Читать книгу Trilogy Collection - Julie Shaw, Julie Shaw - Страница 23

By the time Josie came home from school on Friday afternoon, a couple of weekends later, June had already gone out. Noticing two roll-ups on the coffee table along with a note, Josie lit herself a fag as she tried to decipher her mother’s letter.

Titch

Left you ten bob in the junk drawer. Get some chips and pop. If you need anything, go up to our Lyndsey’s. Me and your dad will be late so don’t be out all hours. Bed at 10.

Love, Mam

Josie snorted as she screwed up the note and threw it on the fire. That’s that then, she thought, might as well go sit round at Carol’s for a bit. It would be better than being in on her own all night; something she’d been having to do a lot just lately, now her mam and dad were swanning around the estate, flashing all their cash. She didn’t bother getting changed out of her uniform. After all it was Friday, no school tomorrow, so it could stay. Grabbing her coat and the money, she flicked off the light and went back out onto the streets.

The atmosphere in the Bull was getting raucous. Jock, June and the rest of the ‘club cheque gang’, as they had recently named themselves, were crammed in together in one of the booths in the corner of the pub, where they’d been drinking steadily since the early afternoon.

There were two ashtrays in the centre of the table, one overflowing with cigarette ends, the other stuffed with £5 notes and coins. This was the ‘kitty’, the pool of money being rapidly depleted in the cause of getting them even more pissed than they already were.

‘Hey, Jock,’ June said, laughing as she watched her husband lurch sideways, while staggering to his feet to go to the bar. She passed him a couple of notes from the collection in the ashtray. ‘Get some whiskey chasers while you’re up there,’ she ordered. ‘I might feel like dancing later, and I can’t do my Tina Turner without some of the hard stuff inside me.’

The others all laughed on cue as June also hauled herself upright, having to grasp the table edge to do so. She then made an attempt, only partly successfully, to twirl an increasingly unsteady Jock around.

‘Sit down, you silly old get,’ Jock slurred, pulling away from her. ‘And let’s have a bit less of the big fucking spender routine in here. You know what nosey bastards they all are.’

Jock was worried. And particularly about his mouthy wife. Despite the growing haze that was blurring the sharp edges of his thinking, he was aware that they’d been attracting suspicious looks. As they would – it wasn’t like no one knew them, was it? Pretty much everyone knew where they came from and it didn’t take a brain surgeon to work out that as they didn’t normally have two pennies to scratch their arses with, they were acting a bit flash with their money.

In fact, looking at them now – as he tried to, steadying himself against the nearest chair – they looked like they’d come into millions. Which would of course make people wonder what the fuck they’d been up to – even Don the landlord must be wondering what the hell was going on. Because he didn’t know either. And they weren’t going to tell him. As Moira had said, it made no sense to shit on their own doorstep, so she and June had sold the cheap booze to town-centre pubs only. And they should maybe – least for the moment – be drinking in them too.

Jock blinked hard a couple of times to try and clear his vision. He was getting a bad feeling about the way things were going. Yeah, he knew that, all right. Knew how careful they had to be now. He must just make sure his bloody wife stopped forgetting. Stopped flashing the cash in front of the neighbours, stop behaving like a kid in a fucking sweet shop, because if she wasn’t careful, she’d have the whole lot crashing down on the lot of them. And who’d be blamed when she shit hit the fan? He would.

Josie climbed over the fence of Carol’s front garden, taking care not to land in any dog shit as she lowered herself down. The gate had been tied up with wire so that their stupid German Shepherd, Blue, didn’t get out, which meant that if she was in the garden when Josie climbed over – having no choice – the stupid animal would start barking and jumping up at her, thinking she was breaking in. And then, having sniffed her, try to lick her to death.

She wasn’t around now, though, so she dropped to her feet unmolested and unlicked and, in the silence, could hear the sound of raised voices.

As she went down the path she could make out specific words, many of them swear words – it sounded like a loud argument coming from inside. She banged at the door, hoping that this would be enough to stop it. She hated it when Carol’s mam, Tina, was on one. She could be a right vicious bitch.

