The Hunted

by KERRY BARNES

  ‘Who’s the boy, then? Is he Tiger’s?’

  Tatum laughed. ‘Cor, mush, he could be anyone’s. She likes to put it about. She reckons it’s some bloke that’ll kill her if he finds her. Me, I reckon it’s all bullshit. Anyway, have yer seen Richard? He’s a tall, lanky boy.’

  ‘Nah, Tat. I’ve just come off the yard. You’ll meet the lads. They’re cushty. There’s me cousin Lexus, me nephew Kane, and a few others off the site who are in ’ere wiv me.’

  ‘Nice one. Got any baccy?’ asked Tatum, itching for a smoke.

  ‘Fuck off, Tat. Smoke yer own. And listen, boy. Don’t go getting in people’s faces or throwing yer weight around. There are a few hard men in ’ere, who’ll take yer ’ead clean off yer shoulders. Keep yer mooi down. They don’t take too kindly to travelling boys in this nick; we’ve a bad name. Some pikeys have done over a load of oldies, and now they’re tarring us all with the same brush, so slow down.’

  Ricky could tell then that Tatum wouldn’t be lording it over whoever this Henry was. He’d been well and truly put in his place.

  ‘All right, bruv,’ said Tatum, lowering his overexcited voice to a whisper.

  ‘And don’t call me bruv. It’s a dead giveaway.’

  Ricky got up from his bed and paced the floor, the words ‘hard men’ and ‘pikeys’ swirling around in his head. Surely, no one would know he was a traveller? He couldn’t speak anyway. The noise outside was quietening down, and he wondered what was next. The officer had said that he would be put on a course to learn how the prison worked and what was expected, but he didn’t say when. Suddenly, a buzzing sound like a fire alarm brought him out of his daydream. A deep, loud voice shouted, ‘Lunchtime!’

  Then there was another burst of activity. He could hear people walking and nattering. He remained where he was, too nervous to face the hordes of violent, scary nutters. Unexpectedly, his door opened, and there stood Blair, his personal officer, with that same stone-faced expression.

  ‘Get ya tray and go to lunch, Menaces.’

  Looking around for a tray, his hands were visibly shaking, and this was quickly noticed. ‘In that bag!’ Blair pointed.

  Ricky quickly retrieved the tray and waited for instructions.

  Surprisingly, a warm smile appeared on Blair’s face. ‘Come on, son, it ain’t that bad. Just follow the others in the line and bring your lunch back to your cell. You’ll get the hang of it.’

  Ricky mouthed the words ‘Thank you’ and received a more generous smile from Blair. Immediately, Ricky felt his anxious mood lift.

  Outside the cells on the landing were men of every shape, size, and colour. They were all heading the same way, all walking with a swagger, with their shoulders back and their heads up.

  As Ricky joined them, he received a few nods and some glares. Directly in front of him stood a man shorter than himself, with blond cropped hair and wide rounded shoulders. As the line moved towards the serving hatches, another line of inmates was walking back with their trays loaded. A heavyset black man with cornrow hair and a thick, jagged scar down his left cheek brushed past the blond man, but Ricky, who could spot an ant on a beach at twenty feet, noticed he passed him something. He wished he hadn’t. For, as his eyes clocked the parcel changing hands, the big black man twigged that Ricky had spotted what he’d done. He stopped in his tracks, and his threatening eyes looked deep into Ricky’s, as if to warn him. Ricky put his head down and shuffled forward, trying to slow his racing heartbeat. As he reached the serving hatch and held up his tray, a toothless greasy-looking inmate slapped a spoonful of mashed potatoes, a thin meat pie, and a portion of what looked like slushy cabbage on his plate, using his dirty hands to do so. Ricky moved on to the next hatch where he took a bottle of water. Keeping his head lowered again, he walked back to his cell. Although the food didn’t look appetizing, he didn’t care because he was used to Jackie’s shit food at home. The only decent bit of grub he ever had was from any offerings Mena gave him. She often tried to fatten him up and would wander over to the log – his log – and hand him a pie or a fat meat roll wrapped in one of her tea towels.

