says Marcus, handing it over. ‘A bit like me, I suppose. They call it a Parole Pack. A few brochures, contact numbers, that sort of thing.’
I don’t even look at what’s inside. I’m focused on something else. I nod my head and turn and stare at the man who’s come to collect me. I know he’s my uncle, but he doesn’t feel like one.
Marcus glances over his shoulder and follows my eyes.
‘Uncle Mick, hey?’ he says.
I nod. ‘My mum’s brother,’ I say. ‘I was only little when I first met him. Some family thing, I reckon it was. Might have been Christmas. I remember red-and-green party hats and swimming in a river.’
Uncle Mick heads over to the water cooler and pours himself a drink. The plastic cup looks tiny in his hand.
‘Mum never talked about him, though. Like, never talked about him – her own brother. Then out of the blue he turns up at her funeral wearing a suit. And he fucking smiles – smiles right at me when I was walking out. I guess I lost my shit.’
Marcus shifts a little my way. ‘Well, it’s better than a group home, Nate, and you did sign the consent forms.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s just … weird.’
Uncle Mick pours another cup and downs it quickly. He tosses the empty cup into the bin then turns my way.
‘Righto, then,’ he says. ‘You good to go?’