The Steering Group

by M. J. Laurence

  The showers were kept locked and only opened from 0600 to 0700 and 1900 to 2000. There were about 40 shower heads lining the half-tiled walls of a two-zoned shower area which were turned on at a separate locked stopcock only by a correctional officer at the allotted times. This worked out at about 10 boys per shower, which if no one messed about meant six minutes per shower per boy in the allotted time. The floors were super slippery and there was a pecking order to who showered where and how. BULs had the use of the left-hand side showers, which obviously had high pressure and fully functioning shower heads; and the right side had dribbling shower heads and poor pressure, ideal for us newcomers or Kilks. So, privacy was non-existent and you’d stand there in front of everyone in all your glory, hoping to get six minutes under a dripping shower head, which often didn’t happen, and sometimes you would have to finish yourself off in the bird bath that was the sink. Often boys would sit in a sink naked, feet in the next sink, with a mug to get a bath that way. It certainly helped you get over any shyness you may have had, and forgetting about home comforts happened quickly. Kilks often had to give baths to BULs in the washrooms. I remember the BULs had a lad called Danny 1195 who was the bath boy. Fucking sick. He would have to wash some of the BULs as they sat in the sinks; I think it usually included a hand job. Sick.

  The shithouses were just as accommodating: two rows of shitters and a full-length urinal ideal for sliding young Kilks down and giving them a golden shower at the far end, as Owen had found out early on. The pans were aluminium, with no seat, just two bolted-on half horseshoe plastic ridges which made for a quick shit, all hidden behind broken doors that were only half height. They were generally used for smoking in when it was too fucking cold outside, and wanking competitions to please some of the sexually sick BULs on too frequent an occasion.

  I remember trying to wash my uniform, covered in piss, blood and mud, and trying to get my face back together. It wasn’t gonna happen and I looked like shit. I looked like I had just had a real good kicking and had made a fucked-up attempt to clean it all up, but there was no hiding it. It was one of those moments in life when you know you’re fucked but you look up to see if there’s anyone else as equally as fucked as you in order to have a laugh. Owen and I were in stitches for 10 minutes or more in the washrooms just laughing at each other; at that point we couldn’t care less about drawing further attention to ourselves, although I’m sure it was just as much on his mind as it was on mine that we should try and be quiet.

  Now, it was fucked up how things worked in DECAF but one thing was very, very clear: no one ‘dobs’ anyone in to the COs – one of the many unwritten rules that must be common in all such establishments, I guess. Although we looked like absolute shit there was no way this first scrap was gonna be allowed to be exposed to the COs. The BULs who had given us the kicking came back around and as cool as ice said we were gonna be eating with them. I wasn’t too keen on that idea but I guess we had to go along with it.

  Everything in DECAF was announced by military bugle, and the bugle was sounding for dinner. Now, as a Kilk I had no way of knowing where to go or what to do, or the fact that different instructors had different rules. Owen and I were taken under the BULs’ wing for dinner, not for our benefit you understand but for insurance that they wouldn’t be implicated in what had just occurred. They would simply hide us from the instructors. We went into the dining hall the back way. So, we were dragged out of the ablution walkway over a courtyard and up some stairs into the dining room. We had to go; it was a headcount so no getting out of it. I guess for the other newbies it was just a case of following the crowd every time the bugle sounded.

  The regime revealed itself just a little more as each time the daily routine was slowly unwrapped: the BUL’s had a head boy and NCOs just like the military, and they ran the place following orders from the correctional officers. The boys did the headcount under the supervision of the COs and reported to them. It all started to make sense – I think! It was all run from within, a military regime run by the boys for the boys with minimal input from the COs, which allowed the BULs to basically run the place on their behalf to their own satisfaction, which included bullying, rape, abuse, extortion, theft and racketeering, to name but a few things. It was all corrupt and open to exploitation, making my first thoughts turn to what it would take for me to bribe a BUL to lie on a headcount. Time would tell.

