Broken Angels: In search of the Pupeteer

ST DOMINIC'S ORPHANAGE, MANOR LAKES, VICTORIA JANUARY 1969 A silver-white orb hung in the ink black sky, sequined with a blanket of bright stars. Leaves crinkled underneath him as he hid in the irrigation ditch. In and out his breath sawed, his heart fluttered, like a trapped blue wren beating its injured wings against a cage door. The rush of blood so loud, it sounded like waves crashing against the shores. In – Out, In – Out, In – Out, his chest rose and fell. Everything he saw through the scrubbly branches of the dead bushes, lining the irrigation ditch, appeared in a haze of silver blue light. A scream built low down in his guts, as he watched the two boys near the quarries edge. Benjamin was a chubby boy of ten, with rust coloured hair, pale face and freckles, and a brace on his left leg. He knelt at the feet of Hank, a wiry muscular boy of fourteen, good looking with fair hair and flat grey eyes. Hank raised his arm. He had an emu egg sized rock clutched in his fist. Benjamin squirmed and wrestled, trying to free himself from the grasp Hank had of his pyjama shirt with his free hand. His sobs drifted towards Justin, “No Hank! Don’t! I didn’t say anything, I swear! I didn’t! I didn’t!” Hank brought his arm down and smashed Benjamin in the side of the head. CRACK! Blood flowed and a scream of pain ripped through the early morning, disturbing the warmth that hovered around twenty-five degrees. “You little Prick, you dobbed on me!” Hank yelled, spittle flying from his mouth, his handsome face an ugly mask of rage. Benjamin shook uncontrollably, chest heaving spastically, squealing, and grunting like a little piglet suckling at the teat of a sow. The arm swung up again, “You know what that bastard McLanahan did to me? Huh? He caned me and chained me to the wall in the wine cellar like a frigging dog, A DOG!” the rock arced up and came down again. CRACK! “Chained like a frigging dog!” Oh my god, he’s gonna kill him! What can I do, what can I do? Justin froze, trying to control the raspy panting coming from his mouth, by switching to shallow breaths. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and his vision dimmed for a few seconds. Hank let go of Benjamin’s pyjama shirt, and the chubby boy with the rust-coloured hair, crumpled on his side, his back to the quarries edge, eyes moving rapidly, seeking out any reprieve from the beating he knew would continue. Hank spat on the ground near Benjamin’s head, and a high-pitched snarl escaped his twisted mouth. “I hate this frigging place! Just wait, one day it’ll catch fire and burn to the frigging ground.” Justin squirmed in the ditch. The dry leaves and twigs crackled so loudly, they sounded like firecrackers and cap guns exploding. The scream had expanded like a lacka-band and wrapped itself around his ribcage squeezing tight, squeezing the very breath out of him. I can’t hold it in much longer, but if I scream Hank will find me, and hurt me too. Justin stuffed his dirty, salty fist in his mouth, biting so hard on his growing terror that blood mingled with the dirt and sweat. Hank was hurting his best friend and he couldn’t save him. It was too far back to the huge three-story house where the forty orphaned and abandoned boys lived. Two large paddocks of thirsty earth, with sharp wheat stubble poking up through the dry cracked soil, separated Justin from the house and any help he could rouse at this time of early morning. His feet were already torn and bleeding from following Hank and Benjamin through the laundry door, across the house yard, between the vegetable gardens and chook pens, and through two barbed wire fences, one so saggy it listed on its side, almost flat on the ground, held in place by a rotten fence post. Hank had dragged Benjamin, who stumbled and struggled to keep up with the older boy, limping badly without his built-up orthotic shoe and leg brace, one leg being much shorter than the other. Hank dropped to the ground, straddling the younger boy’s chest and pinned Benjamin’s arms under his knees. “Frigging Gimp – Gimpy McGoo” Hhhwwack – Twaa! A gob of spit hit Benjamin in the face. Justin stared, transfixed by the silvery strands of saliva mixing with the dark red blood that matted Benjamin’s hair and ran down the left side of his face, and soaked into his pyjama shirt, staining it a wine-red colour. Grunts of exertion and yelps of pain punctured the air. Up – Down – Crack, Up – Down – Crack! Justin lost count of how many times Hank beat Benjamin about the head, face, and chest. Hank kept going until Benjamin became unrecognizable, his skull misshapen, his nose crushed flat against his face. Ragged breaths rasping in and out of his open toothless mouth. Hank got to his feet, threw his head back and howled at the moon, his face, chest and hair covered in sticky wet blood. With his remaining energy Benjamin rolled to his side, head facing back towards the three story, sandstone colonial mansion, and the yards with the vegetable gardens and chook pens. His eyes fluttered open, as his breaths become laboured and shallow, growing further and further apart. Blood bubbled at his mouth with each painful breath he dragged into his lungs, his eyes finally landed on the irrigation ditch, and they locked with Justin’s. A pitiful pleading lay there, tears streaked down Benjamin’s face. He looked right into Justin’s eyes, “Help – me!” he gasped. Justin gnawed on his left