Street Soldier

by Andy McNab

  ‘Talk,’ Gaz said.

  ‘Well – yeah. Talk.’

  Gaz didn’t blink. ‘About what?’

  ‘About . . . you know . . . Oh, forget it. Forget I spoke. Forget everything.’ He attacked his breakfast angrily and a shadow reached over his tray. Sean took a tighter grip on his fork and raised it. ‘I wouldn’t,’ he said, without even looking up.

  ‘I wasn’t doing nothin’,’ Copper said cheerfully. He sat down opposite Sean, next to Gaz, squeezing his bulk into the plastic seat. He reached again for Sean’s fried bread.

  Sean raised the fork again. ‘I’ll stab your bastard meat hooks if they get any closer to my tray, I promise.’

  ‘Hey, Sean. Seany. Half that lot’s wasted on a skinny shit like you. I need the fuel.’

  ‘And I need you to keep off.’

  Copper grinned. ‘You know, you’ve changed.’ He turned his attention to the pile of food on his own tray.

  ‘You haven’t,’ Sean replied.

  ‘Hey, once you achieve perfection, I say leave well alone, yeah?’

  Sean smiled, couldn’t help it, as Copper flexed a bicep and kissed it. ‘You really are fucked in the head – you know that, right?’

  Sean talked to Copper like that because it was the only way to keep him normal. It was what he understood. And having a friend the size of Copper was no bad thing – it made other people steer clear. It worked on the street, it worked in here.

  ‘Class A headfuck, me,’ Copper agreed proudly. ‘Right, Gazza?’

  Gaz sighed, pushed his tray back, got up. ‘Fuck off, Copper,’ he murmured. He took the tray, still laden with food, over to the disposal slots.

  Copper actually looked a little surprised, maybe even hurt. Then he shrugged and burped, long and loud. The stench of it rolled over Sean like a cloud of vom.

  ‘God, you’re hideous,’ he said. Deep down, he meant it too. Was it worth pointing out that Gaz seemed unhappy? Would Copper even believe it? Probably not.

  ‘You wait till this all comes out the other end.’

  ‘I’ll pass. Cheers.’

  Copper pushed his own plate back and stood up. His tray looked like it had been licked clean. ‘Laters, Seany.’

  Sean nodded and watched Copper wander off, then turned back to finish his meal, though he knew he’d still be hungry even afterwards. He reached for his drink, just as someone barged into his back. Water spewed across his food.

  Sean swivelled angrily in his seat and looked up into the face of the black guy he knew only as Tag. The big guy, the loudest of the Fresh meat crew, who had complained about his respect issues on his first day. A couple of other black guys hung in the background, like reserves. Tag was casually fingering the cross around his neck. Sean had found that, in here, a lot of lads discovered God in a big way, as a means of protection. They wore the big crosses for all to see. If Tag had found religion, it didn’t seem to have made much impact on the rest of his life.

  ‘Fuck you looking at?’ Tag said.

  ‘The twat who ruined my fucking breakfast,’ Sean snapped back.

  ‘Done you a favour then, haven’t I?’ Tag replied. ‘Tastes like dog shit. You should be thanking me.’

  Sean chucked his cutlery down on his tray. He had met plenty of lads like Tag. Lots of swagger, lots of over-the-top body movement to emphasize every word they said. It just made the lanky wannabe gangster seem even more of a dick.

  A dick who wanted a fight. It wasn’t coincidence that Tag had waited until Copper left. They both knew this couldn’t end well, but Tag didn’t care. He wanted to hurt Sean – as a matter of principle and because it would earn him respect from his crew.

  Respect was the only thing they both had. Sean and Tag were about equal when it came to education, cash, and prospects for success in the world outside. But Sean knew that he had the respect of the only people whose opinion mattered to him – Gaz and Copper and Matt, and all the Guyz – and he had earned it, so fuck what anyone else thought.

  Tag had probably never earned a scrap of respect in his life, except through fear and being a tosser. He just claimed it, and picked fights as an easy way to get it from other losers like him.

  ‘You’re not even going to apologize, then?’ Sean said, with not a lot of hope.

  Tag sneered. ‘You’re having a laugh. I ain’t apologizing to no one. You should be apologizing to me, man, for vexing me. And I don’t like being vexed.’

