The Story of Us

by Barbara Elsborg

  Reality was beginning to sink in.

  “You’ll spend the first night in isolation. Your PO, personal officer, will interview you and make sure we know what you need and you know what we expect from you. Okay? You’ll get a medical too. You’re just out of hospital, aren’t you?”

  Caspian nodded.

  “Nice strip,” one of them said and they both laughed.

  “You could have given me a tip,” Caspian flung back.

  “Not that nice,” said the other.

  He hardly had time to take in the clunk of the cell door locking and register how small and powerless he was, that this was a place he couldn’t get out of, that he wasn’t like the others in here, before the door opened again.

  A stocky, heavily built man walked in. “I’m your personal officer, James Naughton.”

  Caspian automatically held out his hand. The red-haired guy had a complexion that was more freckles than clear skin. He looked to be in his forties, wore an earpiece and carried a clipboard. He stared at Caspian’s outstretched hand and laughed. Caspian let his hand drop.

  “I know what you did. None of your little pals in here do—yet, but they’ll ask. Be careful what you say. Three girls dead because you were in a fucking hurry. I have an eleven-year-old daughter and a son just older than you. You’re a piece of shit. Try not to get under my foot or you’ll be smeared all over the floor. Sit down.”

  Caspian dropped onto the bed.

  “Call me sir. You do not use my name, nor that of any officer in here. You address us all as sir. You come to me if you have any problems. Everything you do gets written up in here.” He brandished a folder. “Don’t make work for me.” He took a pen from an inside pocket. “Have you ever had any feelings of self-harm or suicide?”

  Yes. “No.”

  “Some might say that was a pity.”

  “Who do I report bullying to?” Caspian stared straight at him.

  Naughton laughed. “Me. Who do you live with?”

  “Mother, father, sisters, brother, housekeeper.” Oh shit. There had been no reason to mention the last.

  The guy tsked. “Oh dear. Not sure you’re going to fit in here.”

  Caspian kept his face blank.

  “Do you have any mental or physical health problems? I can see the broken arm.”

  I’ve had my spleen removed, I broke some ribs as well as my arm, I fractured my skull and I’m depressed as fuck. “I was discharged from hospital this morning. They gave me antibiotics and painkillers.”

  “Hand them over.”

  Caspian passed him the bag. The officer looked inside and handed it back.

  “You take drugs?”

  “Nothing illegal.”

  “Drink?”

  “Just a small dry sherry before dinner.”

  Naughton laughed. “Any particular dietary requirement?”

  “Apart from the sherry? I prefer fillet steak to any other cut.”

  His PO rolled his eyes. “Smoke?”

  “No.”

  “Member of a gang?”

  Apart from the Rock Paper Scissors Society at school? “No.” He’d been thrown out of every other group he’d joined.

  “Are you gay?”

  Oh shit and fuck and bollocks. “Why?”

  “Because if you’re gay and receive abuse from other inmates, you can be transferred to the VP unit, for vulnerable prisoners. But once in there, you only get one morning session of basic education a day. The rest of the time you’d be in your cell. So are you gay?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything we need to know about you that might make your stay here more…comfortable?”

  “I’d like 400 thread sheets and a fifty-inch TV.”

  Naughton chuckled. “Wouldn’t we all. Well tonight, your highness, you get room service. Your meal will be brought to you together with a breakfast pack for tomorrow. Watch yourself. Smart-Aleck comments can get you into trouble. There are a lot of tough young men in here and it’s clear you’re not one of them. That sets you apart and anything that does that, can be dangerous.”

  “Right.”

  “You’re not a hardened criminal. You’re a kid who’s made a mistake but a bad one. Behave yourself and you’ll be fine. We operate on a system of rewards for good behaviour. Bronze, silver and gold. I want you at gold and I want you to stay there. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “You do not wreck your pad. You do not get into fights. You do not put one fucking step wrong or you and I will be having words. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  Naughton left and a woman came in with a prison officer. “I work on the health wing. I need to assess your medical needs. You were discharged from hospital this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “It says you had your spleen removed. You had broken ribs as well as your arm and you fractured your skull.” She looked at him. “Do you need any more painkillers?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever self-harmed?”

  Not in the way you mean. “No.”

  “Considered suicide?”

  “No.” Yes. Suicide would really show his father. Caspian swallowed hard. But it would also make him look guilty.

  And that was it. She left. His meal arrived. Curry and rice, an apple, water and a breakfast pack containing cereal, bread, jam and a carton of UHT milk. Ugh.

  The curry was lukewarm and too spicy but he ate the rice, and followed that with the cereal, bread and jam. There was no way he could drink UHT milk. He put the tray by the door and curled up on the bed.