hand, the soil beneath him rejoiced, drinking in every droplet of piss. The sky grew lighter, Hank bayed like a wild dog, to Justin the older boy had ceased to be human the moment he first struck Benjamin in the head. Hank would never be human again. He raised the rock in both hands, up on his toes for more speed and strength. “No-one can help you now, you frigging Gimp! I hate you frigging bastards. All of you!” A sickening crack – like dry lightning before the booming roll of thunder – split the racing morning light wide open. Like a goose egg in a frying pan, the sneaking ball of sun a yellow orange the colour of yolk, burst open before their eyes. Blood sprayed out in a wide arc, each droplet caught in the rays of sun which reached its fingers across the dry thirsty paddocks and pushed the dark back, until the sun lit the quarries edge. Soon it would burn the darkness at the edges and swiften towards the irrigation ditch and then on towards the mansion. Hank hurled the rock over arm, as far as he could. It spun through the sky, then hung suspended before hitting the quarry walls on the way down. Clatter – rattle – crack – thunk – thud. Finally coming to rest amongst the thousands of other rocks just like it that littered the quarry basin. The sun grew brighter, it chased the dark away, putting the pale orb of moon to bed for another day. Hank rolled Benjamin’s body to the quarries edge and pushed it over. Thud – crunch – crunch – thud – crack – crack – Boom! The burn of piss-soaked clothes against his hot sweaty skin reminded him to take a breath. The earth drank in every drop of moisture his body gave it, just as it had slaked its thirst on Benjamin’s blood, greedily drinking in every drop that Hank had ripped out of the boy. Never had the soil near the quarries edge had such a feast, rich with iron, the blood soaked into the soil. A metallic smell permeated the air, its colour similar to Benjamin’s hair. Thud – Thud – Thud – Pant – Pant. Inhale – Exhale. The sound of bare feet and heavy breathing drew closer. Hanks coming, what do I do? Justin rolled himself against the wall of the ditch, closest to the quarries edge. He burrowed into the pile of dry leaves – a rich brown colour – they camouflaged well with his hair and skin. He piled the leaves on top of himself and crossed his fingers Hank wouldn’t see him. Aaaa-rooooo – roooo – rooooo. Another howl burst forth and ripped through the morning light and growing summer heat. The sun bled across the paddocks and raced the wild young killer towards his lair. Hank launched himself, baying and yelping like a wild dingo pup, he sailed right over the ditch, like a hurdler in a race. The sound of Hank’s rapid breathing and thudding bare feet waned, as the strapping young teenager scrambled through the barbed wire fence. Justin peeked over the ditch, and saw Hank sprinting across the house yards, before disappearing around the side of the mansion. Bang! The back screen door slammed shut. He waited, for the laughter of the friendly kookaburra who sang from his gum tree near the dry creek bed that bordered the edge of the Orphanage. Ooh – ooh – ooh -ooh – ahh – ahh – ahh – ooh – ooh. The roosters, young and old heard the kookaburra and started up a crowing competition, Ur – rah -ur – rah -ooh. Then the squabble of clucking hens and little chicks. Bwuck – Bwuck – Bwu-cuck -Bwuck – Bwuck! He counted to one hundred after that, then he crawled like a crab from the ditch and stood up, letting the warm wind tousle his curly sandy hair, and caress his brown skin. He scrubbed at the salty tears, which tracked a dirty mess from his almond shaped, green eyes, and streaked across his skin the same colour as his pyjamas. I hate being called a half breed. He limped across the lumpy bumpy paddocks, watching out for the sharp spears of wheat stubble this time. He scrambled back through the barbed wire fence, careful not to tear his clothes on the sharp barbs. Once back in the house yards, Justin grabbed the egg basket from the nail on the verandah post near the laundry door. After letting out the chooks and scattering some feed for them he collected three dozen eggs, a good haul for this time of year. He snuck in through the kitchen and left the full basket of eggs on the long wooden table where their meals were prepared. Screech – Slam. The screen door sprang back on its hinges. Out on the verandah, his bare feet slapped lightly against the warm wooden boards. Screech. More aware of the noise the house made, he eased through the laundry door, closing it softly. Stripping off, he left his piss and dirt-stained clothes to soak in the concrete wash troughs, then grabbed a clean – worn towel and a set of fresh clothes from the pigeon-hole with size eight scrawled in black marker on it. The dining hall had four long trestle tables in two rows, set out with church pews on each side for the boys to sit on. Justin put his bowl of porridge, mug of sweet milky tea and plate with vegemite toast on the tables where the junior boys ate. He sat between two nine-year old boys in his dorm and stared at his food, his stomach churning and swirling. I don’t think I can eat this. I think I’m gonna spew! If he didn’t eat, then people would get suspicious. The porridge was Luke-warm, with the consistency of lumpy clag, it got stuck in his throat. A hand touched his shoulder gently and he almost jumped out of his skin. “All right there Justin?” asked Brother Jack.