by Michael Wood
After years of wrangling, it was eventually sold cheap to a private organization who were able to adapt Starling House into what it is today – a secure home for some of the most violent boys in Britain.
Before it was due to open in 1996, almost every resident of Sheffield had signed a petition and staged protests outside the Town Hall demanding the council not allow it. The people of Sheffield boycotted Starling House. Nobody applied for a job there, so staff had to be drafted in from elsewhere and live on the premises.
During the summer months, when trees were in full bloom, Starling House was invisible from the main road running past it, and people could pretend it didn’t exist. When autumn came, and the leaves had died and fallen, Starling House could be seen through the barren branches for miles. It was difficult to avoid, and the imagination was left to fester and mutate and come up with all kinds of stories of what was going on behind those thick stone walls.
Kate Moloney had been at Starling House since it eventually opened in 1997; starting as a junior officer before working her way up the promotional ladder. She was the only original member of staff left. It wasn’t easy to keep people as many found it difficult to be surrounded by such evil on a daily basis. There was the odd security officer who had stayed longer than two years, but the majority moved on just as Kate was getting to know them.
Kate showed Ryan around Starling House personally. She wasn’t afraid to be left on her own with the teenage boys, despite the tabloid newspapers labelling them as the most disturbed children in the country. By the time Kate saw them they all had the same look – frightened, nervous, worried, petrified, and wishing they could travel back in time to undo their violent deeds.
She stole a glance at Ryan who, at first, dragged his feet with his head down, but eventually looked up and was either impressed or scared by the imposing building. High ceilings and ornate stonework adorned every corridor and room. Any removable original features had been taken out long before it became a home for teenage murderers – the sweeping oak staircase, the stained glass windows in the atrium were all gone. It was a bland, dull, lifeless building with very little character and charm. Depressing, cold, and stark, it was a building with no redeeming features.
The first stop on the tour was the gym. Kate didn’t linger too long in here. There was a damp problem which was getting worse; the smell was an assault on the nose. The library and computer room were adequately equipped but nothing was state of the art. Even the books looked like they belonged at a jumble sale. As they went from room to room Kate tried to engage Ryan in conversation: did he like computers? Did he read much? Was he a fan of the gym? Each question was answered with the same monotone grunt or shrug of the shoulders.
The recreation room was a large space with a pool table, table tennis and football tables, as well as worn sofas surrounding a widescreen TV with DVD player and games consoles attached. At the side of the room there was a bar (without alcohol). There were patio doors leading out into the grounds but these were securely locked and alarmed.
‘Most of the boys like to come in here when they’ve finished their lessons for the day,’ Kate said. They stood in the doorway.
At the top of the room four boys were standing around the pool table wearing the identical uniform of navy combat trousers and grey jumper. They weren’t close enough to engage in conversation. The four stopped their chatting and looked at the new inmate about to join them, then went back to what they were doing.
‘Craig,’ Kate called to one of the boys at the pool table and beckoned him over. ‘Craig, this is Ryan Asher. He arrived last night. Could you introduce him to the other boys – show him around the rec. room?’
‘Sure,’ Craig shrugged.
‘Excellent. Thank you. Ryan, it’s almost time for lunch. Afterwards, I’ll talk you through the timetable we have for your lessons then I’ll introduce you to the staff.’
‘OK.’
Kate smiled and left the room, closing the door behind her.
She made her way back to her office. It was difficult to take an impression of Ryan Asher. He had barely said a dozen words to her. She thought of herself as a good judge of character and hoped Ryan wouldn’t cause too much trouble.
‘Richard, you haven’t seen Oliver anywhere have you?’ she asked the fat guard who had shown Ryan into her office as she entered the main hallway.
‘He’s in the rec. room,’ he replied in his usual flat burr.
‘I’ve just come from there.’
‘No idea, then,’ he shrugged and went on his way.
‘Charm personified,’ she said to herself.