  Just as he’d finished his plate and swigged the bottle of water, there was a sharp knock at the door. He assumed it was his personal officer, or Tatum. He got to his feet and pulled open the door, only to find a strange face glaring at him. A short, fat black man, with blue eyes and gold teeth that were almost blinding, looked Ricky up and down and clocked the tatty trainers. Footwear can say a lot about a person: it was like looking through a window to a person’s soul. He then studied Ricky’s frightened grey eyes and smiled.

  ‘What’s ya name?’ he asked, in a flat tone.

  Ricky’s eyes widened. He couldn’t answer, so he quickly pointed to his mouth and shook his head.

  ‘Someone cut ya tongue out?’

  Ricky nodded.

  The black man frowned, unsure if Ricky was serious.

  ‘Dez wants a word, so follow me.’ He didn’t wait for a response but just walked out of the cell and along the wing to the end cell. Ricky followed, two paces behind.

  Outside Dez’s cell were two other black men. They watched with sneering eyes as Ricky approached. One sniggered and sucked on a roll-up and the other raised his chin in a threatening way.

  ‘Go in,’ said the blue-eyed man. Ricky hesitated at the doorway. Inside the cell was the big guy who had slyly handed the blond man the parcel. He was sitting at a desk on which stood a cup of coffee, a bar of chocolate, and a backgammon board. His shelf was loaded with books and trinkets and the walls were coated with pictures, photos, and drawings. It was a far cry from his own bare cell.

  Leaning back on his chair, he pulled a fat joint from behind his ear and flicked his head for Ricky to enter. ‘Sit there,’ he said, as he pointed to the chair opposite. Nodding to the fat man, the cell door was instantly closed, leaving just Ricky and Dez alone.

  ‘What’s ya name?’ he asked.

  Ricky expected him to have a Jamaican accent, but he didn’t. He spoke more like a Londoner.

  The nerves had got to Ricky and his legs began to tremble; there was something very ominous surrounding Dez. Ricky shook his head and again pointed to his mouth.

  Dez leaned forward in a fast movement. ‘Answer me!’ he bellowed.

  Ricky shrank back, his hands held up protectively in front of him. He could feel the sweat on his palms and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He pointed to his mouth again and shook his head, before lowering his hands under the table and clenching them together.

  Dez laughed as though he was coughing. ‘Ya can’t fucking rabbit, eh? Well, that’s good, that’s fucking good. So can you write?’

  Ricky shook his head and lowered his eyes. Of course he could write a little, but he wasn’t going to tell Dez that because it was a form of communication and he really didn’t want to engage with the man. The atmosphere was loaded with intimidation and so he wanted to be out of here as quickly as possible.

  ‘I bet you’d like a nice fresh pair of trainers, wouldn’t ya?’ Dez’s voice softened.

  Ricky didn’t know what to say. His non-verbal skills boiled down to a nod, a shake of his head, or a shrug. He went for the shrug. Then he wished he’d shaken his head.

  ‘I’ll sort you out a pair. Now, it’s gonna be tough in ’ere. You’re new, young, and with eyes like yours, you’re bait. I can ’elp ya, though. Ya see, everything that goes on in this nick gets run by me. D’ya get me?’

  Ricky didn’t really understand but he nodded just the same.

  ‘I know a few old men ’ere. They’re dead ugly motherfuckers, and they’d love to get their hands on you. Those pretty eyes of yours and that innocent face, see, they could easily imagine you as a woman.’ He gave a crooked, slimy grin and licked his lips. ‘I know you wouldn’t like that one little bit.’

  Ricky understood precisely what Dez was on about. He didn’t like the sneaky expression on the man’s face.

  ‘Wanna bar of choc
olate?’ He slid a Snickers bar across the backgammon board.

  Ricky gripped both his hands tight. Accepting the chocolate would mean he was engaging in a deal of some sort. And by the threatening look on Dez’s face, it wouldn’t be in his own interests to do so.

  ‘My offer is not acceptable?’

  Ricky was now burning up with fear. He couldn’t take the chocolate, but how could he refuse?

  Just as he was about to place his hand over the Snickers bar, there was a knock at the door, along with a commotion outside.

  Dez sat up straight as the door opened. A solid-looking white man, with giant hands and a scruffy beard, which coated half his face, stood in the doorway. ‘Dez, mate, he’s one of ours.’

  Ricky recognized the deep voice as Henry’s, although he hadn’t met him face-to-face.

