Street Soldier (6 page)

Sean didn’t like the implication. ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t up to it. I said I wasn’t interested.’

‘So you’re happy just being a waster doing fuck all with your life?’

Sean blinked. He had never heard a member of staff say ‘fuck’ before. Some rule about half the inmates technically being children.

‘Are you allowed to talk to me like that?’

‘I can talk however I like.’

‘Look, I just want to do my time,’ Sean said, working hard to stay calm. ‘I don’t want to run around in some crap uniform, doing push-ups and star jumps. You think that’s better than the Guyz? You’ve got no idea. No idea at all.’

Adams rolled his right sleeve up to the shoulder. Sean stared at the ink. He didn’t recognize it exactly, but he knew what it was. A gang mark.

‘Got that twenty years ago. My mates, my gang – they’re all gone now. Dead, or gone straight, or inside. Mostly inside. Yeah, I could get it lasered off, but it’s a reminder. Where I’ve come from, what I’ve done, where I am now.’

‘You’ve been inside?’ The question blurted out – Sean couldn’t help it.

‘Not . . . technically.’ Adams let the sleeve drop back and pulled up the hem of his T-shirt. A scar stretched from his belly button diagonally across his abs – which Sean couldn’t help noticing were a lot more prominent than his own, and he knew he was fit. ‘I got stabbed, spent a week in a coma, five weeks after that on life support. So I got time off in lieu.’

Sean didn’t move. He wanted to say something that would shut the man down for good, but he was on the back foot now. The words wouldn’t come.

Adams tugged his shirt back down. ‘What you have here, Harker, is a choice. Take a look around you. This could be your home on and off for the rest of your life. It’s comfortable, you get fed; you’re pretty safe too. Don’t even have to think for yourself really, do you? Just let the state sort everything out. Did any of your schools teach you enough science to know what a parasite is?’

Sean sat up straight. ‘Who you calling a parasite?’

‘Or you could grow a pair and do something. Put your skills and talents to use.’

Sean laughed. ‘Read the file, mate. My skills and talents are twoccing cars and getting into fights. Not saluting some bloke I’ve no respect for every day.’

Adams shook his head. ‘First,’ he said, ‘the only way
you can show some bloke any respect at all is if you first learn to respect yourself. And from what I see, that’s a long way off from happening. And second: Vietnam, Malaya, Oman – all military campaigns, but which is the odd one out?’

Sean stared at him. ‘You what?’

‘It’s Vietnam. Absolute fiasco. The other two were led and won by the British Army. And the way we did it was we won the locals over to our side. Instead of bombing them into the Stone Age and expecting them to be grateful for the privilege of being on the front line, we used the skills they had in their native environments. You’re a native, Harker.’

‘Only problem is, we’re not at war.’

‘You reckon?’ Suddenly the smile was still on Adams’s mouth but it had left his eyes. ‘We’re at war right now. Just because you don’t see it on CNN, don’t think it isn’t real. It’s building on the streets, and one way or another you’re going to be a street soldier – maybe in uniform, maybe not.’

Suddenly there was a screw at the door, jangling his keys to make a point. ‘You’ve had your five minutes, Sergeant. I need to lock Harker up.’

‘Coming.’ Adams stood and headed for the door.

‘Hey . . . Sergeant?’ Sean began.

Adams paused by the screw, looked back. ‘Didn’t say,
did I? Yes, I’ll be in charge of it.’ He touched one finger to his forehead. ‘Don’t bother saluting. I wouldn’t want you to salute some bloke you’ve no respect for.’

So, that was day five.

Days six and seven just sort of merged. Adams’s piece of paper lay untouched on the table.

Day eight, Sean was in his own cell again.

King escorted him back. He stood in the middle of the floor and looked around. It was a strange anti-climax. It was cool to just be left there and not have the door locked behind him, but even so.

‘You been re-assigned to a lesson schedule yet?’ the warder asked.

‘Not yet.’ Again, his voice sounded unusually loud inside his skull. He thought of going to see Gaz or Copper to announce his return – but they would be at their own lessons. ‘Can I have a shower, Mr King? Could do with a good hot wash.’ The showers in basic were time-limited and supervised.

