Street Soldier

by Andy McNab

  ‘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 . . .’

  There was no but. Cars were Gaz’s life, end of.

  Gaz just shrugged, and got another slap on the back from Copper.

  ‘Ignore him. So, Sean, when we brung you up so well – how did you go and get caught?’

  Sean pulled a face. He’d known this was coming. ‘After you two got nicked . . .’ he began. Copper encouraged him to keep going with a nod. ‘Matt thought he’d give me and Curly a chance to step up . . .’

  Copper’s eyes had narrowed. Oh, crap. When are you going to learn, Sean?

  ‘I mean, obviously, we’d never replace you,’ he said quickly, ‘but, you know, Matt needed the help . . .’

  ‘That’s how it goes,’ Gaz said with a shrug, taking the sting out of it. ‘And?’

  ‘And he took us on a job. Patel’s Quality Used Vehicles, off Ilford Hill.’

  ‘Patel’s, huh?’ There was actually the ghost of a smile on Gaz’s face. Patel’s had been the chief rival to his old man’s operation. ‘Good choice.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sean said heavily. ‘You’d think.’

  It should have been the perfect crime. Sean had been taught by the best in the business – Gaz’s dad – that if you really want to make money, then you let the other guy do the work. You let someone else pimp a car up with all the flash gear, and then you take it all off again. Gaz’s old man made more money selling off the bits – rims, stereos, body kits – than if he just sold the whole car. And Patel’s parts would be untraceable. Half of them would be hooky too, with the old serial numbers filed off. They wouldn’t have been going to the cops in a hurry.

  Sean and the lads would have got into the shop, found the keys to all the cars, ripped off as many parts as they could, loaded them all up and driven them back to a secure lock-up at Littern Mills. Job done and Patel severely pissed off.

  ‘Only it all went tits,’ Sean added, carefully not mentioning who had been the one to drop the phone. Anyway, that twat Curly shouldn’t have nudged him. He described the jump, and the motorbike, and what had happened next.

  Copper howled with laughter. ‘Oh, Harker, you stupid tosser. OK, well, it’s done and here we are. You, me, Gaz – we’re going to rule this joint. You’ll see.’

  Soon after that, King was back. He took Sean to the medical centre, where the doctor listened to his chest and back with a stethoscope, shone a light into his eyes and ears, and asked questions about his medical health. Then it was over to a small meeting room in the unit, where Prison Officer Jacqui Parker shuffled papers in a folder, gave him a patient, friendly smile that was just too switched on for his liking, and asked if he had ever thought of self-harm or suicide. She tried to convince him that if he behaved himself, he could get out of this place with a clean break from the past and never have to come back again.

  After the interview, King took him for his first shower in captivity. Then he was able to grab some fish and chips – and finally it was back to his cell, his hair still damp. The sound of the door closing and locking behind him echoed around inside his skull long after he had gone to bed. At first he just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Next to the smoke detector there was a red arrow in a circle, with words in English and – he guessed – Arabic: Qibla prayer direction.

  Then the lights went out automatically. After that he lay on his back in the dark and stared at the ceiling, where the detector and the arrow would be.

  Ahead of him lay a week-long induction. Then the rest of his sentence. Beyond that, the rest of his life. But to progress to any of that, first he had to get to sleep. It had been a long day, the shittiest one of his life, but it was still way too early for bed, and his body was pumped full of adrenaline.

  Burnleigh was too quiet. Sean missed the music and voices and road noise that you got on the estate. The silence was almost like a steady background roar, but it was enveloping. He could feel it surrounding him, and at last it brought sleep with it. His last thought was that, hey, it was shit but he had two friends here. Well, one fr
iend and Copper. It might be all right . . .

  An electronic scream blasted into his eardrums, and every muscle in his body spasmed. He sat up sharply and bellowed into the darkness. ‘THE FUCK!?’

  Alarms were blaring out in the corridor. DRRR-DRRR-DRRR . . .

  He heard shouts, and booted feet running on lino. There was a crackle of static, and an amplified voice spoke.

  ‘All inmates, stand by your beds and prepare for evacuation. All inmates, stand by your beds and prepare for evacuation . . .’

  Evacuation? Sean threw his duvet back and clambered out. Something tickled his nose, and he paused and sniffed.

