However, it wasn’t all bad. I remember many nights we all just sat talking and trying to have a laugh about our day. We would spend hours telling each other stories about what we did back home, how we ended up at DECAF; and my stories about going to sea were a hit. We made plans to escape and all go to Aberdeen together. It was on one such night we found out that Owen spoke Arabic and was able to write in various dialects. Soon a trade was reached where I would teach him and the others Russian in return for Arabic lessons. Over time it fell to just me and Owen to teach each other, and it lasted pretty much the whole two years, both of us promising to take the other to the Middle East and Moscow respectively. I think we were pretty fluent in the three languages of English, Russian and Arabic by the time we left DECAF. One of the few great advantages of a life hidden from the masses is that there’s always plenty of time on your hands.
We were always woken to the sound of the bugle – reveille – and it was loud as fuck; this was the signal to join the rush to the ablutions and my first introduction to the phrase ‘shit, shower and shave’. You had to shave every morning even if you had a face of pure soft baby skin. I know young Bradley took the blade out of his razor and simply scraped foam off his face with the plastic to keep everyone happy. Then after that it was straight into breakfast. I have always liked a cooked breakfast, and I guess we were lucky to have one each morning. My favourite still remains crap cheapo overcooked sausages in a butty made with cheap nasty white bread, too much butter melted by the sausages so it dribbles out and then dipped in egg and baked bean sauce. Not all the meals were in silence and we got to know the slack officers who would allow a little conversation. A few of the lads would then sneak out the ablutions block and have a crafty fag over by the roadside hidden by some trees. Then every morning there would be crowds looking at the noticeboard to check the timetables for lessons and instruction and all manner of other notices before morning parade; there was always some sneaky change to catch out the stupid or simple amongst us. It was done deliberately to keep us sharp, I think.
Morning parade and headcount was the start of each and every day, except Thursdays which was parade in PT kit. On Thursdays the whole establishment would run around the perimeter of the establishment as a wing, in step and at pace. It was about five miles each time. Rain or shine the establishment all mustered on the parade ground for headcount and inspection. Normal parade was conducted full military style and you were inspected for a clean shave, ironed uniform, shiny shoes and smart haircut. It was all bullshit but I guess it instilled the need to be on time, and on time every time. This is where I was to pick up probably the most annoying habit of my life, which is to always be early. Five minutes early is on time, and it’s a discipline that has served me well but can be just the most annoying thing to friends and family, and now I just hate anyone who is late. I’m the guy who is 15 or even 30 minutes early for everything, and I expect everyone else to be early too. To be late for parade could mean anything from extra PT to scullery work or extra cleaning duties or simply a good caning. Or if you fell foul of Mr Tyrell, you’d probably be keyed, and most likely be invited to accompany him to the gym for a beasting. After parade it was off to normal school lessons, with some minor differences to what you might encounter at a normal school.
This was my life for two years. I undertook all the normal lessons of maths, English and the like, endured the separation from family, whilst accepting the intense disciplinary regime coupled with all the bullying on that first year. It was simple reveille, shit shower and shave, iron your uniform or PT kit, breakfast, noticeboard, parade, morning lessons, dinner, afternoon lessons, a few hours free, evening meal, shower, often a film in the main hall and then up to the dorms – a rigid timetable that never really changed and was all announced by the bugle. Once a month you had to attend church, and as the roster rotated you’d pick up the domestic duties. It was straightforward, and so long as you kept your head down and took a few kickings without making a fuss or making any noise about it, time would pass by relatively quickly.
Of course, a lot more went on because we were all there for a reason and not because we wanted to be. I don’t think it is possible to ever fully know what a person is capable of until his or her surroundings are changed so much that it becomes inevitable that a behavioural switch is absolutely necessary in order to meet the appetite of the most basic of human instincts: the need to survive and to endure. We humans are despicable creatures really. We pretend to be civilised, caring and educated, but deep down inside each of us is a beast hiding quietly, waiting for an opportunity, waiting for a meal, and this was demonstrated often by both the staff and the boys. The staff savoured the plentiful opportunities to live out their perverted desires within a leaderless herd which was often forced to turn inwards on itself to satisfy the hunger of the beast within. The beast in you is a skin-changer, a chameleon that will adapt to your surroundings and pretend to be your ally but in truth is the mirror image of the darkest fears hiding your true self within.
Institutions such as the one I found myself in were intentionally built and manned to be the trellis of juvenile discipline. Upon this trellis it was intended that compromised, lost, discarded or confused young boys would be reattached, grown and groomed in some way back into the fabric of society. This is the desire of the populous, a deliberate intention to somehow re-grow difficult or unmanageable boys into worthy citizens deserving of a place on their precious trellis. It was all a paradox; the very place that society had constructed for this metamorphosis of reshaping the future of us boys actually in many cases had the adverse effect. All the boys craved the social lives they had once had; but they had been given such an absurd society in which to live, the trellis simply highlighted the tragedy into which so many boys had now fallen and indeed was pushing others in the same direction.