It took a while for the door to be opened and then only a crack, through which the tear-stained face of Caz peeped through. ‘Oh, Titch, come in,’ she whispered. ‘They’re at it again upstairs. I’m fucking sick of it. He’s off his bleeding rocker, that black bastard.’

Josie squeezed through the gap in the door, pushing the stupid dog inside with her foot. ‘Get in, you silly mare,’ she said as she finally got inside. ‘What’s up with them two then?’ she said, fussing over the dog long enough to satisfy her demand for attention.

‘Fuck knows,’ Carol replied, ‘but he’s just given me a slap for sticking up for me mum. He was calling her a slag and all sorts, and I’m not gonna sit there and say nowt about it, am I?’

Josie and Carol went to sit in the kitchen, trying to close off the noise coming from upstairs. They could hear what sounded like furniture being thrown around as well as the occasional angry scream from Tina, which made them start, but didn’t seem to signify that he was getting the upper hand. In any case, already at the sharp end of Black Bobby’s hand, Carol knew better than to interfere again.

‘Do you want to come round to our house?’ Josie suggested. ‘There’s no one in, and at least you wouldn’t have to listen to it.’

Carol gave her a weak smile. ‘I better not. That bastard might kill her if he knows I’ve gone out. No, better stay. I’ll make us a cup of tea, eh. They’ll stop soon – they always do.’ She grimaced. ‘Then I’ll have to turn the record player on, so we don’t have to listen to ’em doing you know what.’

Josie cringed, the horrible thing always lurking at the edges of her mind still. She thought of men, and what they did, and what they did it with, and she recoiled. She couldn’t help it. Perhaps she’d never be able to. And Caz too, she knew, even though it had been a while since Black Bobby had tried it on with her. Caz didn’t know why but she’d grown about a foot in the last year, it felt like. So maybe it was that. He didn’t dare. They exchanged a look.

‘Shush!’ Carol said suddenly.

‘What?’

‘Silence,’ she then mouthed, nodding her head towards the ceiling. She crept to the kitchen door and opened it an inch or two. ‘Oh fuck, it’s him. Coming down.’

Carol scuttled back towards the sink and turned on the tap to fill the kettle, just as Black Bobby walked in.

‘What the fuck’s she doing here?’ he demanded, pointing at Josie.

Josie hung her head. She couldn’t even bear to look at him. ‘Her mam and dad are out, so she’s come to see me,’ Carol said mildly. ‘Do you want a cuppa?’

Bobby reached Carol in three strides and belted her round the back of the head. ‘No I fucking don’t, and what’ve you been told about bringing people round here?’

Carol winced and put her hand up to guard against another whack. ‘She’s just come round for a bit, that’s all. Where’s me mam?’

‘None of your business, you nosey little cunt.’ Bobby reached round Carol and filled a glass with water. He then turned to Josie as he gulped it down, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘And you can fuck off an’ all,’ he said, having drained it in one. ‘We’re not fucking babysitters. Sling your hook.’

Carol stood behind Bobby, wildly shaking her head, but Josie stood up, even so. No way was she sitting around for more of this crap. It was worse than home, plus Black Bobby scared her. She couldn’t understand why Caz’s mum was still with him. But then she knew she didn’t understand much about anything where men were concerned. Only that some of them – a few anyway – were just horrible.

‘You want to come to mine, Caz?’ she tried again, but Carol shook her head, as Josie expected. She wouldn’t go anywhere without checking that her mum was okay.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘See you tomorrow then, okay?’ Then she let herself out, slipping into the night quickly to stop Blue trying to follow. Maybe she’d pop round to Lyndsey’s instead. It would be good to see her nephew and nieces, if not her stupid sister and revolting Robbo.

Josie and Lyndsey didn’t really get along. Never had. With such an age gap, they’d never been close to one another, and since Lynds had moved in with and had kids by her last horrible boyfriend, there was little chance they ever would be either.