  Smoke. Not tobacco smoke. Smoke smoke. The kind that smelled dirty and gritty and burned the inside of your nose. The kind where things were burning that weren’t supposed to burn.

  Fu-u-u-u-ck.

  There had been a fire on the estate when he was little. A confused OAP with dementia, who didn’t understand ovens, had been cooking his food on an open fire in the living room. It had got out of control. The block had been evacuated. Sean remembered the smoke creeping up the stairwells and through the vents. And he remembered weeping with fear and impatience as his stupid cow of a mum waddled her way down the stairs along with everyone else, not letting go of his hand and not moving fast enough.

  To smell that strong, this fire had to be big, or close, or both.

  Sean paced around the cell. The smoke smell was growing more intense. Outside, he could hear the sounds of keys in locks, and men shouting orders. C’mon, c’mon, let me out of here . . .

  And then it was his turn. A screw pulled the door open. ‘Assemble outside the front entrance—’

  Sean didn’t need to be told twice.

  Out in the corridor, he understood why the smell of smoke had been so heavy. The air outside the cell next door was still hazy. From inside he could hear the bellowing gush of fire extinguishers. A dark-haired lad sat by the door, hugging his knees and laughing hysterically while two screws stood over him.

  ‘You dumb prat, Omar!’ shouted a familiar voice. Copper barged his way down the corridor, a scary sight in just his underwear. A screw tried to confront him and was bowled aside. Two more moved forward immediately, shoulder to shoulder to block his way.

  ‘That’ll do, Mulroy.’

  ‘You could have killed us all!’ Copper bellowed. Omar’s laughing just grew even louder.

  ‘Get a move on.’ A screw gave Sean a shove towards the exit.

  *

  It was an hour before they were allowed back inside. The fire brigade had to check the building and confirm that all fires were out. Thirty minutes were spent shivering and trying to shelter from the rain under the plastic cover of the walkway, until the screws finally thought to bring blankets round.

  Sean, Gaz and Copper huddled together in their own little group. Copper was large enough to act as a windbreak for the other two. He and Gaz filled Sean in on what was happening, though he had worked most of it out for himself.

  Omar had set fire to his bedding and clothes. Those things were meant to be non-flammable, so he must have gone to a lot of trouble to get hold of something that would help them burn. And Omar had previous. This wasn’t the first time.

  ‘He’s been in and out of the shrink’s office more often than my dick’s been in and out of your mum,’ Copper explained. ‘Fucking insane, that’s what he is. Should be put away with the other fucktards.’

  So fucking selfish, Sean thought as he pulled his blanket around his shoulders. There had to be ways of topping yourself that didn’t involve killing everyone else.

  Eventually they were allowed back into their cells. Five minutes later, the lights went out again.

  Sean stared into the darkness.

  He had known that this place would be different. He had known that he could take nothing from his old life for granted. This place would not be normal.

  He hadn’t realized just how far from normal it would be.

  He had thought it might be all right. It wasn’t.

  He lay sleepless for the rest of the night, in a place where a lad just like him had been prepared to set fire to himself and everyone else rather than face another day.

  Chapter 4

  The wake-up call: a shrill, brain-shuddering metallic ring. One month in, Sean had learned the hard way to keep his eyes closed until the lights came on. Otherwise you were there in the dark with your eyes open when some screw threw the switch, and then, Aargh! Light speared into your eyes.

  Light and sound combined were a pretty good way of wrecking the sleep of every inmate in the block. The screws’ way of saying: OK, you’ve had your beauty sleep, time to get on with the day.

  Sean grunted and forced his eyes open. Every morning he felt like it took a bit more energy. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept properly. His first night – well, thank fuck there had been no repeat of that. His second night, he had expected to be so tired he would just switch off.

  No such luck. It wasn’t that the bed was uncomfortable. He had slept on worse – or sometimes just passed out, which was more or less the same thing.

  It was just that he was in prison. End of.

  But if he just lay there, he had the horrible feeling that he would be absorbed into the walls. He would become part of the place. An old lag.

  Not going to happen.

  He threw back the duvet and slunk over to the sink to wash his face in icy cold water. It was that, or wait five minutes for something lukewarm to trickle its way from the boilers to his cell and out through the hot tap. Sunken grey eyes stared at him from the stainless steel mirror screwed to the wall above the sink, beneath a fringe of blond bed-hair, all crushed on one side and matted to his forehead. It wouldn’t get sorted out until it was his turn to have a shower. Face like uncooked pizza dough. Fucking hell, he looked ancient.