  Sean was tired. He was hungry. And he just wasn’t in the mood for any of this. He rose to his feet, no threat, just calm and casual, but Tag bumped him back down into his seat.

  ‘Reckon you should stay seated – know what I mean?’

  Sean breathed deep and slow, taking air in through his nose, then exhaling through his mouth. He was reading Tag now, watching for any small signs of his next move. When it came, it wasn’t much. A flex of the jaw, a tightening of a fist as an arm pulled back just a little.

  Sean didn’t wait. He ducked down and sprang away as Tag came in with his right hand white-knuckle tight. Only Sean wasn’t there any more, and the movement sent him off balance. Now Sean was on his feet and Tag was stumbling forwards in front of him. Sean hammered down onto the back of Tag’s neck with his right forearm.

  This wasn’t a street fight where you had time to go in for another attack. Here, you had to make whatever you were doing count, because the prison officers would be on you in seconds. No messing around. So all Sean’s weight and strength went into that one forearm swipe. Tag didn’t stand a chance: he crashed down onto the floor.

  Tag’s two reserves had already fled. Sean laughed and stood back. He knew what was coming next.

  Before he’d even had time to put both hands above his head, three warders were on him, with two others closing in. He didn’t fight back, didn’t struggle. No point getting a broken arm on top of everything else.

  Prison called it ‘basic’. Sean called it ‘solitary’. It lasted a week.

  With all his privileges revoked, he was moved out of his cell and placed in the solitary wing. A single cell, smaller, more basic than the usual, locked in for twenty-three hours a day. No exercise, no education. Just enough time to get showered, grab food, then back to the four walls.

  Day one wasn’t so bad. He managed a little exercise – star jumps, stomach crunches, press-ups. He read some of a book he’d been allowed to take with him. He had chosen it because he’d seen the film and it was pretty decent.

  Day two came, and Sean started to notice something weird about his time. There seemed to be more of it. And no matter what he did with it, he couldn’t get rid of it. Sleep didn’t come easily. He was restless. Exercise seemed pointless. The book was dull.

  Day three, he started to think about what lay outside the cell: the people, the noise, the endless space. A car might strike you down as you crossed the road. Some git a thousand miles away in some country you would never visit might decide it was your turn to die today, and a bomb would take your life without you ever knowing. Out there struck him as a dangerous place to be. Perhaps staying in the small cell made sense. Most of that day he spent perched on the bed hugging his knees.

  Day four was the complete opposite. He paced about the little room, convinced it was getting smaller. Did the walls creep a little closer every time he took his eye off them?

  He stood on the bed to peer out of the high, narrow window. Shit, there were trees out there. Trees! It was late autumn and the leafless branches made him think of bare bones clawing at the sky. Even so. He quite fancied climbing a tree. That would be fun. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done it, if he ever had. Funny, he thought, how here inside a prison he could see more trees every day than he’d ever seen in his whole life, and yet he still couldn’t get to them.

  Day five, he had a visitor, and his life changed for ever.

  Chapter 5

  ‘Uh – hi?’

  Sean stopped just inside the door to his tiny cell. The screw who had escorted him from
the showers gave him a shove in the back and closed the door, but didn’t lock it.

  A man stood in the middle of the floor with his arms behind his back, feet slightly apart, back straight, like he owned the place. Like he was the one receiving the visitor. Sean guessed he was in his late thirties. His face was worn and lined, his light brown hair cropped short. A furrowed brow sat above pale grey eyes that were frighteningly alert. He wore green slacks and a white T-shirt over a wiry, athletic frame. The shirt had some kind of crest on the left breast.

  He smiled when he saw Sean, but . . . that smile. It wasn’t a friendly, pleased-to-meetcha smile. It wasn’t the sneer of a Tag or the mad grin of a Copper. It was . . . it was the way Sean might smile at a new Ferrari which he just knew he was going to wire later that night. Quiet, keeping it to himself, but supremely confident that he would get what he wanted.

  ‘Sean Harker. Hi. Phil Adams.’

  It was a London accent. Adams held his right hand out to shake and Sean clocked the tattoos straight away. The man saw where Sean was looking and held out the other hand. Both powerful forearms were heavily inked.

  ‘Matching pair,’ he said with another, friendlier smile.