That her sister took drugs made Lyndsey a proper idiot in Josie’s eyes, and she had abhorred Robbo since the first time she’d met him. She blamed him – for meeting her sister just when she’d been left by the last moron she’d shacked up with, for dragging her into their seedy druggy lifestyle, for keeping her poor when she could barely afford her kids. She was bleeding lucky social services hadn’t taken them away.

And she wasn’t the only one who found Lyndsey a waste of space. Her mam and dad hardly ever saw their elder daughter, even they only lived a few houses down on the same street. They never called up and Lynds never came down. They might pass and chat for a minute of two on the street, if one or the other was going to the shops or something, but it was only ever small talk because June had no time for drugs and druggies – and if she wanted to see her grandkids or them her, she’d always just send Josie or Vinnie up to fetch them back.

It was sad but it was the way it was. And would keep being, Josie reckoned, and much as she didn’t want to be around Lyndsey or Robbo, she loved her little nieces and nephew and she knew they’d be pleased to see her now.

She ran most of the way back from Caz’s – and out on the street, since it was dark – hoping that when she got there the first thing she smelt wouldn’t be the dreaded wacky baccy. She hated the smell of it – it made her retch – and she hated what it did; made everyone who smoked it turn into grinning idiots.

Walking around the back of the house, as she knew she’d never get an answer from the front door, Josie tapped on the window and tried to peer in.

‘Auntie Titch!’ a small voice called from the back door. Josie smiled as she saw Robbie coming outside. He was naked apart from a pair of grubby underpants.

‘Ooh, get back inside, Robbie, you’ll freeze out here!’ she told him, ushering him back into the house.

‘We have to be quiet, Titch,’ he whispered now, putting a finger to his lips. ‘Everyone else is asleep and I’m doing colouring in.’

Josie closed the back door as quietly she could and followed her nephew into the front room. It was a pigsty as usual, cushions scattered across the floor, with little Lou and Sammy fast asleep on top of them. Cans of Special Brew and ashtrays filled the entire surface of the coffee table, and an overturned tobacco tin and papers were strewn across the shaggy fireside rug. In the midst of all this, entirely as she’d expected, Lyndsey and Robbo were top-and-tailing, spark out, on the couch.

‘You want me to make you a pipe up, Auntie Titch?’ asked Robbie, climbing back up to his seat at the table. He was all of eight years old now, and the picture of perfect innocence. It was heartbreaking. He grinned and giggled at her. ‘The idiot showed me how to do it properly.’ He pointed to Robbo, and quickly put his finger to his lips again. ‘But you’re only allowed to call him that when he’s sleeping.’

Josie pulled out the other chair and sat down on it. ‘No, you’re alright, kiddo,’ she said. ‘I don’t smoke that stuff. It sends you loopy, just like the idiot. I can’t stop long anyway. I just called in to say hello, that’s all.’

Robbie frowned, then brightened as his eyes alighted on some of his artwork. He held up a picture. ‘D’ya like my fire engine?’ he asked. ‘I did it to send to Uncle Vin. D’you think he’ll like it?’

‘He’ll love it, kid. And I’ll send it with my next letter. So you keep it safe and I’ll call back for it, yeah?’ He slipped it under his drawing pad, and as he did so, she noticed he was goose-pimpled. ‘You warm enough, Robbie?’

He shrugged and looked up at her. ‘I’m okay,’ he said. ‘We got no gas till Monday, I don’t think, so we can’t have the fire on. I can always get mum’s dressing-gown though.’

Fuming that her sister had once again put beer and fags before heating for the kids, she felt in her pocket for the coins June had left her for chips, marched into the kitchen and put a couple of shillings in the gas meter. She would make do with toast once she got home. She might even have some beans with it, she thought. She wasn’t in the mood for walking down to the chippy anyway, she decided, as, stepping over her sleeping nieces, she went to put the fire back on.

She then gathered up Sammy and Lou, one by one, and took them both up to bed, while Robbie got back to his colouring, though this time in the armchair, nearer to the fire. And throughout all of this, her stupid sister and her equally stupid boyfriend never even stirred. Not even once. They really were beyond belief.

