Underdawgs

By Maverick the MadDawg

Sixteen-year-old JASON CLARKE wants a future, but his father ROBERT couldn’t care less. Depressed after the recent death of Jason’s mother, Robert has chosen the bottle over his two children and without support, Jason is quickly falling to the temptation and violence of the inner-city. 

That is until he meets LILY EVANS, a beautiful and intelligent girl who has just enrolled in Jason’s school. The two hit it off, as Jason sees in Lily qualities he wants to emulate. 

But when a brawl Jason’s entangled in results in one of his friends getting stabbed, Jason finds himself swept up in a series of escalating gang confrontations, spinning out of control.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publishdrive
• Release date: Sep 15, 2019

Book preview

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

UNDERDAWGS

MavericktheMadDawg

Copyright © 2018 by MavericktheMaDawg

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

eBook Designed by Acepub

For:

Lily Evans 1994 – 2010.

You will forever be in our hearts.

SPRING

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 1

The cop shop on the corner of King Street and Colmans Way has not changed one bit. It’s small, dark and dingy, the whole place reeks of shoe polish, sweat and over-inflated egos. Report papers and evidence files litter the floor. The windows are dirty, the air is musty and there are coffee stains on the tables. In short, the place is a dump and I’m going to be stuck here for at least another hour.

My cell is about two and a half by three metres, it stinks of piss and someone has left a nice pile of chunder in the corner. The walls are plastered with tags and graffiti, and there are bloodstains on the floor. Along one wall runs a padded bench, and a CCTV camera sits in the top right corner - my only means of company.

I’ve been in here a while now, about eleven hours I reckon, though it’s hard to tell. It must be past noon because I’ve sobered up from last night and a cop came round with a lunch tray about an hour ago.

It’s been a long night. I slept a bit, but got woken twice – first by a pisshead in cell four who tried to jump one of the cops when they came to check up on him, and again a little later when a junkie in cell two started ranting and screaming about them stitching him up.

I’m exhausted and I probably look like shit. I wish I was like my best mate Blackjack; he wakes up hungover from a night of heavy drinking and still looks good. Blackjack is stupidly good looking. It really pisses me off, chilling with him while there’re girls around is painful.

I guess my own looks aren’t too bad. I have dirty blond hair which is shaved at the back and sides and cold blue eyes. My skin is fair, but not freckly. I’m not handsome, but I’m not ugly either, sort of average looking.

I used to have a picture of Robert, from when he was my age and I look a lot like he did, except for the blond hair and blue eyes – they’re from my mother. My mother was a goddess.

I get up from the padded bench and pace around the cell. I really want the cops to hurry up and interview me so I can get out of this place.

I guess we’re all waiting on Robert, given they can’t interview an underage person without a parent or guardian present. Though guardian and parental aren’t exactly the best words to use when describing Robert. Knowing him, he’s probably passed out and hasn’t heard his phone go off like a billion times. Either that or I’m not important enough in his mind to warrant any hurry.

I flop back down on the bench and look up at the ceiling, dying for something to do, wishing I had my old beat up copy of Yeats – the one with The Second Coming in it, which I’ve dog-eared so many times the page now has a permanent crease. It’d help pass the time and keep me distracted from the fate that awaits me when I’m called into one of the cops’ interview rooms.

People are always surprised when they see me reading books; they stare at me like I’m doing something wrong. I guess it doesn’t fit the rest of my profile. Like a lot of guys where I live, I dress like your stereotypical juvenile delinquent: black hoodie, denim jeans and sneaks. The four guys I grew up with and consider my brothers – Kev, Spike, DJ and Blackjack – won’t be caught dead in anything else. It’s not a statement we’re trying to make, we aren’t like the Hipsters with their strict dress codes, or the Graffers and Lads who can be identified by their clothes and are run like gangs. We’re just a bunch of mates who look out for each other and happen to wear the same thing.

I glance down at my hands resting casually on my knees, my knuckles ripped and torn, my wrists raw and red from where one of the cops who’d arrested me slapped the cuffs on and did them up just one or two notches too tight. I rub my wrists tenderly and examine my knuckles. They won’t heal for a while.

I’m not really sure what charge the cops are holding me on, or what evidence they’ve got to justify my arrest. I’m still annoyed I got arrested in the first place. It’s my fault, of course; I split up from the rest of the crew when we all bailed from the scene and ran right into a cop car a block away.

Truth be told I’m a little nervous. I’m not arrogant enough to think I can weasel my way out of the charges. And I’m not looking forward to the potential punishment either. But my greatest fear by far is having to face my younger sister Sarah when she hears the news I’ve been arrested again.