  Sean stepped back and studied the A4 sheet of paper Blu-tacked to the wall next to the TV. He had listed the days of his sentence, 1 to 182, and put a smiley face at 23, 46, 69 . . . every 23 days, all the way to the end. Each one was roughly an eighth of the total. Days 46 and 138 – the quarter and three-quarter marks – had an extra smiley, and the halfway mark at day 92 had a big PARTY-Y-Y!

  His mouth forced itself into a smile and he crossed off day 33. Over one eighth of the way through, and in less than a fortnight he’d be at the first quarter.

  ‘Yep,’ he muttered. ‘Sean’s coming home.’

  ‘Hey, Gaz! Heart-attack special!’

  Sean put his tray down on the table and dropped into the chair across from his mate. Tables and chairs were all screwed to the floor, to deter anyone from thinking they’d be just the thing to use to cave in someone’s head. The canteen air was rich with every smell the prison could throw at the inmates. Stale breath and sweat was mixed up with unwashed clothes, food, milk and coffee. Through this came the cold tang of air pushing in through open windows, bringing with it hints of the world beyond. Car fumes, damp earth. If the wind was blowing just right, Sean had sometimes caught wafts that reminded him of the baker’s back on the Mills. Most days he’d have killed for a baked-bean-and-cheese slice, or just a decent mug of coffee.

  But Sundays were a break from the breakfast pack that everyone ate in their cells. It was a decent fry-up in the canteen, even though it wasn’t a real fry-up because nothing got fried. It was cooked in the oven – no one trusted inmates around hot oil. But at least it was a meal that filled you up. And it was a day off lessons. Weekdays, they were obligatory, starting at 8.30. The only good thing was you got 40p for every class attended to spend on chocolate or phone credits; Sean had never been one for school – as the three he had been to since age eleven could all confirm.

  ‘Problem, bro?’ Sean asked after a moment, when it became clear that Gaz was saying nothing.

  The other lad looked up from his untouched tray and stared at Sean with dark, empty eyes. ‘This place,’ he said. ‘It’s doing my head in.’

  ‘Uh,
yeah?’ Sean held his hands out as if presenting Gaz with the basic facts. ‘It’s supposed to. You just got to get through it. Don’t let it get to you.’

  Gaz shook his head. ‘When you get out of here, Sean, what’re you going to do? You’re going to go back to the Guyz, right?’

  ‘Hell, yeah!’

  ‘Me, I’m only good at one thing, and that’s what got me in here, and the court says I’ll never be allowed to do it again. Any pig sees me working on a car that I don’t own – I’m back here. Some little old lady breaks down and I help her change her fucking tyre – I’m back here. Except it won’t be here, it’ll be adult prison, which will make this place look like fucking paradise. So every day I spend here is just one less day of fucking boredom before I get out into a world of fucking boredom.’

  ‘Proper Mr Sunshine, in’t we?’

  Sean said that because he wasn’t sure what else to say. That first day they’d met, he’d thought Gaz was fine. Subdued, but fine. Everyone looked a bit down when they were standing next to Copper, drowned out by the big lad’s optimism.

  But even without Copper’s presence to cloud the issue, Sean had started to notice the darkness there.

  Back on the estate, Gaz had always been one of the quieter ones. He had let his expertise with cars do the talking. When he did speak up, he was always worth listening to – it was just that he didn’t need to shout and act up and throw his weight around to get noticed.

  But as the days and weeks had gone on, Sean started to realize that maybe Gaz wasn’t cut out for this place at all.

  He took a deep breath, knowing that the words forming on his tongue could be the end of a friendship. They were just not the kind of thing Guyz said to each other. But . . .

  ‘Gaz . . . mate . . .’ That used up the breath. He took another as Gaz looked at him quizzically. ‘You know, you could talk to someone about it, right?’

  The look Gaz gave him made him want to curl up and die, or cry, or both. And that was so fucking unfair! Sean wouldn’t have said a word if he hadn’t wanted to help. And yes, he knew he was sounding like the prison psychologist, and that meant he might as well just write TRAITOR in large letters on his forehead. But what else could he do?