St Kilda Blues (Charlie Berlin #3)(10)
When the boy was selected to go to Australia as a child migrant he neither understood nor cared exactly what that meant. In yet another hand-me-down overcoat and struggling with the weight and size of his kitbag he had stumbled up the gangplank of a liner that had been converted to a troopship in 1940 and, at war’s end, converted back. It would be the boy’s home for six weeks and would take him and three dozen other lucky children like him to a promised glorious new life Down Under.
All ships become a world unto themselves once the lines are cast off. Though they were supposed to be chaperoned and guarded. the children were already running wild before the coast of England had disappeared behind them. The adult guardians set about meeting those who would be their travelling companions over the next month and a half, while the children quickly formed themselves into gangs.
The biggest gang was led by a twelve-year-old name Mavis, who quickly instituted a reign of terror on the smaller gangs and weaker children. Mavis had excellent manners combined with rat-cunning, and her ‘yes sir’s, ‘no ma’am’s and simpering, wide-eyed smiles helped to quickly ingratiate the girl with the grown-ups. She was appointed the de facto den mother to the whole group, which freed up the adults to entertain themselves and gave her even more power over the other children.
They were three days from the equator when it happened. It was hot now, hotter than any summer in England and the children and adults were wearing as little as they could get away with. The poorly ventilated cabins onboard the old ship were like ovens, night and day. At night the passengers slept out on deck or in the lifeboats to escape the heat and spent their days in deckchairs in whatever shade could be found. While they complained and sweated and fanned themselves, the children ran wild and made the ship their own little jungle.
Mavis instituted games in secret areas of the ship where pornographic graffiti from the troopship days still covered hidden bulkheads. Her favourite game was Doctors and Nurses, the girls having to show what was hidden inside their droopy grey cotton underpants while the boys were taunted to lower theirs. Up till now the boy had managed to avoid these games. Perhaps it was his quietness and something in his eyes that made the others wary of him. But that wariness only made him a challenge to Mavis.
It happened on a Tuesday, just after ten in the morning. The sun was already blistering, the flaking white paint over the rusty metal of the ship almost too hot to touch. The adult passengers were sprawled in deckchairs or in the shade of the starboard side of the ship, sleeping off the stodgy breakfast or the overindulgence of the previous night. An attempt at lessons had been abandoned by the schoolteacher, who was more interested in pursuing her affair with the ship’s doctor. For once the children themselves were too exhausted by the heat to run riot, and lay about the ship, sleeping or reading, playing with dolls or with cap guns that had long run out of ammunition. The ship’s stewards had disappeared soon after breakfast and now there were no crew members to be found.
The boy was barefoot, wearing elastic-waisted shorts and a singlet. Initially the children had been forced to put on socks and sandals after the morning wash but that policy had soon been abandoned. He had raced up the scorching steel steps of the companionway to the cooler wooden decking on the next level and it was there that Mavis trapped him. She was barefoot too, wearing a short floral sundress with a matching ribbon in her hair. At twelve she was taller than him, though he was more solid, and under his once-white singlet his upper body was well muscled.
She had him backed into a corner. She didn’t know or understand the word ‘humiliation’, though that was what she was looking for – that and tears.
‘I’m not wearing any underpants,’ she said. ‘Do you want to look?’
She lifted up the front of her dress.
The boy’s eyes didn’t leave hers.
‘You can stick your finger in it if you want. It smells funny.’
There was no response. She dropped the front of the dress. ‘I showed you mine, so that means you have to show me yours.’
The boy didn’t move, didn’t respond. If Mavis had been paying attention however she would have seen his hands tighten into fists.
‘You don’t have to be shy, I’ve seen all the boys’ willies already.’ She leaned in closer, all pretence that it was a game now over. ‘You’d better show me, or .. .’
‘Or what?’
She couldn’t remember ever having heard him speak before. His voice sounded odd, cold. But she still didn’t sense danger. ‘Or I’ll hurt you so you cry, that’s what. Now show me.’
The boy shook his head slowly.
Mavis lunged forward and grasped his baggy shorts by the pockets, pulling them down, taking his underpants down with them. She stood up and laughed. ‘You’ve got a little willie, you’ve got a little willie! I’m going to tell everyone.’
The shove was hard and fast, unexpected, her feet went out from under her and she was falling. There were only a dozen steps on the metal companionway but her head hit three of them on the way down. She lay on the deck at the bottom of the stairs, head twisted, legs splayed and dress pulled back, thighs and belly on display. Her eyes were closed and blood, bright red against her white English skin, trickled from her ears and nose.
He stood at the top of the companionway, shorts and underpants still round his ankles, staring down at the girl. His eyes, ignoring the exposed sex, fixed on the bright red blood marking her face.