Sarah is only ten years old, but I’d prefer a beating from Robert than to see the disappointment in her eyes when he tells her I screwed up again. One look of hurt, confusion or sadness from those innocent baby blues pierces like a Roman centurion ramming a sword through your heart. I can’t take that, I can’t do that to her. If I’m convicted, it’ll break her heart – and mine.

I get up off the padded bench again and shake my body in a weird sort of jig, trying to rid myself of the nervous energy that seems to have taken over me. A few cells down I can hear faint sobbing.

I wonder what Robert is going to say when he finally gets here. Probably nothing. Maybe he’s become so uninterested in me that there is nothing left to say. Maybe he doesn’t care.

It’s all so surreal. Yesterday I was living life like I normally do. Now, because of one dumb mistake, I’m potentially facing months, if not years, in Juvy.

I’ve never been to Juvy, but I remember how much worse Kev got after his stretch. I also don’t fancy having to leave Sarah by herself with only Robert to take care of her. There is no way they’re going to put me away without a fight.

A door slams in the corridor outside and footsteps march down the concrete floor. The tray flap on my cell door opens and two beady pig eyes stare in, making sure I’m not waiting in ambush.

The flap closes and a constable with her hair in a tight ponytail swaggers in. She looks at me and utters three words:

‘Jason, Robert’s here.’

***

I stride into the interview room.

A senior constable and Robert sit at a wooden-topped table, glaring at me. The senior constable nods and the constable that escorted me here, promptly exits, closing the door behind her.

I sit down opposite the two men, slouching with my elbows on the table.

‘Sit up straight,’ the senior constable growls at me, so I readjust my position.

Robert is just sitting there, his face unreadable. I doubt he cares one little bit.

Robert is forty but he looks more like sixty. Once upon a time he was handsome, but years of chain-smoking and heavy drinking have taken their toll. His face is lined with wrinkles and his teeth are stained permanently yellow. He looks rough, but that’s what you get for living a hard life.

The senior constable looks about thirty, a young guy with big ambitions. Cropped brown hair pokes out from underneath his cap and his nose sits a little off centre like it’s been broken a few times, hopefully by some legend who managed to get away after. He seems vaguely familiar and dressed like your typical conservative type, clean cut and polished.

The two of us are going to get along real well.

The senior constable stares directly at me with his hard brown eyes, assessing me, trying to instil a sense of fear and play on the anxiety that the hours I spent alone in a cell is intended to cultivate.

I can’t help but grin awkwardly and he immediately stops his staring and shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

I don’t really get along with the law – none of my mates do. It’s not like I want to break the law – I don’t hate cops like Kev and Spike, or fear them like DJ. The law is just another factor of life to deal with, another obstacle to get in the way, another party that gets involved when I fuck up. I’ve been arrested a few times and they’re never really fun experiences. And the end result is always the same: ‘Shape up, be a good boy and don’t grow into the kind of person who’s going to cause us problems in the future. The Juvenile Justice system is a joke.

But this time is different. By the way the senior constable is glaring at me, I doubt they’re going to let me off with just a stern warning.

The senior constable leans forwards and presses a button on the recording device in front of him. ‘Interview commencing at 2.30 pm, the afternoon of the fourth of May,’ he addresses the machine. ‘This interview regards an assault that took place outside the Evergreen Hotel on Goodman Street at approximately 1 A.M. on the fourth of May. Present in the room is the suspect in question, Jason Clarke, his father, Robert Clarke, and myself, Senior Constable Peterson.’

Peterson leans back in his chair, hands on his lap, staring directly at me. ‘So?’ he prompts. ‘What happened?’

I keep my mouth nice and shut the way it belongs.

Peterson picks up a file that’s been sitting on the table next to the recording device and pulls out a piece of paper. ‘Witness statements from the pub,’ he says as he catches me looking at them. ‘All recall seeing a Caucasian male – 185cm – assaulting another youth after a heated verbal exchange on the pavement.’

My eyes dart away from Peterson and he chuckles.

‘You wouldn’t happen to know anyone who fits that description would you, Jason?’

I see a muscle in Robert’s jaw clench.

‘They go on to state,’ Peterson continues, ‘that the initial blow ignited a fight between two groups of youths that spilt out onto the road.’

My hands are hot and clammy, my shredded knuckles visible from their position on my lap. I shove them in the pockets of my hoody.

‘Nice bit of entertainment for Friday night party-goers, ey? When Constables Patricks and Reilly responded to the call out, they reported seeing several other youths break away and run from the figh…’

Peterson glances at me over the witness statements. ‘You remember Constable Reilly, Jason? He’s the one your friend with the shaved head tried to glass.’

