Street Soldier (3 page)

Sean stripped down to his boxers and passed the pile of clothes to Cage, then stood in the middle of the room for King to make a visual check that he had no contraband taped to his skin. Next the warder ran hard fingers through his hair, peered into his ears, and held his mouth open with a spatula. Finally he patted down Sean’s thighs, arse and balls through the fabric of his shorts.

‘Nothing of interest here,’ he said with a huge smile. Sean guessed it was an old joke. ‘And now we look where the sun don’t shine.’

Sean swallowed, but he remembered how he had resolved to get through this. He hooked his thumbs into the elastic of his boxers and started to slide them down.

‘Don’t be soft!’ Cage shot King a glare. ‘Mr King likes to think he’s a comedian.’

‘Hey, it never gets old. The look on their faces!’

Sean felt his face flushing red and hid his confusion in as much anger as he dared show. ‘So what do I do, then?’

‘You keep yer knickers on and you sit down there.’ King gave Sean a gentle push towards the chair.

‘Just sit?’

‘Just sit,’ Cage confirmed.

‘What does it do?’ Sean asked. He carefully placed his arse on the hard plastic surface. It was even less
comfortable than the seats in the van. At least those were roughly bum-shaped. This was just a hard, flat surface.

‘Scans you. This is the Body Orifice Security Scanner – Boss for short. If the alarm goes off, we know you’ve got something inside you that you shouldn’t have.’

‘What, drugs?’

King shook his head. ‘We’ve already checked that,’ he said. ‘You saw the dog, right?’

Sean remembered the dog. He’d thought it was just being friendly. So it was scoping him out for possession? Sneaky four-legged tosser.

‘Nah, we’re talking way more exciting than drugs,’ said Cage. ‘We’ve had weapons, mobile phones . . . one guy managed a grenade. Had to call in Bomb Disposal to give him an enema.’

‘Mr Cage has been in this job long enough to remember when the only way to find out for sure was to have a good old root around ourselves,’ said King. ‘Progress is an amazing thing.’

‘Christ, it made my fingers sore.’ Cage pressed a number of buttons and looked at the screen. Sean heard a few whirs and buzzes, saw some flickering lights. ‘Boss says you’re clean.’

‘That’s it?’ Sean had been through so much bullshit since getting nicked that he couldn’t quite believe anything could only take a couple of seconds.

‘Unless you’d like us to get the gloves and Vaseline out for old times’ sake,’ King said. ‘This way. Bring your clothes.’

Next stop was a narrow room with another counter and a door at the far end. This counter had a grille from the top to the ceiling. They made Sean stand against a measuring stick stuck to the wall.

‘Tall,’ said the screw behind the counter. ‘Shoe size?’

‘Eleven.’

The counter screw pushed a pair of packages wrapped in cellophane through a square gap in the grille, followed by a plastic box.

‘Your new outfit.’ King pushed the packages at Sean. One was clothing; the other was a pair of scuzzy trainers. King pointed at the box. ‘Everything else goes in there. Clothes, watch . . .’ He tapped the ring in Sean’s left ear. ‘Jewellery, apart from approved religious items. If you’re wearing it, take it off, and it’ll be kept secure for you until your release.’

Sean stared at the box. On its side was a shiny new label showing his photograph and a number. His prison number. If any further confirmation was needed of where he was and what he was, that was it.

He pulled open the cellophane. There were even prison issue Y-fronts. How many other men’s balls had been where his were going? He shuddered.

The rest of the clothing was basically a tracksuit, though the colour had faded from what must once have been a vivid lime green to something more like mould. The material was stretched and worn. He pulled it on silently, while the screw behind the grille catalogued his clothes. The new outfit was a size too large and it hung from his lanky frame like a baggy tent. Sean had to pull the drawstring as tight as it would go to stop the trousers falling down. He felt like a total prat and had no doubt that he looked like one too.

The box was taken back inside the grille – and with it went his last physical connection to his life outside the prison.

He signed a receipt for everything he had given up, and a last cellophane package was pushed through the grille.

King handed it over. ‘Prison issue towel. Ready?’

Sean held the pack under his arm and nodded.

‘This way.’ The warder felt for the keyring chained to his belt and turned to the far door. It opened into a dark, wet night where rain hammered down on a covered walkway. ‘Welcome to Paradise.’

