6. Carly
Carly
Four Weeks Earlier
‘T aj, wake up,’ I call out to the boy in the cell to my left.
Taj and I share a corner. His cell is to the left of mine but at a ninety-degree angle so I can see most of the space behind his bars.
His body is slumped on his mattress. The first sign of light shone through the tiny window a while ago and Taj is usually up every morning with the sun. ‘Pssssst, wake up.’
The men will arrive any minute now and they won’t be happy if Taj is still lying in bed. Two weeks ago, when I first arrived, Taj explained what he knew about this place. He’s only ten but he was the oldest before I arrived.
Taj doesn’t move. Each day he looks weaker and thinner—he needs to get up and have his next meal.
My chest tightens as I try to work out what to do. I’ve managed to stay pretty calm in this place, despite my terror, for the sake of the younger kids. But without Taj, I can’t keep it together. He needs to get up.
I lift the side of my mattress from the floor.
It’s where I keep things I don’t want the men to see.
It’s not much. I have three small rocks, a teaspoon and a granola bar.
The granola bar was given to us one day, outside of our usual meals.
I put mine away for desperate times. Is this a desperate time?
I survey the items and pick up the spoon. I don’t want to risk my spoon, it’s come in handy already. But it’s the heaviest of the items and this is for Taj.
I take the stained sheet off my bed. Who knows how many children slept on it before me.
I’m surprised I even got a sheet, but it’s better than sleeping on the scratchy surface of the bare mattress.
I tie the spoon to one corner of the sheet and twist the sheet so it becomes a long thick rope-like shape.
‘No, Carly,’ a little voice says. ‘You’ll get in trouble.’
Across the warehouse is Zoe, her eyes pleading with me. She’s worked out what I’m trying to do.
‘Taj isn’t waking up. I have to help him.’
She shakes her head. ‘The man’s coming’
I shrug. She’s right but I have to do this.
Taj’s bed is on the far side of the cell, but close enough that my sheet should reach him.
‘Taj,’ I call one more time, hoping he might stir. But nothing.
I pass my makeshift rope between the bars of my own cell and through the bars into his.
I grab hold of the end of the sheet in one hand and the spoon in the other.
With my arms awkwardly positioned between two sets of bars, I throw the spoon as far as I can.
The metal makes a loud noise against the concrete, and I snap my head towards the door, waiting for someone to investigate.
When no one comes, I look back toward Taj.
Even the loud noise hasn’t woken him, and the spoon landed inches from his body.
I pull the sheet back in, and I’m overcome with memories of when my dad used to take me fishing. We’d cast out a line and wait hours for a nibble. Reel it in and start again. Tears prick my eyes when I think of my parents. I bury the thought. I need to help Taj.
When I’ve got the rope positioned again, I put my whole body into the throw. This time my shoulders and face slam into the bars, and the pain makes me groan. The spoon lands with another loud clang, and seconds later the warehouse door opens.
I don’t have a chance to retrieve the sheet this time before Kyle storms in.
‘Oi,’ shouts Kyle, as he runs over to my cell. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
I step back from the bars, putting distance between myself and this monster.
‘I’m sorry. I, i-it’s just Taj hasn’t moved, and I was trying to w-w-wake him up.’ My body is trembling.
Kyle doesn’t respond but his eyes tell me I’ll regret what I’ve done. They’re blacker than ever, and I have to look away.
‘Eddie, get in there. Check the boy.’
Eddie runs in and does as he’s told, and part of me is relieved it’s Eddie going in there because I can picture Kyle kicking Taj to rouse him. Eddie gives him a shake, and Taj doesn’t wake.
I gasp.
‘Shut up, kid,’ Kyle says to me.
Eddie places two fingers to Taj’s neck. ‘Faint pulse. He’s not good.’
‘Shit!’ Kyle says. ‘The boss is going to be pissed. Put him in the van. I know a guy who might be able to help.’
Eddie lifts Taj’s tiny frame and holds him as though he’s cradling a baby. His face looks torn between fear and anger. Meanwhile, Kyle’s face is pure anger and he’s looking at me again.
‘As for you,’ he says. ‘I don’t think you’ll be needing this anymore.’ He picks up my sheet with the spoon tied to it and takes it with him outside, slamming the door behind him.
I glance at the brown scratchy mattress and blanket in the corner and cry. I cry for me, for my friend Taj, for all the kids in here. When will we ever get out of here?