  Sean didn’t return the smile. Adams lowered his hands.

  ‘Mate,’ Sean said. His voice sounded weird in his ears – the first words he had said out loud to another human for five days. ‘If you get locked in with me for another twenty-three hours, then I’m keeping the bed.’

  ‘They’ll let me out. Do you want to sit down?’

  Sean wasn’t sure he did. They were about the same height, so he wasn’t about to be intimidated, but it was clear from Adams’s body language that neither was he. The man perched himself on the edge of Sean’s table. Sean sat on the bed, a safe distance away, so that he could sit without craning his head upwards. Adams picked up a slim plastic folder from the desk but didn’t open it.

  ‘So. One month down, five to go, and you get yourself thrown in choky. Careless, any?’

  Sean shrugged.

  Adams opened the folder and made a show of browsing through it. ‘Twelve months for taking without consent, and obviously not your first time, just the first one they got you for. Bit of a petrolhead, are we?’

  Another shrug.

  Adams went on. ‘My sister’s lad says petrol is a chemical for turning money into fun. Here . . . I’ve been dying to show this to someone who will appreciate it.’

  He dug out his phone and flipped through screens until he had the picture he wanted, before holding it out to Sean. Sean waited – to show he was only doing this because he wanted to – then took it to see what the fuss was.

  The screen showed a couple of smiling lads, maybe a bit older than him, apparently standing in a road while they gave a thumbs up to the camera.

  He almost asked, ‘Who’re the losers?’ but something about Adams’s obvious pride said maybe he shouldn’t. He read the status caption.

  Hey, this is us on the Mulsanne Straight, hours before the 24-hour Le Mans cars were doing over 200mph down here!!

  O . . . kay. He had to admit, that really was quite cool.

  He handed the phone back.

  ‘That’s my nephew and a mate,’ Adams said. ‘They saved ages for that holiday.’

  And suddenly it was clear. Sean grinned, without finding anything funny. Different way of doing things, same old bollocks. The prison was trying a new way of making him into a useful member of society.

  ‘And . . . here it comes. The lesson.’

  ‘And what lesson would that be?’

  ‘You know, the lesson. You don’t need to steal stuff, Sean. All you need to do is work hard and you’ll get your rewards that way.’

  ‘Well, shit, you saw right through me. Don’t I feel dumb.’ Adams was back in the folder. ‘Now, apart from that one incident with Joseph Ajayi, aka Tag, you’ve a clean record in here. So what comes next? When you’re out?’

  If it was a choice between his old life and serving up fries for a year on a zero-hours contract so he could stand on the Mulsanne Straight, Sean knew which one he was going for. So he looked Adams in the eye. ‘Back to my mates,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, yes. The Littern Guyz, right? Bit after my time, but I still know the names. Friends, loyalty, identity. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  His voice grew unexpectedly warm and Sean cocked a suspicious eye. Adams was the first adult inside to talk about the Guyz like membership wasn’t a dose of chlamydia, and that put him on his guard.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I know exactly where you’re coming from, which is why we’re having this chat. I’m after lads with similar sets of values who might want something with all the benefits of the Guyz and none of the drawbacks. A number of other inmates have been identified as suitable and I’ll also be speaking to them. At the moment it’s invitation only. So . . .’

  Adams opened the folder and passed a sheet of A4 paper to Sean. He took it, flipped it round, and read what was on it. Two minutes later he raised his eyes to stare at Adams.

  ‘You’re joking, right?’ he said. ‘You can’t actually be serious.’

  Adams shook his head. ‘It’s a new initiative,’ he said, nodding towards the sheet. ‘Full approval of the Ministry of Defence. The government wants to try it in a couple of places like this before rolling it out further. So it’s a test case, a pilot thing. An army cadet force in a Young Offender Institution. Still a few bits and pieces to sort out, so it goes live in January.’

  Sean shook his head. ‘I’m not a toy soldier.’ He pinched the tracksuit top he was wearing, stretching out the material. ‘And I’m sick enough of wearing green. So whichever dickless politician thought this up, you can tell them I’m not interested.’

  ‘I understand.’ Adams shrugged. ‘It’s not for everyone. Some will always find it easier to back off from a challenge than try it out first.’

  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.