  The supervising CO on that very first night was a Mr Tyrell. He was like an English version of Mr Miyagi from The Karate Kid movie – a little poisoned dwarf motherfucker with small-man syndrome but hard as a coffin nail. He stood maybe 5ft tall, had rotten teeth, a beard which was sort of patchy and incomplete, slicked-back black greased hair strands (he was going bald), dark eyes and tattoos that were faded blue and almost unrecognisable, except for the naked woman on his right forearm, a Japanese lady with a sun umbrella. Yep, Mr Tyrell looked like the devil personified; all he needed was a pitchfork and his act would be complete. Mr Tyrell, as it turned out, was the PT instructor; and his gym, as I would later find out, was really a beating house.

  Mr Tyrell stood at the front of the dining hall, which was built above four classrooms on a lower level and had 180-degree views out into the darkness and the freedom that lay beyond, with lots of old metal-framed locked windows with cages over them. The main entrance was via double swinging doors, mirrored the same by the exit. There was a strict in and out policy in force which any fool could see but which was often forgotten to the detriment of any perpetrator. The dining room was pretty bright and airy, with huge tables with that crap Formica-type top covering. They were sticky and smeared by a poor attempt to clean them with dirty cloths; you could almost write your name in the greasy surface, which ran contrary to the other cleaning regimes I had witnessed. Bizarrely, each table had salt and pepper pots and those super-crap plastic red and brown squeezy sauce bottles that you’d find in a lorry café on an A road or layby somewhere. The blue and white chequered tiles on the floor were scratched and scuffed by the overly heavy bench seats, giving the whole place that nice cheapo, worn, lived-in feeling.

  I was hidden at the back by an overpopulated table of BULs. Absolute silence was required under Mr Tyrell’s watch. It was almost unnerving to be in a room with almost four hundred people in absolute silence. There was the occasional cough or splutter, the scrape of a chair, but it was a long silence that beckoned any sound to enter its vacuum and relieve it of its own torment. I remember one of the BULs whispering to me, asking, “Are you a skinhead?” Back in the late ’70s and early ’80s it was all about mods, rockers and skinheads. Skinheads were sort of an extremist British youth culture that liked to beat up any ethnic minority and anyone else who wasn’t a true Englishman, so I guess I looked the part, and it was kind of intriguing for the BULs who wanted to know more. I guess I played along with this fantasy for a short while to make gains for my own advantage.

  Hundreds of kids had poured into the hall and had taken to the benches as per their allocated wings. Fuck, we weren’t in our allocated wing. I had been in this place less than four hours, had had a couple of fights, looked like shit and was about to get into another darker shade of shit. I remember panicking at this point. It must have been obvious that there was something drastically wrong with us two; still blood-soaked and filthy, we two unlikely characters sitting amongst all these BULs must have really stood out. However, the headcount went off without a hitch; obviously the BUL and Kilk network was working and our whereabouts had been approved to the leaders and everything was covered up nicely, without a fuss.

  So, there we were, four hundred boys all totally silent, patiently waiting for dinner and savouring the meal to come like wolves gathered for a hunting trip, silenced by hunger. It was also kind of cool as so many of the boys knew what was going on and kept looking our way in the silence. But many were left wondering and guessing why we were with the BULs on their table and why we were beaten and bloodstained. It was an ingenious vehicle to spread the fea
r, spread the rumour, spread the message that the BULs were most definitely in control. I was there in the middle of it all, learning to keep my fucking mouth shut, playing along, learning a lesson I took on board wholeheartedly.

  There were a few announcements and a shit-arse sarcastic type welcome to us new boys from Mr Tyrell, and then the food counter shutters went up to reveal the meal for the evening. One lad let out: “About time.” Bad move. Holy shit, you’d have thought he’d committed murder. You could feel a vacuum as the whole room took in a deep breath. The culprit was immediately identified and hauled out in front of Mr Miyagi. Interesting punishment: the little prick had a chain with some big-ass keys on the end; basically, it was a caning with a set of keys – forced on top of a table, bent over and whipped. Fuck me, no one spoke for the rest of the meal. It was somewhat unbelievable that this was even permitted in any way, but there I was just a few hours into my two-year term and it was a fucking big education already. There was no getting away with shit there, not like at home. I think I had met my match and then some at this point.

