the never boys by scott monk sample chapter
DESCRIPTION
A compelling story capturing the spirit of Australian outback life while following the fortunes of a boy fighting personal demons. This is the sort of scenario Scott Monk feels at home in, and is strongly reminiscent of Raw, his best-selling second novel. But this is a more mature and less angry work, although it is still gritty and engaging - you desperately want to know what Dean's secret is. As the reader begins to realise that Dean's own story parallel's Clive, it raises intriguing issues about identity.TRANSCRIPT
neverboysthe
MONKscottThe lies that bind ...
Dean Mason is a boy with many secrets.
For starters, that’s not his real name. On the
run from the law, he hides in the Barossa Valley —
famous for its vineyards and Mediterranean heat.
But he’s soon discovered . . .
. . . By a beautiful, fiery girl who’s as wild as
the flamenco music he tries to tame her with.
Together, they stir up trouble as each attempts
to escape a world in which they feel trapped.
As Dean soon learns, the mistakes that you
make when you’re young haunt you for life.
And secrets never last.
Other Books by Scott Monk
MON
Kscott
the never boys
Co
ver
des
ign
by
Elli
e E
xarc
hos
Co
ver
pho
tog
rap
h b
y K
evin
Fit
zger
ald
9 781741 660067
ISBN 978-1-7416-6006-7
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page i
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page ii
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page iii
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Random House Australia Pty Ltd
http://www.randomhouse.com.au
Sydney New York Toronto
London Auckland Johannesburg
First published by Random House Australia in 2005
Copyright © Scott Monk 2005
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the
publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry
Monk, Scott, 1974–.
The never boys.
ISBN 1 7416 6006 8.
I. Title
A823.4
Cover photograph by Kevin Fitzgerald
Design by Ellie Exarchos
Author photograph by Jeremy Piper
Typeset by Asset Typesetting Pty Ltd, Sydney
Printed and bound by The SOS Print + Media Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
THIRD PAGES 17/2/05 4:39 PM Page iv
Cert no. SGS-COC-3047
The paper this book is printed on is certified by the ©1996 Forest Stewardship Council A.C. (FSC). SOS Print + Media Group holds FSC chain of custody certification (Cert no. SGS-COC-3047).
FSC promotes environmentally responsible, socially beneficial and economically viable management of the world’s forests.
Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney, NSW 2060
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
For my grandfathers,
who served their country
but never had to fire a gun in anger.
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page v
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page vi
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Prologue
Dying on the Nullarbor Plain, the final emergency
flare burned down to a spluttering stub, leaving
midnight once more to close on the saltbush and
railway tracks. A pair of leather boots ran along the
gravel until they were forced to a blind stop. Size nines,
they hesitated, creaked with a curled toe, twisted
slightly then continued forward after a replacement
flare bounced behind the left heel. Before long,
another hissed, then another until a new line of red
signals traced the sleepers back to the police blockade.
Wearing a khaki uniform, sidearm and scribble of
insects, the constable paused to search for the
horizon. Again, he was amazed how shapeless the
night looked out there. He breathed deeply. He smelt
the dryness, the loam, the spear-grass and, faintly,
the wildflowers. All pleasing, granted, but nothing
compared to a soft bed, a straining fan and the soapy
lavender of his wife’s neck.
1
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 1
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
He slapped at a bloodsucker, missed, then turned
towards the blockade of four-wheel drives parked
across the tracks. Typical, he sighed, spotting the
other constables, hats dipped below their eyes. Only
their sergeant, fresh from the city, was alert though
she might as well have been asleep. The only noise
coming from the satellite phone was static.
A bored kick ricocheted a spent flare into the
bluebush. It scared a pipit from nesting then an
entire chorus of birds. But rather than their shrills
drifting away, they were replaced by a sharper, more
ominous sound: steel shaving steel.
The train!
At first it was just a constellation of headlights.
But as the tracks and sleepers began to hum
underfoot, he realised even standing this far away
wouldn’t be safe enough.
Four thousand tonnes of metal shrieked as the
eastbound continental freighter tried to brake. Horns
blasted and carriages shuddered as the first of two
flares arced high and starburst over all eighteen
hundred metres of its length. Panels, couplings,
grates and bolts rattled and shook. Wheels sparked.
Engines moaned. Hundreds of kilometres of
momentum continued to push, war and skid. The
satellite phone slammed down. Police snapped
2
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 2
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
awake. Doors whumped shut as the officers formed a
haphazard line.
It wasn’t going to stop. It wasn’t going to stop!
Then death.
With one final shriek, the freighter collapsed less
than thirty metres in front of the blockade. ‘Well?’ the
young sergeant yelled. ‘Go!’