‘Here,’ she said to Robbie finally, having found him a stray chocolate biscuit in the tin at the back of the kitchen cupboard, ‘got a treat for you. Make sure you don’t touch that fire, okay? I’ve got to go now. And off to bed with you when you’re tired – and that’s an order, mush.’

Robbie grinned. ‘I’ll do you a picture next, if you like, Auntie Titch. So’s you can put it on your bedroom wall and make it pretty. What shall I do? You want a pony?’

‘I’d like a unicorn,’ she answered immediately. ‘That’s like a horse but with a horn. Like a rhino has, only prettier. They have flowing manes, and they’re white and they’re magical creatures.’

Robbie frowned. ‘But I don’t have a white colouring pencil. An’ the paper’s white, too, so –’

‘Make mine a rainbow one, then,’ she said. ‘Any colours you like. Make it a colour-changing one, one that’s magic.’

Just like it would be a magic trick if her sister shaped up and looked after her kiddies properly, she thought sadly as she made the short journey home.

It was just coming up to ten by the time Josie’d eaten and gone to bed, having had her beans on toast in front of the telly. Still only early, but she wanted to be sure she was asleep before June and Jock got in. They were bad enough sober, but she definitely didn’t want to have to lie there and listen while they crashed about, pissed as farts, downstairs.

Not that she could sleep. She hating being in the house on her own all the time while her mam and dad got pissed down the pub. At least Caz had a dog to keep her company. She missed Vinnie so much, particularly on evenings like this when, alone in the empty house, she felt so lonely.

She was also kept awake by a simmering sense of anger – was she the only one who cared anything about her family? Her mam and dad were up to God knew what – she didn’t even want to think about it – and her sister didn’t seem to give a shit about anyone or anything – least of all her three poor little kids. And as for Vinnie … well, Vinnie was locked away somewhere, wasn’t he? Did he care? Did he think about her? Worry about her the way she worried about him? She hoped so, but what could he do about anything in any case? Even Caz – Caz had loads of her own shit going on, didn’t she? Why was life so complicated? So bloody miserable? She turned over to face the wall, feeling suddenly tearful. Why couldn’t her brother just come home and make things better?

She was still tossing and turning an hour later, when she heard the door go. Which was odd – it was still too early for her mum and dad to be home, surely? So who could it be? She never locked the door as June never took a key and besides they only had one. She sat up and listened, scared.

She always kept her door shut – she could never get to sleep with it open – and watching it creak open now, spilling light from the landing into a block across the floorboards, she clutched her bedspread to her chest, hardly daring to breathe. Was she going to die now? Was she about to be murdered in her bed, just like the old lady in one of the books Vinnie had told her about?

‘Alright, Titch?’ It was Robbo. She’d know that voice anywhere. And that silhouette, all scraggy limbs, in the doorway. She exhaled, relieved. Much as she couldn’t stand the sight of him, he was a much more welcome sight than the one her imagination had suggested might be standing there.

He looked pissed, of course, and she already knew he was stoned. ‘God!’ she said. ‘Thanks for that! You really scared me, Robbo!’

‘Sorr’ bout that,’ he said, stumbling into the room unsteadily, blocking the light out. ‘You haven’ got any more money, have you? There’s fuck all in and our Rob said you’d been round an’ that, and I’m starving. I’d kill for a bag of chips.’

‘So would I,’ she said angrily. ‘Only I had to put it in your sodding meter. Because it looked like you’d spent your gas money on beer and dope! You’re starving. What about poor Robbie?’

Robbo blinked at her, then shuffled a little further towards the bed. Then over-balanced, and landed heavily, half sitting, half lying across her legs. He smelt rancid. Of stale beer and old fag smoke. He disgusted her.

‘You cheeky little fucker,’ he said mildly. ‘We get money tomorrow, okay? It’s just tonight, that’s all. Go on, Titch. Please?’