Peterson flicks through some more pages in the file. ‘Now, Jason, you’ve already been arrested on two other charges, namely possession of cannabis and theft. Given your age at the time, you were cautioned for both offences.’ He pauses giving me a look. ‘But due to the aggressive nature of this most recent incident, we have no choice but to pursue conviction. This charge will go to court and very likely you will be found guilty of assault.’ The muscles around my mouth twitch as I fight to keep my expression neutral.

‘That means juvenile detention, Jason. One year at least, depending on the mood of the magistrate on the day, it might mean two.’

I glance at Robert. He isn’t looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the wall behind me, his expression blank.

‘You could be eighteen before you’re released. You’ll miss your shot at education, you’ll become isolated and disconnected from your friends and family. Don’t let one angry mistake ruin your life, Jason.’

Thoughts of being locked up and leaving Sarah with only Robert to look after her explode into my mind. I push them away. I can’t afford to be emotional. I have to remember there’s a reason Peterson is saying this. A reason that has nothing to do with his concerns about my life.

Peterson takes a pen out of his breast pocket and places it on a blank piece of paper, pushing it towards me. ‘You can write, can’t you?’

‘What like my name and shit?’

‘That’s right.’

I shrug.

‘Write a written confession of what happened. We know you started the fight, but we want to know the names and details of anyone else involved.’ His face relaxes. ‘Write down the name of the youth you originally assaulted and anything else you know about him. We will contact him and take a statement in regards to your assault.’

‘Then what?’ I hear myself ask.

‘You’ll be charged, then the matter will be referred to the Children’s Court for sentencing. I’ll recommend the judge be lenient and hand you down a suspended sentence.’

I glance up at Peterson.

‘Stall, bullshit or try to deceive us and we won’t hesitate in pursuing the harshest possible sentence for you.’

I look down at the piece of paper, trying to work out what Peterson is doing. Write down the victim’s name and details … That’s kind of odd. Surely the cops must have already recorded them when they spoke to the kid after the fight. But if they spoke to him, that means the kid must have hung around while everyone else bailed from the scene. Unless …

I stare at Peterson but his face conveys nothing.

The cops arrested me running from the scene of the crime. They have witnesses from the pub who saw me assault a kid. But they don’t have the one thing every prosecution needs – a victim. And if there’s no victim, there’s no crime.

I try to hold back the grin spreading across my face.

‘Jason, this is not funny. You have been accused of a very serious crime.’

The charade is crumbling. Peterson has been trying to trick me – by getting me to identify the victim of my own crime.

I see Robert look up and I lock eyes with him, the smug grin still firmly on my face.

‘I didn’t do nothing,’ I say.

Peterson’s nostrils flare. He waves his piece of paper in front of my face. ‘Eyewitnesses, Jason. Admit to what you’ve done. Now is not the time for stubbornness.’

‘I didn’t do nothing,’ I repeat, my eyes boring into Robert’s.

‘Jason, we know you assaulted that youth.’

Robert breaks eye contact with me and looks away.

‘Yeah?’ I taunt Peterson, glad he’s taken the bait. ‘Where’s the so-called victim?’ Peterson does a double take. ‘We have eyewitnesses who state …’ he begins, but we both know this isn’t going anywhere. He has nothing on me. He’s been outsmarted, outsmarted by a sixteen-year-old kid.

Peterson’s eyes bulge. He stands up and hits the stop button on the recording device and turns to face the wall, composing himself. When he spins back to me, all the concern he’d shown two minutes ago is absent from his face. Now his eyes are ablaze. ‘Right, Jason, I’m warning you. This is your last chance. If you ever, ever come back into this station for any charge, even a minor driving ticket ten years from now, I will see to it personally that you’re tried and convicted. Do you understand me, Jason? End of the line!’

I sit there, almost feeling sorry for Peterson. I can see veins almost popping out of his head – but there’s nothing he can do.

‘Go on.’ He gestures towards the door. ‘Get out.’

***

I check out at the service desk, signing for the stuff the cops took from me when I was brought in. A pack of tailors, a lighter and a cheap, crappy phone.

The female cop at the service desk is in a smiley mood. She sees me off with a: ‘Hope we don’t see you again.’

Robert and I walk outside. It’s a nice day, warm and sunny but with a slight breeze. I inhale deeply, enjoying the fresh air after my long night in captivity. Slowly we walk over to Robert’s car, neither of us saying a word or even glancing at each other.

Robert starts her up and we begin the short drive back to the housing commission.

It’s silent as we drive, except for the rhythmic tapping of a bracelet hanging from the rear-view mirror. It was my mother’s bracelet.

I stare out the window, trying to avoid any eye contact with Robert. The asshole hadn’t said a word in my defence, not one word.

We pull up at a traffic light and I watch an old lady with a walking frame slowly make her way across the road. I switch on the radio, attempting to break the silence. Without saying anything, Robert leans over and switches it off.

The light turns green and we take off again. We pass a primary school