Chapter 3

‘
Fresh meat!
’

The cry went up as Sean stepped out of the rain into his new home. He blinked for a moment, eyes dazzled by the light. Then he felt King’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him forward.

‘
Fresh meat! Fresh meat!
’

It was a group of black lads gathered round a table. They could have been any group of teenagers hanging anywhere, except for the crap tracksuits and the absence of burgers or cans. Some sat; some stood, with a bad case of PBS – prison bitch syndrome, trousers hanging so far down their arses that if they wanted to take a piss, they would have had to pull them up to get everything aligned. They all thumped the table top in time with their chant.

The unit was built around a large triangular open space. Cells lined each of the three sides at ground level and on a higher level, and in between was the common
area. All the cell doors were open. Sean didn’t know what time they all got locked up, but he guessed that during the day they could move about. At least a little.

King just kept walking like the cheering lads weren’t there. Sean glanced around, trying not to look worried. He couldn’t see any other screws. There were prisoners watching TV, playing pool, just lounging on bean bags and jawing. One thing he noticed immediately: each race stuck together. Asians, whites, blacks, each clustered together. Just like the world he knew outside. And the whites were subdivided too. Body language and other subtle clues told him that the group of lads sitting at the table
there
were distinct from the group lounging
there
. The table lads, he was prepared to bet, were fellow East Londoners. The lounging ones had rangy bodies, lean faces, severe haircuts – he wouldn’t have been surprised if they were East Europeans.

Everyone who was standing or walking had both hands shoved down the front of their tracksuit bottoms, apparently holding their bollocks. Maybe for protection, maybe for warmth, maybe to keep their PBS bottoms up . . .

For the first time in his life Sean realized that he had no idea. No idea at all.

Usually, you saw a gang of teenagers, and if you didn’t know them, then you thought,
What the fuck are they doing here?
because they were strangers in your manor. So that kind of streamlined the process of deciding if they were going to be friends or enemies.

He had only a few seconds to size them up. He was taller than half of them. Also probably younger. OK.

He met the eye of the loudest, the largest, as he followed King. The other lad looked back and began to shout and thump even louder. A big cross dangled on a chain round his neck. Sean slowly raised his hand, middle finger extended, and turned it into a scratch behind his ear. Then he lowered the finger again, keeping it extended for as long as he could.

The other lad’s eyes narrowed and he extended his own finger back.

That was the opening pleasantries dealt with.

Sean flashed his friendliest grin. ‘No, but seriously, guys,’ he said as he walked past. He turned to face them so that he was walking backwards. ‘You’re too kind, and I’d love to have you all queue up and suck my dick, but, you know . . .’ He put all the fingertips of one hand to his mouth and gave them an elaborate, lingering kiss. He never took his eyes off the other lad. And as he turned, he tapped the fingers he had just kissed against his bum crack, and gave his hips an extra wiggle for good measure. The message was obvious.

Kiss my arse.

King glanced sideways at him but said nothing. Sean still had no idea if he had just made friends or enemies, but he had made his mark.

And then . . .

‘
Seany!
’

Sean’s head whipped round just in time to catch someone advancing on him like a runaway petrol tanker bearing down on a moped. He just had a chance to take in the shock of red hair and a pair of arms that could bend steel pipes, and then Copper had flung his arms around him in a bear hug and hoisted his feet off the ground, shaking him.

‘Fuck me, it’s Sean fucking Harker! So they sent you here, you poor dumb fuck?’

Copper was a lad with two very obvious defining features. The first was his short, but bright red, hair. And if anyone thought that taking the piss out of it was a good idea, then his other defining feature usually put them off: he was massive.

‘Hi . . . Copper . . .’ Sean gasped between shakes. And even though he was glad, all the usual Copper precautions were sliding into place. You put a smile on your face. You thought extra hard about everything you were about to say, because if he ever took offence, then there would be zero time to unsay it. With these defences in place, you could enjoy being around him.

Because, for all his faults, Copper was one of the three big brothers Sean had never had, along with Matt and Gaz. Copper had taught him to fight, and fight hard. And one or two other lessons, including ‘Don’t be like Copper’.

