Burned Wings

Chapter Three - Wasteland

Dedicated because this person's stories do actually rock.

CHAPTER THREE

Wasteland

Josh lived in a terrace next to the railway line. In the two years that I’d known him, I’d never visited his house before. “Sonny! Mate! You’re out!” he greeted me as he opened the front door. He looked exactly as I remembered – still much shorter than the average male, and still obviously trying to compensate for his height by making his attitude big enough to fill gravel pits.

 “Cheers for this, Josh,” I said, stepping inside.

He clapped me on the back. “You legend! Survived Feltham, huh? You must be one tough nut now, right?” He chuckled. “Though it’s done nothing for your fashion sense. Mate, what were you thinking when you put those threads together?”

That was one of the many things that annoyed me about Josh; he always talked too much. And most of what he said was excrement. “So where shall I crash? On your sofa?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’ll show you.” He led me into his living room. Compared to mine, it was a palace – clean and comfortable. There was a rug on the floor and family photographs hung on the walls. “I’ve got one bedroom. Mum’s in the other. So here will have to do for you. It’s a dump. I keep telling the old girl to give the place a lick of paint but she never pulls her finger out.”

And what? He couldn’t manage to lift a brush himself? The boy was an idiot.

“Got anything to eat?” I said.

While I made a sandwich in the kitchen, Josh filled me in on all the news of the last six months. Most of it was insignificant details about people I couldn’t have cared less about. Only one piece of information interested me. “Ben got moved again. Did you hear?” he commented as I bit into my lunch / dinner. For some reason, he seemed to find that funny. “Social services sent him way up north this time. Somewhere near Newcastle, I think.”

That explained why he’d never been to visit me in jail.

“For his own good, apparently,” Josh continued. “That’s the joy of being in care. No control over your own life.”

I wanted to knock Josh’s smirk off but instead satisfied myself with clenching my fists around my sandwich. It squashed the bread but was better than squashing his face. I needed his couch.

“I know! Let’s go out tonight,” Josh announced as he ran dry of gossip. “Get wasted. Get laid. You’ve got some serious catching up to do, mate.” He began texting, while chattering on about where we could go.

I wrestled silently with my response. I’d prefer to pull out my toenails than try to be social right now; I’d had enough of people for one day. Getting some alcohol into my body, however, sounded a good plan.

“And I’ll get one of the lads to bring you some decent threads. Garrett, maybe. He’s about your size, I reckon,” Josh said. “You remember him, don’t you? From school?”

I’d been in prison, not developed Alzheimer’s.

Josh’s phone rang. “Mate!” he said into it, heading out of the kitchen for some privacy. “You’re never gonna guess who’s rocked up at my door!”

I’d met Josh two years ago, when I was fifteen. I’d just been expelled from yet another secondary school and had been sent to Darwin’s Community College. We’d not exactly been friends at first sight. And, honestly, we still weren’t really friends now. It was a sign of how far I’d sunk that he was the only person I’d got left to call.