  This meal, and every meal thereafter, was conducted in orderly fashion, by allocated wing and by table. Not a word was spoken, just eager boys waiting for the nod from Mr Tyrell which indicated they could stand and proceed to the counter. There was never more than one table queuing up at the counter for food at any one time. We were nodded to about halfway through the proceedings as a signal to head off in the direction of the food counters. I was pleased to be shown what the fuck to do and where everything was by the BULs, and of course the order in which to do it all. I remember hiding behind one of the bigger lads to avoid the attention of Mr Tyrell as we trotted off down the dining hall past all the glares from the other lads to the counters which were across from the exit doors. First you had to grab a tray, a plate and a bowl, and they had to be in the right places on the trays as the trays were marked as to where items must be placed, although faded in some cases. The plates were green plastic and about the size of your standard side plate at home. This was accompanied by a green plastic bowl, suitable for a small dog or cat, and a plastic glass which was stained orange by your juice; they only ever served orange cordial, and when it ran out the boys at the back just got water.

  I waited patiently in line, eager to catch a glimpse of the meal, my first in this place, and one I’ll never forget. The food was served by boys on ‘duty week’. Each wing would have a class that would be assigned to domestic tasks all week on a roster basis; I too would get this task in good time. So, there I was, standing there wondering if the boy behind the counter would give me a decent lump of that pie which I was hoping was steak and kidney. I wasn’t disappointed. The mash and veg were served just like at the pub in Newcastle so that was cool, and for a moment I remember my mind being free of the current surroundings, just for the briefest of moments, as I was transported back to Newcastle. The lads were very generous, as everyone had to be because, sooner or later, you’d be on the receiving end as the rotation of boys on duty week moved around, so it wasn’t in anyone’s interest to short-change any boy at the food counter. It wasn’t shit, it was okay actually; I don’t remember ever not eating at this place. There was always a sponge pudding and custard, or even sometimes ice cream and tinned peaches for afters. The breakfasts were always full English, so happy days I guess, especially for those who hadn’t had a good family like mine and had probably never enjoyed three squares a day. Some days there would even be second helpings and that was always well received; the simplest of privileges made a huge impact on the daily life of all the boys trying to get through the two or three years they faced.

  Mealtimes ended just as orderly as they had begun, with a structured process for each wing and tables standing up and clearing the table and taking all the crap to the scullery which was just around from the serving hatches. The scullery was outside of domestic duties and normally reserved for those on punishment. From there everyone proceeded to the main hall where a film would be watched most evenings, but on this first night, or intake day as it was known, we were to be allotted our sleeping billets which were assigned according to which wing you were in. There were four wings each with one hundred or so lads, give or take. They were named Churchill, Wilson, Pitt and Balfour. We were all allotted a dormitory and bed number within the segregation of each wing. There was a great excitement which swept through the entire establishment like a Mexican wave as everyone was eager to learn who they would be sharing a dorm with. This process was as terrifying as it was exciting, as both BULs and Kilks shared the dorms together as equals. So, as it turned out, the BULs were learning who was gonna be in their dorms, who would be their slaves and servants for the night.

  Name, number, dorm wing and bunk number, then off we went back to the ablutions for a six-minute shower, then upstairs into locked dorms with our little bed blocks consisting of two sheets, an itchy blanket, a thin-as-fuck pillow and a pillow case. Everyone needed to be behind locked doors by 2100 except the duty watch who patrolled with the duty COs – a kind of fire watch who occasionally needed to raise the alarm if things got out of hand, things that had nothing to do with fires. There were a lot of alarms, especially in that first year.