Josie recoiled, pulling her legs up and hugging her knees to her chest. ‘I told you. I don’t have any. Now get off my bed, Robbo, and go back home. I want to get to sleep. And me mam and dad’ll be back in a minute.’ She clutched the blanket to her chin again, all too easily imagining a scenario where he passed out again – out cold, on her bed.

But it seemed she had misread his mental state.

‘Oooh!’ he said, trying to rise again, unsteadily. ‘Look at you, all prim –’ he mimed her hands clutching at the bedspread. ‘You gone all shy with me tonight, Titch? Gone all scaredy?’

He laughed then, and made a lunge for the bedspread, grabbing a handful of material. ‘What you hiding under there, eh?’ he said, yanking on it. ‘What you got in there, you little fucker? Something for the lads? Go on, Titch. Don’t be a spoilsport. Show us your tits!’

This couldn’t be happening, not again. This simply couldn’t be happening. ‘Fuck off! Fuck off, you dirty bastard!’ she screamed. ‘I swear I’ll tell, I will! I’ll tell right now, soon as me mam’s home! Get OUT!’

Robbo jumped back as if she’d slapped her, then as soon as he was out of kicking range, put his hands on his skinny hips and stared at her. ‘Fucking hell, Titch,’ he said. ‘Calm down! I was only messing about! I’m not going to touch you.’ He threw his hands up, the palms gleaming palely at her. ‘No way was I going to touch you! No fucking way. You should be so lucky, kid,’ he finished, stumbling back out the same unsteady way he’d come in, then clattering noisily back down the stairs.

Josie ran across and shut the door again, wishing he’d fallen down them and died at the bottom, then pulled her chest of drawers across to block it as best she could. Then she got back into bed and curled into a tight trembling ball.

Lucky? Luck could leave her well alone, then.

‘Stop shivering!’ Downey screamed, ‘you soft little bastards! Get yourselves in fucking line, quick sharp!’

Having been dragged from their beds at 6 a.m., the lads from C Block had woken to two barked-out bits of news from Mr Downey, and neither of them were good. One was that they were to form three orderly lines out in the yard – while still clad only in their underpants – and the other was that they were going to be punished.

Vinnie groaned wearily as they made their way outside. What now? Frank again? He hoped so. Hoped the fucker got shit raining down on him on a daily basis. Though the balance had now shifted, which brought him great pleasure. He had a loyal fan in Kevin, now he knew Vinnie had his back, and Frank knew to keep his distance. Job done.

Lining up, Vinnie turned to the boy next to him, Blond Barry, a lad from further down his wing. He was standing there shivering so much that his teeth were actually chattering. ‘Wonder what’s gone off?’ Vinnie whispered, rubbing his hands vigorously up and down his upper arms. ‘What do you think? Bet that spaz Pemberton’s done something again. Pound to a penny, isn’t it? God, I’m fucking freezing. Whatever it is, this cunt had better hurry up – I’m not missing my scoff for no fucker.’

Barry pulled a face. ‘Dream on, Vinnie,’ he said. ‘If they say we miss brekkie we miss brekkie and that’s that.’

That was Barry all over, that was. Defeatist. One of those lads that always said they just wanted to do their time and keep their heads down – which meant they would take any fucking thing that came their way.

Not that Downey seemed to want to drag things out in any case. ‘Right,’ he boomed, his breath forming a small cloud in front of him. ‘Father Duffy has informed me that one of you little fucking heathens has been nicking his communion breads.’ He paused to scowl at them, scanning the boys’ expressions. ‘They were there before your block went to Mass this week,’ he continued, ‘and gone immediately after. So your rooms are being searched as we speak and woe betide the robbing little bastard when we find him. Mr Conlan is conducting the search and you’ll remain out here till he’s done. Anyone got any fucking objections?’

A collective low groan was the only response. Everyone knew what this meant. Conlan was an even bigger bastard than Downey, and anyone who had given him reason to be annoyed with them this week would now get their rooms completely trashed. Which, in turn, would mean a minimum of five days in the block, three of them spent on basic rations of bread and water. Most of the lads didn’t actually mind the five days but, depending on who it was handing out the punishment, that word ‘minimum’ was key. You could get 10 days, if they felt like it – and Conlan often felt like it – or even 15, and that was a killer.