Constables raced along both sides of the train,
hooking on handrails and throwing open carriages.
Shadows were frightened from corners at torchpoint,
roofs scaled, tarpaulins skinned and coal hoppers
banged. Dry ice spilled from refrigeration cars and
rusty sea air from shipping containers. Only the
sergeant held back. The two drivers yelled and
argued with her until she threatened to have them
both arrested. One sat, one stood. Crackling red
embers bobbed in their mouths as they laughed at
the raid. Let ’em learn the hard way. Freighters this
size took twenty minutes to walk end to end, let
alone search.
Binkle! Bink! Bink!
The cops stiffened. They ran to a triple deck
wagon stacked with new cars, the sergeant arriving
first. The constables pushed her for an answer until
she stretched to full height to throw away the rusted
peach tin. Nothing. Unless the kid had grown a tail.
3
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 3
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Then there was a two-fingered whistle and a call
of ‘Sarge!’
The constable hung one-handed from a carriage
further along, excited about his find: food wrappers,
drink bottles, AA batteries discarded like mouse scat,
and by the door — a guitar case still cradling its
instrument.
No order; none needed. The cops broke the
blockade. Glassy-eyed creatures fled before their
four-wheel drives as the hunt moved to the scrub
and darkness pressed in on the freighter once again.
All that was left were two red embers, still burning
with contempt.
But the drivers weren’t alone. Hidden in the
saltbush, a safe distance away, a boy with long brown
hair pushed himself off his stomach and ran into
oblivion.
4
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 4
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Chapter 1
Wednesday afternoon ended with the smell of
burning blue gums. It was just a whiff at first; lost
among the spring winds twisting along the dry
creeks from the Barossa Valley. But soon it grew
denser and the skies above the Murray Plains turned
orange. Further up the highway, a window fogged
with faces as the unmistakable sound of a Country
Fire Service siren wailed. Teaspoons bounced in a
sink and the homestead’s screen door slapped open.
One look east confirmed everyone’s fear and the
owner yanked the tail of a fire bell. Suddenly, the
veranda was thick with shearers and rouseabouts
hopping into their boots and coveralls.
In all the rush, a teenage boy arrived at the sheep
station unnoticed. His only acknowledgement of the
fire came when a spotter plane swooped low and left
him cringing. Physically, there wasn’t a lot to him. He
was sunstruck, slack-shouldered and languishing.
5
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 5
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
He had a lean build, flat chest, bony elbows, green
eyes, four fresh piercings in his ears, a scratching of
short bleached hair and a betrayal of thin dark
stubble. His clothes were no better: his jeans grubby
and his T-shirt stuck to him. A Walkman swung off
his hip. Despite his mongrel appearance, the boy
pushed towards the main house, barely side-
stepping the procession of cars on their way out.
Shortly, it was clear who was in charge. A woman
— middle-aged and bearish — shouted orders to the
few men who remained. They were trying to calm
the sheep, which were squeezed hard against the
metal railings. She shouldered aside a luckless
rouseabout, forced the merinos inside a shearing
shed, then yelled for everyone to fill buckets. On the
march, she reversed a ute into an old bluestone
coach-house, then rushed behind the stables to calm
the horses.
The boy followed her to the veranda, where
she snapped the screen door on his greeting. Three
hard knocks brought her back. She carried a white
fire helmet in one hand and her volunteer jacket in
the other.
‘Er, do you own this property?’
A raw orange 1971 XY Falcon GT stalled in front
of the homestead. The woman pushed past him and
6
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 6
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
shouted at the driver. ‘Hayden! I thought I told you
to park it across the creek!’
The young driver waved an apology then chucked
a u-turn.
‘Do I what?’ she said, stepping into her coveralls.
‘Do you own this property?’
‘In twenty minutes I might not own anything!’
Several fire engines howled along the Sturt
Highway, their horns cutting through the traffic,
smoke and ash. Again the boy seemed unaware of
the urgency until the spotter plane circled a second
time. But his questions weren’t appreciated, nor was
his time-wasting. The woman pulled her helmet on,
then snapped, ‘Of course I do! Why do you care?’
‘I was passing through town an hour ago when I
met this man —’
‘No stories. Just answers.’
‘One of the locals said I should come and talk to
you —’
‘About what?’
‘— that you might be —’
A whinny, charging hoofs, then chaos.
A brown mare charged through an unlocked gate
and dashed down the driveway. The woman jumped
from the veranda, chased it on foot and came back
for the ute.
7
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 7
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
‘— hiring people,’ the boy called out, still
standing in the same spot.
‘What?!’
‘Hiring people!’
The woman couldn’t believe it. She kept running.
Three hours later, the last of the grass fire
smouldered under the feet of the CFS volunteers.