Craig walked slowly over to Ryan and eyed him up and down, taking in everything about him from his shaven head to his battered Converses. They were almost toe to toe, and Craig was still staring.
‘So … where you from?’ Craig asked. He had stale bad breath and his teeth were brown.
Ryan thought it best not to flinch from the smell. His fellow murderer may take offence.
‘Norwich,’ he replied with a catch in his voice.
‘Oh. I’ve never been there.’
‘It’s nice.’
‘Maybe I’ll go one day then. You could show me around.’
Ryan gave a nervous laugh, thinking Craig was joking. The look on Craig’s face told him he wasn’t. ‘Erm … OK.’
‘Well, let’s show you what’s what.’ He pointed to the various items. ‘Pool, football table, table tennis table. You know what they’re for. TV with PlayStation One and a Wii, for some reason. The DVDs are in the cupboard, but don’t expect any of the new releases. And, we’ve only got Freeview.’
‘OK,’ Ryan replied.
‘Let me introduce you to the other lads. You’re number eight, and they’re not all here at the moment as some are doing extra lessons. Anyway, playing pool is Lee and Jacob. Lee is the blond one. Thomas is sat reading as always—’
‘What’s going on?’
The door behind them opened and in walked Callum Nixon. Tall, well-built, heavy brow and swagger.
‘Just showing the newbie around.’
Callum circled Ryan, having a long, lingering look at the skinny young boy. He slammed his arms down, grabbed him around the shoulders and marched him off to the centre of the room.
‘Let me guess. Craig’s been pointing out all the features like he’s selling a house on one of those shit programmes on Channel 4. I’ll show you the real Starling House. This is the rec. room, which is our only private place. You’ll notice there’s no guards in here. That’s because this is our room. If you see a guard in here, you know there’s been some shit going off somewhere. I’m Callum. I’m from Liverpool, and I sit on the recliner next to the sofa. If I catch you sitting in it, I’ll gut you. Understand?’ Callum’s face remained stoic – he wasn’t joking.
With wide, frightened eyes, Ryan nodded.
‘Good lad. Now over there we’ve got Jacob. He raped and murdered his girlfriend. Next to him is Lee. He set fire to a caravan while his parents were sleeping in it. Killed them both. Craig killed his parents too, didn’t you, Craig?’
Craig gave Ryan a small smile which twitched at the corners.
‘Thomas, sitting down reading, as always, hacked his entire family to death with an axe, including his eight-year-old sister.’
‘Why don’t you tell him what you did?’ Jacob called out.
‘I don’t need to tell him what I did.’ He leaned in to Ryan and whispered in his ear, loud enough for the rest to hear though. ‘I’m Callum Nixon. That’s all you need to know.’
‘Leave him alone, Callum,’ Lee said, noticing the look of horror on Ryan’s face.
‘I’m just acclimatizing him to our little fun house. He needs to know who he’s going to be living with for the next few years.’
‘No, he doesn’t. None of us need to know.’
‘Look at him, Ryan, he hates horror films and practically shits himself whenever anyone talks about violence, yet he can happily kil
l his parents without giving it a second thought. Stick with me, Ryan. They’re a bunch of nutters in here.’
Ryan broke free of Callum’s hold and backed away. ‘I need the toilet,’ he said, barely above a whisper and ran out of the room.
‘You can’t leave it can you, Callum?’ Lee said.
‘What?’ he asked as if he’d done nothing wrong. He looked around at the accusing faces staring at him. ‘What?’
‘You’re a real dick, do you know that?’
Ryan entered the toilets. He didn’t need the toilet, he just wanted a few minutes to himself. He felt overwhelmed.
Ryan looked at himself in the mirror. He looked grey and drawn. How had he ended up here like this?
He turned on the cold tap and splashed his face a few times but it didn’t make him look any different. The main problem was how he felt on the inside. He felt sick, his stomach churning and performing somersaults. Ryan hadn’t been here a day yet and he was already panicking about the rest of the week, let alone the next three years. After that was Wakefield. He knew about Wakefield. It was category A – where all the serious criminals went.