They stood for 10 minutes – time enough to get frostbite, Vinnie reckoned, or, at the very least, your nuts shrunk to raisins – before Conlan and Duffy came outside. And to a collective lowering of anxious shoulders as they saw what Conlan carried, which was a small plastic bag which looked like it held the communion wafers, or, more correctly, the ‘body of Christ’. Well, ‘correctly’ if you believed that shit, anyway.

They walked straight to Downey, and Conlan whispered something in his ear, which immediately elicited a grin. A sadistic grin, too, the kind he was best at. He walked towards the lads then, and then along the rows, stepping on bare feet as he did so, being careful not to miss anyone out.

Vinnie clamped his teeth together and clenched his stomach as Downey passed through his own row, feeling the hot gust of his breath as he paused momentarily, leaning his weight to maximum effect.

That was what Downey did – liked to shit them up, make them wonder if it was their turn, pausing here and there, sometimes backing up and taking a second pass on some hapless quaking fucker. But today it wasn’t Vinnie’s turn – he had better things to do with his time than nick fucking communion wafers, frankly – and Downey eventually fetched up at, and stayed in front of, a half-caste lad in the middle of the second row.

‘So, Francis,’ he said softly, but still loud enough that everyone could hear him, ‘you thieving black bastard. Fancied a bit of Father Duffy’s communion, did you? What’s up, didn’t he have no fucking bananas?’

The lad’s name was Kenny Francis, and he’d been in borstal nine months, for nicking cars. Even with Vinnie’s side-on view, it was clear by his expression that it hadn’t been him who’d committed this particular crime, but if Downey had him singled out it was odds-on that didn’t matter – he must have pissed someone off at some point and was now going to pay for it. Vinnie wondered who the someone was who’d planted it – some full-on cocky sod; must be. Because Kenny Francis wasn’t a lad to be messed with – not if you had any sense. He definitely wouldn’t take this lying down.

Or from Downey either. ‘Fuck off!’ he responded. ‘That’s not come from my room and you know it. Fucking risk the block for a few wafers? Do I look like a spaz?’

‘No, Francis,’ Downey said, leaning in towards his face, ‘you look like a wog.’

Just as everyone knew would happen, the moment the words were spoken, Kenny immediately took a swing for Downey. And just as everyone knew would also happen, Conlan was there in an instant, and both screws started battering him with batons.

He put up a mammoth fight, but he was pinned down within minutes. Vinnie and the rest of the block could only stand there and watch in disgust as the screws dragged him, bloodied and beaten, towards the shower blocks.

‘Let’s hope Father Duffy had a wank this morning,’ Vinnie whispered, to no one in particular, ‘or Francis will get another arse-whipping in the showers.’

Some of the lads around him giggled nervously, but no one answered. They’d all heard the rumours about the priest – and knew they were more than rumours, too; they’d all at one time or another seen the state of the lads who had been summoned to ‘meetings’ with him. If that was what Kenny Francis had coming, no one wanted to even think about it, let alone talk about it.

‘Go on, then!’ Father Duffy shouted now, as he hurried along to join the others in the showers. ‘Get off back to your block, boys, or you’ll miss breakfast!’

‘Well, the rest of us should be safe then,’ Vinnie quipped as he and the others jogged back. ‘You know what they say – once you’ve had black, you never turn back.’

He felt a clip across his head as Mick Hanley cuffed him. ‘Shurrup, you fucking queen, and get a shift on, will you? It’s Friday. Jam duff day. Come on.’

Mick sprinted ahead and Vinnie followed him, the tension dissipated. It was always like that when someone else had it coming, the poor bastard. A pity, but also a relief: it wasn’t him. All his thoughts were now focussed on breakfast.