They moved along, hosing out embers and poking at
the charred bodies of lizards and snakes. A short
distance away, slumped against truck tyres and Eskies,
the others gulped bottled water and ate Arnotts
biscuits. Few talked but all were busting to go home.
Come nightfall, back at the station, soot washed
from blistered hands as the nine o’clock news talked
sombrely from a shower radio. A truck driver had
escaped injury after crashing through a vineyard and
a fire investigator confirmed what most of the
volunteers had already guessed: arson.
Dawn lurched awake with far less activity. With
the first shadows came the first hungering of a lamb.
Honeyeaters returned to their bottlebrush as the
ground bubbled with warm stones. It promised to be
another melter; a perfect day for shearing. Wet wool
meant no work. And no work meant no pay. With
summer approaching, only a few contracts were left
for the shearing gangs.
8
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 8
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The station was one of the largest in the region.
Tenacious and bitter like the five generations who
had drenched its soil with spite, the land gave little
to those who demanded a lot. Canola grew in one
quarter; barley in another. Sheep roamed the rest. It
was quintessentially Australian: green and gold,
bristling with yellow crops and the weeds trying to
kill them.
Central to the station was the nineteenth century
bluestone homestead built on the foothills. It was
skirted by a wide veranda and roofed by corrugated
iron. To the rear and almost hidden in shadow, a trap-
door opened into a cellar, while more prominently, a
dunny had been renovated into a hothouse. Many of
the old structures were intact, though. To the east
were the holding yards, main gates and shearing shed.
To the west, the stables, feeding troughs, corral and
coach-house that had long served as a garage. The
most notable landmark was the deep creek that split
the property in half. It overflowed with eucalyptus
leaves, roots and pepper trees. One bank cordoned off
all the main buildings while on the other side grain
bins, hay sheds and a deserted shearers’ quarters were
spaced apart.
All through the main homestead, ABC radio
trumpeted the breakfast stirrings of the residents. A
9
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 9
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
sliced pear was placed on the window sill for the
lorikeets while spaghetti and tomato sauce bubbled
out the side of a toasted sandwich-maker. Heavy bare
feet pounded along the wooden floorboards towards
the front entrance where they halted. A hand pushed
open the screen door and the first curse was
dropped. The strange boy was back, sitting on the
veranda’s top step, headphones squealing in his ears
and limp in the same sweaty clothes. Clothes that
were pricked with straw almost certainly from the
hayloft, the owner noted.
‘What are you doing here?’
The boy didn’t answer. The only sound coming
out of his head was hard rock music. Overshadowing
him, the woman pulled the plugs from his ears and
scared him down the steps, his Walkman clutched to
his chest.
‘I asked you a question.’
‘Sorry?’
‘What are you doing on my property?’
‘I met you yesterday.’
‘I know that. But why are you back here at half-
past six in the morning?’
‘I came about the job.’
‘What job?’
‘The job your neighbour told me about —’
10
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 10
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
‘Which neighbour?’
‘The one that way,’ he pointed loosely. ‘I forget his
name.’
The station owner didn’t bother looking. She
folded her muscled arms. ‘So what if I do?’
‘I’m interested in it.’
‘You look like you’ve never spent a day on a farm,
let alone worked for one.’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘What as? A fence post?’
The boy reddened. ‘No.’
‘Then what?’
‘Y’know. Running errands, milking cows —’
‘This is a sheep station.’
‘Same difference.’
She snorted. ‘That proves you’ve never been on a
farm.’
His face darkened as he glanced away to the
Murray Plains. Crows pecked the distant blackened
field. Sniffs of pungent ash still lingered. ‘Just give
me a shot, okay?’
‘Why should I? You’re not a local. What’d stop
you from skipping out on me?’
‘My word?’
‘That’s not worth a lot to someone who doesn’t
know you.’
11
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 11
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The boy glared at her this time, stunned at her
country hospitality. But she was unmoved. She
settled against the doorframe and eyed his lack of
belongings. ‘So where are you from?’
‘Queensland,’ he growled.
That surprised her. ‘Long way to look for work.’
‘I’m backpacking.’
‘Where’s your backpack, then?’
‘In a locker. I don’t like carrying it all the time.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Sixteen more like it,’ she huffed. ‘What’s your
story?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Runaway? Or cop trouble?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Are-you-a-runaway-or-are-you-in-trouble-with-
the-police?’
‘Neither. Like I said, I’m just looking for work.’
Bending, she pulled on her boots then walked to
the old coach-house, giving him no indication to
follow.
‘So do you —?’
‘Do I what?’
‘Have a job or not?’
She swung open a large wooden door and
12
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 12
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
wheeled out a gas cylinder. The tractor needed
repairing.