‘I’m so sorry, Mum. Please come and visit me. I need you,’ he said to his reflection.
CALLUM NIXON
Liverpool. March 2015
It was my first day back at school. I’d been suspended for five days after having a fight with Harinder Goswami in the chemistry lab. He started it but, just because he got burnt with some kind of acid, I ended up getting suspended. He wasn’t even that badly burnt. Talk about an overreaction. All the teachers have it in for me, just because I won’t take any of their crap. Teachers think they own the pupils and we’ll do what they say. Well, they don’t own me. My dad taught me from an early age that you have to stand up for yourself in this world and not take any shit from anyone – and I’ve got the belt buckle marks to remind me.
I was told to use my suspension to think about what I’d done, to think about what I wanted out of life and where I wanted to go. Mr Stockwell said I was on the road to failure. Mr Chandani said I was on a slippery slope. Who do they think they’re talking to? Well, I knew where they were going to end up. In a shallow grave, that’s where.
I spent my week off playing on my Xbox and planning how to get back at that fucker Harinder Goswami. I’d been banned from Facebook for racist abuse, which was a load of bollocks, and Twitter had closed my account. I wasn’t bothered. Social media’s for wankers anyway.
First day back and it was the only time I’ve ever looked forward to school.
I stood at the gates and watched everyone arriving. They didn’t have a clue. I was going to own this school. I was going to be remembered. I walked up the drive and heads turned. Kevin Walsh looked shit scared; he’s always looked like that since I threw that lit firework at him. Fiona Bishop smiled. She wanted me, but she’s been with Harinder so I’m not going anywhere near her. Who knows what she’s got! Barry Richardson saw me but quickly turned away. I smiled at my handiwork. His hair still hasn’t grown back.
Mr Chandani said I had to go straight to his office before I started class. Fine by me. If he wanted to be my first victim, so be it. I went straight into his office. There he was, sitting behind his desk in his cheap suit. Fat bastard. God I hated him. Before he had the chance to look up I pulled the knife out from up my sleeve and slammed it into his neck. Piece of piss. I pulled it out and kept ramming it in and out until he fell off his chair. He was on the floor, his hands covered in blood as he tried to stop the bleeding. It didn’t take him long to die. The blood soon stopped pumping out between his fingers and he closed his eyes. Bastard. I hacked up some phlegm and hit him right in the face.
I was surprised he didn’t scream. I suppose it’s difficult to scream when you’ve got a knife in your throat. I was really disappointed. I wanted to hear him begging and pleading as I took his life. Never mind. There’s always next time. One down, one to go. Maybe two.
Mr Stockwell was in his chemistry lab getting ready for the class to begin. There were a couple of swots in there before the bell. I slashed at one girl, – never seen her before, and Kieran Ashley was there so I stabbed him in the shoulder. Prick. He sold me a dodgy iPhone last Christmas. Stockwell stood up. He looked like he was going to piss himself. He told me not to do anything stupid. I’m not stupid. He’s stupid – three years at university, ten grand in debt – and working in a shitty school teaching a bunch of scallies. I stabbed him in the stomach; he bent forward so I got him in the neck. He fell to the floor so I got him twice more in the back.
That pervert who teaches us rugby, Mr Rushworth, charged into the classroom with that Irish teacher no one can understand, Mr Allen. They tackled me to the floor. I looked up at the clock on the wall. It had only taken ten minutes to off two teachers. I’d like to have got Mrs Pritchard who takes me for maths, snotty cow, but, never mind, I got the main two.
I looked over to Stockwell and saw the life in his eyes fade. That was cool – actually seeing someone die.
I was pinned to the floor for ages until the police arrived. Mr Rushworth was calling me all kinds of names. I just looked up at him and smiled. I’d never felt so alive. Best. Monday. Ever!