The atmosphere in the dining hall was predictably subdued. Everyone knew about the room searches and they all knew that somebody from C Block would – right this very minute – be taking some kind of brutal punishment for something they hadn’t done, because of something they had done to annoy another lad higher up the pecking order.

The lads from Vinnie’s block were especially quiet. Each of them knew their rooms would have been well and truly trashed now, and that any precious, tucked-away bits of baccy, sweets or chocolate would have been stolen for the benefit of the fat bastard screws. A shake-down wasn’t pleasant any time and, coupled with the probable fate of Francis at the hands of Duffy, it would, Vinnie knew, set the mood for the rest of the day.

The screws weren’t gone long. The lads were still only halfway through their breakfast when Downey and Conlan returned, expressions set, either side of a now broken-looking Kenny Francis. They escorted him up to the counter to get a tray of food and then quickly guided him back out, through the now silent dining hall. He would be going down to the block for at least five days, everyone knew, and Vinnie wondered what he had really done for them to be so keen to get him off the main landings.

‘He’ll have done fuck all,’ Mick answered when Vinnie asked him. ‘Them cunts are just a bunch of racist bastards. They’re just trying to break him down, that’s all. Just doing it because they fucking can. Scum, the lot of them.’ He shook his head and pushed the remainder of his breakfast away. ‘Poor cunt will have had Father Duffy up his fucking arse, just because his face don’t fit. That’s how it works, Vin.’

Vinnie gave an involuntary shudder. The thought of it was putting him off his jam duff as well. And with the grim image came a sudden and intense sense of claustrophobia. A kind of nausea. He needed to be out of this sick, depraved hell. ‘I’ve got to get out of this fucking hole, Mick,’ he said. ‘If that fucker comes near me, I’ll kill the cunt, I know I will.’

Mick laughed. ‘You’ll be alright, McKellan,’ he said. ‘Duffy’s not into ginger snaps.’ He clapped Vinnie on the back as he scraped back his chair. ‘Must dash, got a fun-packed day building walls ahead. So have you. Or are you doing your Percy Thrower bit? Either way, don’t work too hard, mush, okay?’

Vinnie smiled as Mick left, his mood lifted slightly. He wasn’t that bad, as far as roommates went. He could be quite entertaining when he wasn’t slapping Vinnie about, and today Vinnie needed a laugh. He downed the rest of his chocolate and then went to check the damage in his room in the half hour he had to kill before he was due to meet his team down in the visitors’ grounds.

Once in there, his mood plummeted again. Surveying the chaos in the one place he felt he could let his guard down, he felt a bad feeling mushroom in the pit of his stomach. It was the same feeling that assaulted him regularly these days; a mish-mash of loneliness because he so missed his mum and his little sister, and anger and frustration and weariness. It was exhausting living with constant threat, having to maintain that constant vigilance; of knowing you existed in a dog-eat-dog environment and if you weren’t top, at best you got shit happen to you, and in the worst case scenario, serious shit happen to you – you got fucked, both literally and figuratively. Those fucking nonces – it sickened him just how everyday a thing it was that the screws used the boys there for their own perverted ends. And you could do fuck-all about it – he could do fuck all about it. Just count the days, count the days, count the days. And hope against hope that nothing happened – nothing that would require him to do something that would see his sentence extended again.

He thought about writing to Titch, then thought better of it. He’d eased off on the letters now – hadn’t written home in ages. Was grateful whenever he lost the privilege of writing home. Because he just couldn’t do it. He’d try but he’d always end up giving up, because he didn’t have a single fucking light-hearted thing to say.

He did some desultory tidying then sat down on the bed, his photo of Titch looking down at him accusingly. Sod it – he had to do it. No excuses. Sit and write to your fucking mother, at least! He ordered himself. Then, rummaging for a pen and his refill pad, he began.

Dear Mam

Bet you thought I’d done myself in or something didn’t you? Ha-ha …

But his mind wouldn’t deliver up a single next sentence. He stared for a couple of minutes, willing himself to just get on and write something. But nothing came. And it was almost time to go now anyway.

He closed the pad and set off to start another mind-numbing day.