‘Not the usual time of day, but – sure, knock yourself out.’

Sean grabbed his towel and set off.

The shower block smelled of damp and stale water, with a stronger toilet smell than usual today. Noises echoed off the tiled floors and walls, including the trickle
of water from a cubicle that was already occupied. The showers were in individual cubicles; the changing area was common to everyone. Getting naked in front of other guys had been weird at first, but you got used to it.

He stripped off quickly and headed for the cubicle next to the occupied one. Taking a shower during the day was unusual, but hey, he was doing it so why shouldn’t someone else?

He grinned as the hot water hit his skin. He held his head under the flow and let it wash the memories of solitary away. He was letting the water flow over the rest of him when he felt something nudge his foot. He jerked it away instinctively and looked down. Then leaped away.

‘
Oh, fuck, that’s disgusting!
’

All the cubicles had a common gutter, so that your neighbour’s water and grime flowed along through yours and into the drain at the end. A turd, an actual lump of human shit, was bobbing along in the stream, as innocent as a scabby, flea-bitten rat turning up on the kitchen counter.

Furious, Sean rinsed his foot and wrapped the towel around his waist. He hurled himself out and hammered on the door of the occupied cubicle. ‘The
fuck
do you think you’re doing, you—’

The door swung open and he stared straight into the
bloated, twisted face of a lad dangling by his neck from a towel wrapped around the shower bracket.

Sean shouted, but only in surprise, because it took him a moment to realize who it was. The features were so distorted and it was the last person he expected to see. The two realizations came one after another.
This is a guy who has hanged himself who sorta looks like Gaz
. And then he clocked the Guyz tattoo, and he put two and two together, and he shouted more, and the shouts turned to screams.

He threw himself at the body. Water streamed over him as he fumbled at the knot of the towel. It was soaking, and his fingers slid off it. He tried to work them into the knot, but Gaz’s weight had pulled it tight. He had to wrap his arms around Gaz’s thighs and heave him up, which relieved the weight – but now he couldn’t spare a hand to get at the knot.

Gaz’s legs were swollen and dark and his skin was clammy to the touch, like uncooked chicken. Sean squeezed his eyes shut and fought back a heaving stomach. He fumbled for the taps and shut them off, still holding Gaz up with one hand.

He knew even then that it was too late, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t leave his mate to dangle. And so he screamed again as he held Gaz’s weight in his arms.

‘
Help me—
’ He had to bite it off abruptly as his
stomach took advantage of the opening, and a column of vom shot halfway into his mouth. He swallowed, and forced it down, and screamed again with words that bounced back off the dead, flat tiles. And he kept screaming through his tears until someone came.

‘
Help me! Help me!
’

Chapter 6

Sean’s breath condensed in the air. It was a frosty January morning outside, and the gym hall was cold enough to double as a morgue, which was a comparison he didn’t want to make. The screws had told him and a dozen other lads, all of them in their gym kit, to stand in a line. He knew them all by sight. Sean was surprised so many had turned up. There had been nods and grunts when they all set eyes on each other – the closest any of them were going to get to something like,
Hi! How are you?
There was a faint air of embarrassment hanging over them.

Time was something they all had plenty of, but Sean didn’t know anyone who would spend it here without serious persuasion. He wondered if the others had been through anything like he had to motivate them.

With Sergeant Adams, apparently, it was being knifed into a coma. With Sean, it was seeing a friend dangle from a pipe. All his life Sean had made a conscious effort
to be more like Gaz – and apparently being like Gaz could lead to
that
.

No. Not going to happen.

The dull
clank
of the gym door closing was followed by measured footsteps as Sergeant Adams came to stand in front of them. He was flanked by two other men, both seriously muscled. All of them wore pale green T-shirts and camo trousers, with their names marked in black on the left breast.

The sergeant’s voice echoed around the gym. ‘First of all, well done to all of you for turning up. This was by invitation only. Some of those invited declined the offer. That’s their decision, this is yours. You’ve already made a change to who you are and what you’re about.’

If this was just going to be a motivational chat, Sean thought, then he was going to walk.

‘The fact is,’ continued the sergeant, ‘that an initiative like this doesn’t work if people are forced to do it. The army is for volunteers only. Conscription’s no good. We want to work with people who want to work with us. That way, we can achieve something, and so can you.’