‘Yes, but I need a rouseabout — not some kid.’
‘I’m not a kid.’
‘Do you even know what a rousie does?’
‘They look after sheep, don’t they?’
Again, a condescending laugh. ‘And ride horses
and listen to country music, right?’ A rush of blue
flame flared from the nozzle of the oxy-welder. It
wasn’t the only one burning.
‘Are you going to give me the job or not?’
‘Give me one reason why I should.’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, wounded.
‘You “don’t know”? What use are you, then?’
‘What do you want me to say?’
‘Something — anything — that would convince
me you’re worth the risk.’
‘Just forget about it, okay!’
He walked.
Each step grew angrier as he marched out the
main gate. His feet were sore and his stomach acid
but he couldn’t tolerate that hag any longer. There
had to be work elsewhere. And food.
The station owner watched him leave but gave
him no more thought as she trained the oxy-welder
on the tractor.
13
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 13
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Twenty minutes later, as the welding cooled, she
sensed the boy standing behind her again. She
leaned over the wheel guard a moment longer before
the boy choked off the gas.
‘What did you do that for?’
She twisted it on. He turned it off again.
‘Do that one more time and —’
‘Look, lady, all I’m asking for is your help.
Someone stole my bag and wallet the other day. I
don’t have any money. I don’t have any food. And I
don’t know anyone here. I desperately need this job
so I can buy a meal and a bus ticket to Sydney. If you
haven’t got one, then fine. Tell me who does and I’ll
leave. Don’t have a shot at me as well, okay!’
The woman breathed deeply then sighed slowly
and thinly. ‘Finally,’ she said. ‘That’s the first honest
thing I’ve heard from you.’
‘You’re not exactly easy to talk to.’
‘And you’re not exactly easy to trust.’
Flinching, he let her have her win. For now.
‘Okay, let’s start again,’ she said, pulling off her
gloves. ‘But this time let’s get the basics right. I’m
Amanda Kaesler. And you are?’
‘An — er, Dan — er, Dean.’
‘Well, what is it? Anne? Dan? Or Dean?’
‘Dean. Just Dean.’
14
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 14
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
‘Show me your hands.’
‘My what?’
‘Hands. You know: the two things attached to
your wrists.’
He raised them.
‘Not like that — like this.’ Ms Kaesler grabbed
him with her soil-rough fingers and almost gave him
a Chinese burn. ‘These are the softest mitts I’ve ever
felt. You’ve never done a hard day’s work in your life.’
‘I have so.’
‘Washing dishes doesn’t count.’
She let go and Dean clenched them by his side.
‘Wheel this back into the garage,’ she ordered. He
took the gas cylinder to the coach-house, then found
Ms Kaesler sitting on the tractor. He waited by the
rumbling engine but she was focused on writing on
the back of a service manual.
‘Hello?’ he yelled, convinced she’d drive away
without a yes or no.
‘All right,’ she answered, changing gears. ‘One
day’s work — no more. I need a rouseabout — an
experienced one — but you’ll have to do for now.’
‘What time do I start?’
‘What?!’
‘What-time-do-I-start?’
She checked her watch. ‘Thirty minutes. You’ll
15
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 15
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
work four runs — each two hours long. First smoko’s
at nine-thirty. Lunch’s at midday. Afternoon tea’s at
three. And knock-off’s five-thirty.’
‘How about money? — Mon-ey!’
She killed the engine and leaned forward, almost
insulted at its mention. ‘I pay the shearers per sheep
and the rousies by the hour. This year it’s thirty-eight
bucks.’
Dean quickly did the maths. Three hundred
dollars!
‘If you don’t like the money or how this place is
run — tough. If you don’t like my attitude — get off
my property. If you think the work’s too hard — I’ll
kick you off myself. I look after my men here and I
expect them to look after me. So don’t come
knocking on my door in an hour, crying that you’ve
changed your mind. Do what the other rousies tell
you and stay out of the shearers’ way. Understand?’
‘Yes ma’am.’
‘And you can cut that out straightaway. It’s Ms
Kaesler or — as the men call me — the General.’
He nodded.
The tractor restarted and rolled forward. ‘I s’pose
you haven’t had breakfast either?’ she shouted.
His stomach growled.
‘First smoko’s at nine-thirty. You can eat then.’
16
THIRD PAGES 11/2/05 12:10 PM Page 16
Copyright © Scott Monk 2011. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, storedin a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
If you loved the never boys
vote for it at the 2012 NatIoNal year
of readINg
There’s so much more at
randomhouse.com.au
CLICK TO VOTE HERE
There’s so much more at
randomhouse.com.au
Other books by Award Winning author Scott Monk