  ‘You’ve got some fucking front, walking into my cell and telling me he’s one of yours. Tell me, what the fuck did ya think I was doing? And, more to the point, are you suggesting there’s a fucking divide?’

  Henry shuffled nervously. ‘Nay, Dez, I just thought you’d wanna know, is all. The boy’s a retarded mute, a travelling boy, no use to anyone.’

  Dez laughed. ‘So why the fucking interest then, Henry?’

  ‘We looks after our own. It’s our way.’

  Dez looked down at Ricky’s trainers. ‘Ya fucking scummy pikey. You expect me to believe that, do ya? Look at his feet.’

  Henry cast his eyes down and then felt awkward because Dez was right. The boy had worn-out trainers that he wouldn’t have given to his dog to chew.

  ‘Now, fuck off, Henry, and make sure you and your scurvy lot keep their noses out of my business. There will be consequences, otherwise. D’ya get me?’

  Henry gave a quick nod and left, pushing past Dez’s lackey.

  Ricky didn’t know whether to follow Henry or stay where he was.

  ‘That, there, is a good example of what goes on in ’ere. See, that Henry, he’s a fucking wanker. He wants you to earn him money and what’s he gonna do for you in return? Well, I’ll tell you. Fuck all, that’s what.’ He clasped his hands together with his elbows on the table. ‘Ya see, me, well, I’m not like the dog shit in here. If you do me a favour, I return it.’

  Ricky was taking it all in. Any protection from the travellers was a short-lived notion. This man clearly called all the shots.

  Without pushing Ricky too far and scaring the boy off, Dez smiled and said, ‘Think about it. If you want protection, new trainers, decent food, and certain rights, then, tomorrow, come and see me.’ He looked down at Ricky’s feet again. ‘Size ten, I take it?’

  Ricky quickly got up from his chair and hurried along the corridor. In a panic, he forgot which cell was his, and behind him, he could hear laughter. He knew his cell was somewhere near here. Then he saw the light that was covered by a wire cage; he knew his cell was next to that. However, he hadn’t realized that there were more enclosed lights, and so with a dry mouth and his hands shaking, he opened the door of the cell he wrongly assumed was his.

  Propped up on the bed, with a fag paper between his fingers, was a man who also had a scar down his face, which ran from his forehead to his chin. He was tall with a wild look in his eyes.

  Ricky froze to the spot. Oh my God, this place is full of monsters, he thought. I’m going to be eaten alive.

  The man stopped licking the fag paper. ‘Lost, are ya, son?’ His words were fast, but they had reasonable normality about them.

  Ricky was now white and trembling. And he suddenly jumped, when the man with the long scar leaped up from his bed. ‘Oi, I don’t fucking bite. Christ, I might look like one ugly bastard, but you’ve no need to jump, fella.’

  Ricky took a deep breath and wiped his brow.

  ‘Fucking ’ell, lad, come in and take a seat, and before you think I’m a nonce or anything else, I ain’t. Jesus, ya look traumatized.’

  Ricky glanced behind him, closed the door quietly, and quickly slipped into the cell and sat down.

  ‘I take it you’ve just arrived? Never been in prison before? It’s hard, mate, eh? But listen, keep yaself to yaself. Don’t get involved with anyone. That’s my advice.’

  At once, Ricky felt confident enough to look the man in the face; as he did, something stirred inside him. It was a feeling, a comforting sensation, yet he had no idea why.

  ‘Me name’s Willie. And what’s yours, son?’

  Ricky felt a sudden covering of goose bumps, as if someone had walked over his grave. He tilted his head to the side and tried to recall if he’d ever met the man before. However, although this inmate’s style of talking stirred distant memories, they were so vague, he guessed he should attach little significance to them.

  He pointed to his mouth and shook his head.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ He frowned. ‘Can’t ya talk, mate?’

  Ricky swallowed hard and sighed. He shook his head and gave a resigned expression.

  Willie lit the end of his roll-up. ‘Well, you’re gonna be a fucking bundle of laughs.’ And then he chuckled to himself. As he stood up, he ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Wanna brew, mate?’

  Ricky felt another odd sensation. No one had ruffled his head since he was a kid. At least that’s what he thought he remembered.

  He nodded and a gentle smile crept across his face, showing a hint of a dimple. Willie shook his head as if he was seeing things. That expression stabbed at his heartstrings. He turned away and pulled down two mugs from his shelf and popped a teabag in each. ‘Wait there, lad. I’ll get the hot water.’