This place was so unlike the many good groups or institutions parents and society desire their offspring to attend. DECAF offered an education in a more abrupt and immediate fashion. The topics learned here were not just of mathematics, English and science but of life itself. But in this place many of the pupils were already well into completing their masters in violence, perversion and extortion taught by the choicest professionals in whose propensity the darkest of subjects were covered in great detail and included the very best practical lessons.
I think this environment pulled me in many different ways, and I found myself keen to make some decent money again, by whatever means possible. The BULs had the right ideas and ingredients to be successful. They had set up small underground cottage industries or businesses to make some significant financial gains, which included such things as selling tobacco, alcohol; a café, which sold toasted sandwiches and real coffee and tea; a laundry service to have your uniform washed and ironed perfectly; a shoe shining business; and a ‘steal to order’ for those more difficult-to-get items. It was fucking brilliant! Each business relied on an entrepreneurial BUL at the helm orchestrating the smuggling of goods into the establishment, or having some boys escape the compound to steal such goods or use contacts on the outside to complete the supply chain. The boys who were the runners were always Kilks. Runners would go and meet contacts on the outside or be tasked to steal from local shops in order to meet the demands of the businesses on the inside. Failure to return or attempt to escape usually ended in the runner receiving severe punishment from the COs, possibly having your time extended into a further correctional facility depending on your age. Some correctional facilities were run by the HM Prison Service and could keep you up to the age of 23; they were not where you wanted to end up. This was the main deterrent in the runner recruitment process, not to mention the kickings from the BULs for a failed excursion, in payment for the loss of their initial investments. So, I guess there was significant risk.
I immediately put myself forward to be a runner.
The boys in my dorm thought I was utterly mad, but I wanted to escape. Fuck this shit. And working for the BULs gav
e you several additional hours’ head start on a genuine escape attempt as you’d be able to dodge one or even two headcounts. Additionally, of course, it bought favour amongst those in power. I reminded Owen about our talks of escaping and going to Aberdeen and the fact we could actually make a serious run for it. After a lot of deliberation, the lads agreed that it was actually a good idea, but this was after I promised to steal some shit just for them. The issue I really faced was to make a run for it first time and go all out, or build up some trust with the BULs which would also allow me to make some cash on the side. I had no intention of just running for them; I wanted to have a few scams on the side for me and my dorm mates too. I had done the maths: I needed £150 to make it all work just for me, so I had to do some running before I made it out for the big escape.
Stealing cigarettes was a big earner: a pack of 20 cost about £1.20 at the time and the going rate was 20p to 25p a cigarette. Max. profit from a pack of fags was £3.80. So, I if stole 100 fags, a few loaves of bread and some cheese for the sandwich-making business, per run, that worked out at about £60 in profit to the BULs of which I would get 30%, which gave me £18 a run, which meant I’d have to do 8.3 runs to get my £150, which would probably get confiscated! Fuck that! I would have to steal extra fags, some spirits and do personal requests. I planned on two runs then the big one, to properly finance my permanent escape plan.
I wasn’t the only runner, there were a few lads doing it with contacts on the outside for legitimate deals where cash was exchanged from all the running and stealing for high-quality goods such as alcohol. After signing up for the runner job the BULs got me a meet with one of the other runners. I had to attend what can only be described as an interview with him and the BULs in which I had to explain my ability to shoplift and break into people’s homes. I think I mainly bullshitted my way in. They knew I was a good runner as I played wing for the DECAF rugby team and no fucker could catch me once I had the ball. It was heart-pumping fucking excitement. I was finally getting involved in the inner machine.
There were various methods for getting out of the establishment’s fence line but getting back was bizarrely harder, and I was given a few ideas by a lad called Sticky. He was a good runner but had been caught once and given a real beating by the security staff and the BULs, as well as being extended by six months. He was called Sticky because he was a little thieving bastard, and not just from outside DECAF – he’d just fucking steal off everyone, all the time. But he was respected as he delivered pretty regularly. I think he was a prick to keep coming back in to DECAF with so many opportunities to make a final departure, but he supplied me with valuable information on the surrounding area: road maps, locations of easy hit shops and petrol stations, etc., etc.
My first run was a blast. I remember it well. I sat up with the lads in the dorm until maybe 1am with the plan to jump the fence near the railway line at about 5am, allowing me a clear run of about an hour into town avoiding the trains. The nearest town was a shithole but only a few miles’ run along the railway tracks. I was reliably informed that the station and surrounding shops were an easy knock-off. I didn’t sleep but was still given a shake at about 4.30am by the BULs who were sponsoring the run and very eager to get me away. I was given £50 to pay for some exotics, a name of who to meet, a big list of shit to steal and some civvy clothing. Awesome.
