Johnny drawled with deep inner conviction. ‘Anything’s better than being locked up. At least we can breathe out here.’
‘What? Dust?’ Mitch mocked.
The plane landed, kicking up a cloud of it.
Johnny didn’t care about a bit of dust. It was infinitely preferable to confinement. He hoped Mitch Tyler wasn’t going to be a complete grouch for the next six months. Or a mean one, blowing up at any little aggravation. The guy had been convicted of assault. It might be true he’d only beat up on the man who’d date-raped his sister, but Johnny suspected that Mitch was wired towards fighting.
He had biting blue eyes, dark hair, a strong-boned face that somehow commanded respect. His build was lean though he had very muscular arms, and Johnny felt he might well be capable of powerful violence. Living in close quarters with him could be tricky if he didn’t lighten up.
‘Welcome to the great Australian Outback,’ the cop escorting them said derisively. ‘And just remember…if you three city smart arses want to survive, there’s nowhere to run.’
All three of them ignored him. They were sixteen. Regardless of what life threw at them, they were going to survive. Besides, running would be stupid. Better to do the six months and feel free to get on with their lives, having served what the law court considered justice for their crimes.
Not that Johnny felt guilty of doing anything bad. He wasn’t a drug dealer. He’d simply been doing a favour for the guys in the band, getting them a stash of marijuana to smoke after their gig at the club. They’d given him the money for it and the cops had caught him handing it over to the real dealer.
Impossible to explain he’d got the money from the musos. That would be dobbing them in and the word would go around the pop music tracks that he couldn’t be trusted. Keeping mum and taking the fall was his best move. It was a big favour that could be called in when this stint on the sheep station was behind him, maybe get him a spot in a band playing guitar, even if he was only filling in for someone.
Johnny had learnt very young that pleasing people gave him the easiest track through life. It was much smarter to stay on their good side. Straying from that only brought punishment. He still had nightmares about being locked in a dark cupboard for upsetting his first foster parents. By the time he’d been placed in another home, he’d worked out how to act. It was a blueprint he always carried in his head—win friends, avoid trouble.
He hoped the owner of this place was a reasonable kind of guy, not some bastard exploiting the justice system to get a free labour force, just like some foster parents, taking money from the government for looking after kids who really had to look after themselves, in more ways than just earning their keep in those supposedly safe homes.
The judge had rambled on about this being a program that would get boys who’d run off the rails back to ground values, good basic stuff to teach them what real life was about.
As if they hadn’t already had a gutful of real life!
And its lessons!
Still, Johnny figured he could ride this through easily enough—put a smile on his face, roll his shoulders, act willing.
The plane taxied back to where a man—the owner?—was waiting beside a four-wheel-drive Land Rover. Big man—broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, craggy weathered face, iron-grey hair. Had to be over fifty but still looking tough and formidable.
Not someone to buck, Johnny thought, though size didn’t strike fear in him anymore. He’d grown big himself. Bigger than most boys at sixteen. It made other guys think twice about picking a fight with him. Not that he ever actively invited one, and wouldn’t here, either. A friendly face and manner always served him best.
‘John Wayne rides again,’ Mitch Tyler mocked, making light of the big man waiting for them, yet his body language yelled tension.
‘No horse,’ Johnny tossed at him with a grin, wanting Mitch to relax, make it easier for all of them.
It won a smile. A bit twisted but a smile nonetheless. It gave Johnny some hope that Mitch might loosen up, given time and if they were treated reasonably well here.
He caught Ric Donato looking curiously at him and wondered what he was thinking. Dismissing him as harmless? No threat? Possibly good company? What did he see?
Johnny tried envisaging himself objectively—a hunky guy who wouldn’t be out of place in the front row of a football team, streaky brown hair that invariably flopped over his forehead because of a cowlick near his right temple, eyes that had a mix of green and brown in them and a twinkle of good humour that Johnny had assiduously cultivated, a mouth full of good white teeth which certainly helped to make a smile infectious.
Even so, he was no competition for Ric Donato in the good looks department. Girls probably fell all over him. Which was what had got him into trouble, stealing a Porsche to show off to some rich chick. Johnny had no time for girls yet. He just wanted to play his own music, get into a band, go on the road.
The plane came to a halt.
The cop told them to get their duffle bags from under the back seats. A few minutes later he was leading them out to a way of life which was far, far removed from anything the three of them had known before.
The initial introduction was ominous, striking bad chords in Johnny.
‘Here are your boys, Maguire. Straight off the city streets for you to whip into shape.’
The big old man—and he sure was big close up—gave the cop a steely look. ‘That’s not how we do things out here.’ The words were softly spoken but they carried a confident authority that scorned any need for abusive tactics.
He nodded to the three of them, offering a measure of respect. ‘I’m Patrick Maguire. Welcome to Gundamurra. In the Aboriginal language, that means “Good day.” I hope you will all eventually feel it was a good day when you first set foot on my place.’
Johnny’s bad feelings simmered down. It was okay. Patrick Maguire’s little speech had a welcoming ring to it, no punishment intended. Nevertheless, a strong sense of caution had Johnny intently watching the big man’s approach to Mitch, the first in line.
‘And you are…?’ The massive hand he held out looked suspiciously like a bone-cruncher.
‘Mitch Tyler,’ came the slightly belligerent reply. Mitch met the hand with his own in a kind of defiant challenge.
‘Good to meet you, Mitch.’
A normal handshake, no attempt to dominate.
Johnny’s smile was designed to disarm but it had more than a touch of relief in it as he quickly offered his hand in greeting, being next in line. ‘Johnny Ellis. Good to meet you, Mr Maguire.’
The steely-grey gaze returned a weighing look that made Johnny feel he was being measured in terms far different to what he was used to. His stomach contracted nervously as the warm handclasp seemed to get right under his skin, seeking all he kept hidden.
His determinedly fixed smile evoked only a hint of amusement in the grey eyes, causing an unaccustomed sense of confusion in Johnny as Patrick Maguire finally released his hand and moved on to Ric who introduced himself far more coolly, not