  Ricky felt the most comfortable he’d ever been since he’d arrived. Looking around the cell, he saw a few photos of a young lad around twelve years old, who looked a lot like Willie.

  On the shelf there were books and toiletries, and under the bed, his shoes and trainers were neatly lined up alongside two plastic boxes. It wasn’t like Dez’s cell, but it was homelier than his own. Obviously, Willie had a family who sent stuff in. He wondered if Jackie would do the same, but then he thought, Who am I kidding? He would be lucky if she even came to visit. No, he thought, make that unlucky. If he ever saw her again, it would be a moment too soon.

  Willie returned with two steaming mugs. ‘There ya go, boy. Get ya laughing gear around that.’ He sat on the bed and raised his mug. ‘Cheers.’

  Ricky grinned again and raised his mug. The warm liquid was like heaven. He hadn’t tasted tea in a while and he found it so refreshing. His mouth had been dry since he was arrested. His anxious nerves had dried him right out.

  ‘I don’t, as a rule, get involved with new inmates. I keep meself to meself, most of the time, but – and I ain’t being derogatory when I say this: ya look a bit like bait. Ya gotta be the youngest in ’ere. Are you on ya own?’

  Ricky tilted his head to the side and rocked his hand back and forth, meaning ‘so-so’.

  Willie rubbed his bristles, contemplating how to word the next question. It was hard and a bit of a game, trying to ask a question that required a yes or no answer.

  ‘Are there people in here ya know?’

  Ricky nodded and curled his lip.

  Willie laughed. ‘I get it, mate. There are people in here ya know but you’re not keen on?’

  Ricky smiled and nodded.

  ‘Are they family? The two new lairy little fuckers, Tit and Tat or whatever the fuck they’re called?’

  Ricky frowned at hearing their names and Willie had a pretty good idea why. He was not cut from the same cloth, that was clear. Willie wasn’t sure why the gentle expression and open face were stirring feelings of protection in him, but, whatever the reason, he had the urge to take care of the boy.

  He’d met Tatum and Tyrone when they’d arrived and wasn’t keen on their bolshie attitude and self-assured ways. He’d laughed to himself, thinking how they would probably get the cockiness kicked out of them. They were banking on the support of Henry and a few other gypsies, but Henry didn’t carry enough weight to protect t
hem – not from the likes of Dez and his motley crew.

  Ricky felt comfortable enough to try and communicate. He pointed to Willie and then ran a finger down his own face and shrugged.

  Willie chuckled. ‘How did I get this scar?’

  Ricky nodded with a smile.

  ‘Well, I used to carry this knife around. I called her “my girl”. It’s a diver’s knife that I use in my line of work, see. Anyway, I got jumped by three old geezers, two in front of me, so I pulled me knife out and tore into one of them. I nearly took his arm off, but the sneaky bastard behind me grabbed the knife. The bastards used me own knife to cut me head in half.’ He laughed and slapped his thigh.

  Ricky’s eyes widened.

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t that bad. I reckon it was the quack who stitched me up that fucked up. He must ’ave been pissed or something. He sewed me face like a patchwork quilt, the knob’ead.’

  Ricky was still smiling and enjoying the way Willie spoke. It was different, yet so welcoming, compared to the gypsy chat.

  Willie rambled on while Ricky listened. An hour or so had passed, when Willie sat up. ‘’Ere, fancy a game of pool? Me mates will be back from the gym. I’ll introduce ya.’

  Ricky nodded. He was feeling relaxed and safer with Willie by the minute, so he was more than eager to stay in his company.

  They wandered along the wing and down the metal stairs to the ground floor. There were two pool tables and a few tables and chairs with chessboards and other games on them.

  ‘This is the recreational area. The screws will put you on a course on Monday, no doubt, to tell you how it all works, but I can fill you in, mate. So, when the buzzer goes, it means lunch, or dinner, although the food’s shit. We have exercise on the yard, where ya can get some fresh air, and we have a gym so ya can build up your muscles.’ He pinched Ricky’s arm and was surprised that under the baggy sweatshirt the boy had tight, solid biceps.

  ‘I guess you already work out, eh?’

  Ricky shook his head.