Sean was getting fidgety, and he wasn’t the only one.

‘So if you’re ready, I will hand over to Corporals Edwards and Grant.’

The bigger of the two corporals stepped forward.
His skin was as black as the other corporal’s was pasty white. ‘My name is Corporal Grant. You can call me Corporal.’

Sean wasn’t sure if he was trying to make a joke. Regardless, no one laughed.

‘For a soldier to be effective on the battlefield, he needs to be well trained and he needs to be fit. And I don’t mean being able to run a couple of miles in fancy dress for charity. If you don’t like to push yourself, then take the easy option and sod off right now. Because I promise you, you will be pushed – not simply to your limits, but beyond them. Understood?’

No one answered.

‘And just so you know, if I ask a question, I expect an answer. And that answer is
Yes, Corporal
.’

Sean joined in as the line of inmates chorused weakly, ‘Yes, Corporal.’

‘What was that meant to be?’ yelled Corporal Grant, stepping forward. ‘You need to make yourself heard!’

Sean had seen too many war movies where the tough-as-shit drill instructor shapes an unpromising crew of cadets into killing machines, mostly by screaming at them. He had to suck his cheeks in to stop the snigger. Grant glanced sideways at him – only for half a second, but the hardness in his eye was enough to drive all the smirks right out of Sean’s system.

‘Again!’ the corporal ordered.

The line tried again, and this time Grant seemed a little more satisfied.

‘Better. Now, in a line, start jogging round the edge of the gym. And if any of you cuts a corner, you get ten push-ups. Move!’

Twenty minutes in and Sean was screwed. His legs were barely able to keep him upright, and his lungs felt close to being coughed up in a spew of blood and vomit.

‘Keep going!’ Corporal Edwards barked as Sean and the others switched from another dash down the hall, back to pushing themselves through a series of burpees – dropping from a standing position to the floor in a crouch, to spring out into a press-up, then back up again. ‘Pain is weakness leaving the body, that’s all! Do not give up! Do not quit!’

Sean felt dizzy as he staggered to the assigned spot for the next round of burpees. They were a killer. With every rep, his body seemed to get heavier and heavier, with more and more effort needed to get himself back to standing again. Down the line he saw one lad drop onto his face. Corporal Edwards was immediately next to him, yelling at him not to give up, to keep going. The lad dragged himself up, made to walk out, but the corporal followed him. Just as Sean expected to see the lad
disappear through the gym doors, he turned and was back in line.

Sean focused on his own movements. Every muscle was a line of fire, running into joints which felt like they had molten lead pouring into them. He’d been chased by the police, he had run from other gangs, he had been in fights – he had even jumped a three-metre gap between roofs and hit the wall opposite – but this was way beyond all that.

So why didn’t he stop? No one was making him do this. He could just walk out . . .

. . . and go back to a life of staring at walls, just waiting to return to the outside world . . . and end up like Gaz. Something was keeping him here, forcing him to push through the agony and ignore the alarms sounding in his mind to just stop.

A whistle blew.

‘Right, girls, grab yourself a drink, have a breather. Well done.’

Twelve lads slumped by the wall, chests heaving, hair plastered, clothes soaked with sweat. Sean clutched his water bottle, but suddenly found he didn’t have the strength to lift it to his mouth. He let it drop back on the floor. He would try again in a moment.

‘Jesus.’ The lad next to him forced the words out between gulps for air. Sean couldn’t turn to look at him;
his head just sort of flopped round on his shoulders. The lad’s face was split with a huge grin. ‘I feel . . . I feel like . . . like I just had the best . . . shag . . .
ever
.’

‘You . . . you’re . . .’ Sean had to take even bigger breaths just to get a sentence out. ‘You’re definitely doing it wrong, then.’

They collapsed in helpless sniggers which they didn’t have the strength to stop. Then the whistle blew again.

The rest of the session raced by in a blur of sweat, pain and exhaustion. Back in his cell, it was all Sean could do to stop himself spinning down to unconsciousness on the floor. He managed to make it to his bed, limbs aching and shaking. He lay down. Passed out.