FOUR
The first day at Starling House for Ryan Asher had been daunting and frightening. After a mediocre lunch he had been to see the therapist, a Doctor Henrik Klein. He was a tall man who looked long past retirement age. He was completely bald with a bushy moustache that covered the whole of his mouth, muffling his words as he spoke. Originally from the Ukraine, he had lived in Britain long enough for his accent to morph into a broken attempt at English. He spent the first few minutes of the session leaning back in his armchair, arms folded, looking at the frightened teenager sitting opposite.
‘So, how are you feeling?’ His moustache bobbed up and down as he spoke.
‘OK,’
‘OK? You’re only feeling OK? Anything else?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘You don’t think so? How can you not think so? Surely you know how you feel.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘What are you fine about? You’ve been brought to Sheffield under the cover of darkness and find yourself living in a maximum security youth prison with seven other killers, and you’re fine? You’re not scared, frightened, petrified? Shouldn’t you be crying in agony? Or are you so hardened that nothing fazes you anymore? I need more from you than “fine”.’
The forty-five minute session continued like that with Dr Henrik Klein learning absolutely nothing about Ryan Asher other than the fact that he was scared and wanted to see his mum, even though he knew it was never going to happen.
After therapy, Ryan needed a few minutes alone. The session had been heavy and demanding with Dr Klein throwing question after question at him as he tried to get him to admit his real feelings. He had no idea what his feelings were. He felt numb and wanted to go home, yet there was no longer a home for him to go to. Unfortunately, there was to be no respite. He was sent straight into the office of Mr ‘Call Me Fred’ Percival, as the other boys referred to him, for a basic English and maths test. He was an imposing man with a high forehead and fat stomach. With a thick Brummie accent he told Ryan that he lived on the premises during the week so would be around if he had any questions about absolutely anything.
‘It’s a tad overwhelming, all this, isn’t it?’ Fred said, looking at the wide-eyed teenager. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. It’ll take you a few days to settle in, get to know your way around, and the other boys, but you’ll soon find your feet.’ He smiled.
‘Thanks,’ Ryan said, and smiled for the first time in months.
Fred climbed down from the desk he was perched on and went to sit next to Ryan, placing a large hand on the back of his shoulders, similar to what Callum had done, but Fred wasn’t threatening at all, although he did seem to be standing a little too close.
He leaned in, merely inches from Ryan’s face. ‘If you eve
r want to talk about anything, not just maths and English, don’t hesitate to ask, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘Good lad,’ Fred said. ‘Right, shall we get started?’
The tests were relatively easy. He struggled on a few of the maths questions but managed to answer them all within the time limit. He breezed through the English test. He remembered one of his teachers, Mrs Moore, had told his mum one parents’ evenings that if he concentrated more in class instead of messing about he’d go far. She envisioned a bright future for him. Her powers of clairvoyance were obviously having a day off. He had no future of any colour.
With the tests finished, Ryan was shown into the recreation room where the other seven boys residing in Starling House were whiling away the dull afternoon.
He tried to sneak in undetected but the creaking hinges on the door betrayed him. The boys were scattered around the room – some were playing pool, others table football, and the rest were watching a DVD. He slinked over to the sofa and perched himself on the end. He looked uncomfortable as he leaned back and watched the TV. It was showing a Star Wars film but he had no idea which one.
He kept looking at the boys around him but didn’t see their faces or their awkward smiles, just their crimes. Lewis Chapman murdered his younger brother. Mark Parker beat his father to death and strangled his mother. Lee Marriott killed his parents by setting them on fire, and Craig Hodge killed his aunt and uncle. Then there was Callum Nixon. Ryan had taken an instant dislike to the cocky show-off. He seemed to delight in people knowing he had killed two teachers. What the hell was he doing here living with these evil monsters? Then he remembered. Ryan was an evil monster himself. He wondered if the other seven felt the same regret and remorse as he did.