It was like I had suddenly become a popular kid; all the fuss and support from everyone to get me out the dorm fully kitted up to do the run was surprisingly well organised and enthusiastic. The BULs had stolen a few come-in-handy tools to get the cage off one of the dorm windows, which allowed me to run across the rooftop to the dining hall and jump down onto the ablutions block’s covered walkway. Then it was off the walkway and across the road into the trees before hitting the fence running parallel to the railway line. It was a real scramble and struggle to get over the fence here but it was the lowest point and it only had barbed wire instead of the usual razor wire at the top, plus the fence was angled over the wrong way, removing any need to go up and under. One of the trees offered a branch close enough to put a foot on and give me a leg up whilst I negotiated the barbed wire section at the top of the fence. I was cut to fucking ribbons but was too excited to give a shit, oblivious to any pain because the adrenaline release was overwhelming now – increased heart rate, lung capacity at 110%, all set for the hour’s run to town; my mind was set and my legs were in auto. Typically, the track ran in a gully with high sides and was well hidden by trees and bushes. I had to pass under the entrance bridge to the establishment with the guardhouse above, which I noticed wasn’t occupied. I later learned the motherfuckers locked the gates and always headed into the complex for a free early breakfast, making early mornings an ideal time to head out on any future escape plan.
I was running like mad now along the tracks, laughing and drunk on the excitement that I’d successfully made it out of the compound. I tried to run faster by stretching out over two sleepers at a time, tripping and falling into the gravel on more than one occasion; it was an anxious half marathon that saw me gasping for breath most of the way. Fortunately, it was a cool morning, not yet light but with enough illumination from the moon to light the path ahead. There was a really cold breeze blowing down that railway track like the surge of wind you feel when you open a door into one of those walk-in fridges at the off licence for a case of beer. Really welcoming at first but only enjoyed for a short time whilst you collected your desires. It was attempting to keep me cool as it cut through the cheap jumper I was wearing to my sweat-soaked body. Now, I’ve always sweated like a defendant on a rape charge and that night was no exception; I was wet through, the nerves driving me on and the excitement and anticipation fuelling the ever-increasing pace. I remember seeing the lights of the station platform coming into view, a warm light that drew me to it like a moth. Glittering dew on the ice-cold steel rails stretching away to freedom was a tempting thought that was a distraction to my already troubled mind.
My rendezvous was waiting at the south end of the platform with the magics and a special order of vodka. There’s no way of describing your first pick-up or exchange but it was kind of boring. Didn’t have a name, just met this guy at the end of the platform who simply said, “Order for 1127,” like I was in McDonald’s or something, to which I replied, “Yep,” and money was exchanged for the goods and alcohol. Easy. Nothing exciting, no big trade-off or guns or threats, just a very simple exchange with no questions. It was all a bit flat to be honest.
I decided to stash it under the tracks back towards DECAF; I had some shopping to do now. The station was deserted, so harder to pull any jobs, but there was a café and a mini supermarket with an off licence over the road. I’d have to wait till it got busier. I had till the lunch headcount to get back. I needed to steal fags – as many as I could get my hands on. Then basically take as much shit off the shelves as possible that would add to my reputation when I got back. Now, back then it wasn’t all CCTV cameras everywhere and impossible to steal stuff, it was just a case of being cocky and a little bit clever. The off licence was an easy hit: they had all the fags laid out on a sloping counter in front of the cashier’s till, not locked behind the cashier in a cabinet. Simple distractions allowed for multiple packs to disappear, along with Rizlas and a few pouches of tobacco and other random stuff. Being so young it was easy to pretend to be interested in football cards and other shite which the shop attendant was really watching. The supermarket was harder. I fucking hit the fire alarm to allow me access behind the counter, grabbed as much as I could, legged it out in the rush and made it casually as fuck straight over the road and into someone’s garden and out of sight. In total I got away with 260 fags, two pouches of tobacco, five packs of Rizlas, two loaves of bread, 2lb of cheese, bags of confectionary, a small bottle of gin, a bottle of whisky, three dirty mags and two wallets. I was up £45 before the cash in the wallets! I needed to get a rucksack for the next hit cos the fucking bin bag split and made for a
nightmare run back to DECAF.
In the small world of DECAF I guess I became a little fucking hero, if only for a short while. I had made a good run which bought off a few BULs, which in turn made life more bearable for me and all the guys in my dorm. I guess they were sort of protected now by me. It was cool. It felt cool and I guess I was ‘in’ so to speak. Plans needed to be made for the next run and it needed to be bigger, and I suggested two boys should go together and work the town centre in a team effort. The Scottish shopkeepers were a little bit tougher to distract or steal from than their English counterparts. Life started to revolve around planning the next run, and the next run and the next, whilst for each subsequent run the orders got a little more ambitious, a little more difficult, which was to be expected I suppose, but I had to bring it back to reality. In truth I’d just been a lucky bastard on my first run, and stealing on an increased scale brought increased risk, plus who the fuck was I to trust to work with me? Planning was fun and infectious and it really had gotten me into the engine room of DECAF, albeit on the wrong side!
I remember selling some of the extra fags I’d nicked, and as a kind of celebration Owen and I decided, as non-smokers, that we should give smoking a try over a gin. I don’t remember much more about that afternoon apart from being violently sick. But for some strange unexplainable reason I tried it again and eventually became a smoker. What can I say, it was good for business. I did two more runs. My third run met with an abrupt ending when I came face to face with the security staff on the railway track below the guardhouse at around 5.30am when they usually sneaked off for their free breakfast.
The Steering Group Page 6