‘Put him down and step away, Mulroy.’ The warder’s voice had suddenly taken on a harsher tone.

Copper slowly put him down and backed off. ‘It’s OK, Mr King. Sean and I go way back.’ He ruffled Sean’s hair. ‘Right?’

Sean knocked his hand away, still with a grin. ‘Right. Yeah, Matt said you’d be here.’

‘Yeah? How’s he doing, all on his ownsome?’

‘Hey, Mulroy.’ It was the big black lad calling, the one with the cross. ‘Your friend has respect issues.’

‘Ah, fuck off, Tag.’ Copper didn’t even look round, and Sean saw how Tag’s eyes narrowed a little. OK. ‘So, where you putting him, Mr King?’

The officer regarded Copper coldly, but there wasn’t much point telling him to walk away. ‘He’s in twenty-two,’ he said. ‘This way, Harker.’

‘Twenty-two, Sean,’ Copper said with a wink. ‘See you in thirty seconds.’

King led Sean up the steps to the next level, and stopped by a cell door. ‘Your new home from home.’

Sean stepped in, trying to ignore the thick steel that he knew would close behind him soon enough.

The room was small and simple. It was lit by a strip light on the ceiling, and grey light seeping in from a barred window. A single bed stood against one wall. Another wall had a stainless steel toilet and a sink. There was a desk, where a brown envelope lay next to a box just about large enough for a pair of shoes, with a TV above it, bolted to the wall and spewing out the news. The rolling headlines mentioned a bomb alert on the Tube, a stabbing in Croydon, a strike by firemen and ambulance drivers until the police could offer them better protection on call-outs.

‘I’ll be back in half an hour for your first-night interview,’ said King. ‘Until then, just try and settle in as best you can.’

Then he was gone.

Sean chucked his towel on the bed, and tipped the contents of the envelope out on the desk. Two small bars of soap, a white plastic comb, two tubes of toothpaste and a pale blue toothbrush.

‘Hey, Sean, look who’s here!’

Copper filled the doorway behind him, but he pulled someone forward and sent him into the cell with a thrust of one powerful arm.

‘Hey, Sean,’ Gaz Dobson said quietly.

Big brother number three, and the one Sean was actually, properly, glad to see. He hadn’t set eyes on Gaz
since the raid that got him and his old man nicked for running one of the most profitable vehicle chop shops in London. Too much money had been passing through it for either of them to get probation. Losing both Dobsons in one go had hit the Guyz’ income hard.

If Matt had taught Sean how not to get caught, it was Gaz who had taught him how to nick in the first place. Even when he was just a kid, Sean had known his way around a car engine, and how to break into one. It was the ultimate rush and the best way to pull girls.

‘Yo! Gaz!’ Sean strode forward with a grin on his face, hand held out to bump fists. Gaz had shrunk since they last saw each other. He seemed to stand a little wonky, even allowing for the stupid tracksuit. He took just a moment too long to return the fist bump.

‘Good to see you, Sean.’ He winced as Copper thumped him on the back.

‘How cool is this? Three Guyz together – we are going to rule this place. Say, lucky you got nicked when you did. I’m out in January and Gaz is getting on. Few months later, you’d have missed us both.’

It took Sean a moment to work out what he meant. Gaz was pushing twenty-one, like Copper, while Sean had just turned sixteen. Another few months and Copper would be out and Gaz would be too old for a Young Offender Institution. Their paths wouldn’t have crossed.

Gaz was more helpful. He nodded at the small pile of toiletries on the desk. ‘You’ll have to buy your own when they run out.’ He had his arms wrapped around himself.

Sean nodded his thanks and turned to the box. Small boxes and sachets. Cereal, milk, tea, bread, jam.

‘And that’s your breakfast pack. Proper full English on Sundays, otherwise it’s this stuff.’

‘So, uh, Gaz . . .’ Sean sat down on the bed, bounced experimentally. The springs creaked.

‘No silent wanks in this place,’ Copper said cheerfully, and laughed like a drain.

‘How’re you doing?’ Sean finished his question.

Gaz looked at him like he had just said a very, very stupid thing. ‘You mean, apart from being locked up? And the fact that there’s a condition that I don’t ever get to work with vehicles again?’

Sean gaped. ‘Shit, no! But . . .’