  The dorms were on level 4; a main staircase took you to an upper hall where there were two corridors leading away to two sets of dorms and an additional two half staircases up to two other dorm complexes, each protected by a fire door and lockable inner doors. The hospital or medical centre was on this first landing also. My allocation was immediately at the top of the main staircase, up a further short staircase and down a long corridor. I remember my dorm only had 12 of us in it, but most were a lot larger. I had to pass through two other dorms to get to my bunk space, which served as a kind of buffer between my dorm and all the nightly shenanigans. The rooms were Victorian-like, cold and airy but certainly not welcoming. The floors were all polished wood with not a stitch of carpet in sight, very high ceilings, and everything was painted a light grey. Above all I remember it being fucking cold.

  Most lads only had shorts to wear to bed; some of the BULs had dressing gowns and even slippers. However, there seemed to be a significant percentage who only had their pants on and ran barefooted up to the dorms. Obviously mummy and daddy, wherever the fuck they were, had failed to provide anything for those boys, just an additional helping of humiliation. Often the BULs would target these boys for what was called a ‘wedgy’. Two BULs would grab the victim, one from the front and one from behind, grabbing the pants and lifting the victim up by said pants until they split, or the boy had screamed enough to appease the attackers.

  Bedtime, if you could call it that, was really quite something else. I remember on that first night the BULs were in a panic to get all us Kilks together and demonstrate how the beds needed to be made. We were all in bunkbeds (except the NCO BUL’s who had their own rooms), the typical steel-framed military beds with metal battens pulled over the frame by about 40 springs, covered by a rather narrow mattress. The sheet had to be pulled really tight and have hospital corners. Dalton demonstrated the methodology of how to stretch the sheet by pulling it over a bent-up mattress, which when released would pull the sheet completely taught – tight enough to bounce a coin on, fucking brilliant! This would come in handy later on. The blanket had to be folded exactly twice the size of the DECAF rulebook, which you had to carry at all times, and the pillow placed neatly on top with the crease in the pillowcase athwart the bed. Fuck me, when do you get to sleep? I remember thinking.

  At 2130 a bugle would sound and the duty CO would conduct rounds of the dormitories, which usually took about an hour, and then it was lights out. Even numbers must be standing up on even days, and odd numbers lying to attention in their beds, and ‘vicky-verky’ on odd days. The dormitory would be called to attention when the CO came in, and upon being told to stand easy the standing boys were to immediately get into bed and lie to attention. Funny as fuck. I remember Bradley 1129 opposite me jumping up onto his bed and
the whole thing collapsing through to the bunk below as nearly all the springs had been removed. He slept on the floor that night, not that there was much sleeping to be done. It was funny to see that bed collapse, and I smile to this day as it was the first of many practical jokes that I was either a part of or a victim of in my many years that followed in the military.

  After the duty CO had left, all manner of shit started to happen, as if the bugle were the starting gun for the night’s events. It was like zombies coming out after sunset. All the BULs went around the dorms seeking out who was new in their wing and where they all were, looking for an excuse for a fight or to flex their muscles as the guys in charge. Haunting, hollow, distant echoes of boys crying out or screaming from distant dorms pierced any silence, but like a storm approaching they soon became closer and more audible, before any conversations were soon overpowered by lads being beaten in their beds close to us on our wing. And then the storm would pass. There were some fucked-up lads in there and I guess we just lay there hoping it wouldn’t come our way. Many nights passed like this, waiting, cowering in fear, but over time we would talk till the early hours, and the 12 boys in my dorm all looked out for each other.

  Occasionally we would fight back and have a scrap if the fight came to our dorm. I like to think we took our fair share that first year but looking back I think we were pretty lucky actually. Not everyone had the bottle to fight back; it attracted attention and further fights. Bradley was the weak one in our group and was always sought out by a few of the headcases from other dorms to give him a hard time; it was very regular. Poor little fucker took some shit and we couldn’t defend him all the time; the BULs would come in force and take me and Owen on whilst Bradley was dragged away kicking and screaming like a girl. Often, we would spend long nights trying to console him after he came back to our dorm. He would often cry himself to sleep.