  Please don’t let this be a mistake. Had anger with his father and brother stopped him thinking straight? It probably had. His whole world had just fallen apart. Everything he’d taken for granted had gone. His own space. His ability to choose on every level. Zed was gone. Now all Caspian had was himself and his thoughts. And they weren’t good ones.

  A whole load of yelling and catcalling and abuse echoed up and down the corridor. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but it sounded like a cacophony of devils, just as if he’d landed in hell. He told himself not to cry but looked like he had no choice about that either. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Fuck.

  The following day he was led by Naughton to the second floor of Mako wing.

  “All the wings are named,” Naughton said. “Tiger, Bear, Cobra. Stupid idea in my view. Now you all compete over which is the fiercest. We’re not supposed to have remand prisoners in with those already sentenced but we’re short of room. You’ll have to manage.”

  Caspian looked straight ahead, didn’t make eye contact with any of those out of their cells who were watching him pass. He looked the other way at the netting strung across the gap between the parallel line of cells.

  Naughton saw him staring. “To prevent you being thrown down rather than to stop jumpers.”

  Would it stop him if he wanted to jump? Caspian thought he could probably clear it. Find an edge to slide through. Dive to oblivion. Or to paralysis. Maybe not. Anyway, he’d decided against killing himself.

  Naughton pushed open a cell door. “Here you are, your highness. TV is no bigger in here, I’m afraid.”

  Bunks. At the end of them, a steel toilet with no seat and no privacy. One window with bars as thick as his wrist, but the window was open and he could see blue sky.

  “Stow your gear in the empty locker. Looks like you’re on the bottom bunk.”

  Caspian put his bag on the floor. The pillow and mattress looked disgusting, covered with stains every shade of yellow and brown. When Naughton had gone, Caspian gave a heavy sigh. There was a pile of sweets on the bed—Polos, Refreshers, a finger of Fudge, a Twix, wine gums and some orange squash. A welcome pack and for some reason it made him want to giggle. But the sound that emerged was a strangled sob.

  He took a deep breath and walked out onto the landing. This wasn’t so different to boarding school. Newcomers needed to show they weren’t afraid, start out as they meant to go
on. Except Caspian was afraid. He felt like a baby as he made his way downstairs. These guys had serious muscles and looked older than him.

  As he reached the ground floor trouble broke out. Someone who was cleaning the tables sprayed disinfectant over another guy, punches flew and all hell broke loose. Guys began fighting everywhere as though they’d been waiting for the excuse to thump the person nearest them. Caspian backed off, but his route to the stairs was blocked by two tough looking black guys and one white guy wearing matching silver tracksuits and white T-shirts.

  “What’s your name, fresh fish?”

  “Caspian.” Huh, so much for not speaking. Still, they hadn’t asked him what he was in for.

  “The ghost,” the tallest boy said.

  “That was—” Caspian was going to correct him, tell him he was thinking of Casper, then thought again.

  “What you in for, Ghost?” the same boy asked.

  “Causing death by dangerous driving.”

  Prison officers rushing in to break up the fight pushed Caspian aside. A pathway opened to the stairs, and he fled to his cell to find a black guy lying on the top bunk eating his sweets.

  “Lesson one, man. You leave anything unattended, it’s fair game. You should have gone for the smoking pack. You could have traded.”

  Caspian strode over and slammed his cast against the guy’s stomach. Ouch. “Lesson two. Don’t fuck over your cellmate.” He grabbed what was left of the sweets, then threw the Refreshers back on the guy’s chest. “Don’t like those.”

  Caspian started to empty his plastic bag, stowing the clothes and cheap white trainers in his locker.

  “It’s shit stuff. Don’t expect it to fit neither. Don’t you got your own gear?”

  “No.”

  Caspian made his bed. The guy dropped down, sat on the desk piled with books and car magazines and watched him. “I’m Jason.”

  “Caspian. Sorry about the thump.”

  “Don’t fucking apologise. You did right. I was out of order. You have to stand up for yourself. Lesson number three. If you get involved in a fight, it don’t matter whether you win or lose, you just have to show people you’re not some bitch they can push around. And you have to be prepared to land some kicks and punches if required.”

  “Even if you’re outnumbered?”

  “’Specially if you’re outnumbered.”

  “You didn’t thump me back.”

  “Yeah well, next time. Hey?” He laughed. “We’re sharing. Unless you do something to piss me off, we look after each other’s backs.”

  Caspian nodded.

  “They take our clothes and our names, give us numbers, feed us shit food, treat us like they can’t wait to go home and wash us off their skin. All we have left is our dignity. Stand up for yourself or you’ll go under.”

  Just like boarding school.

  “What you in for, posh boy?” Jason asked.

  “Causing death by dangerous driving.”

  “That’s okay.”

  No, it fucking wasn’t. “Compared to what?” Stabbing someone to death with a screwdriver? He didn’t say that just in case that was what Jason was in for.

  “Being a nonce.”

  “What’s that?”

  Jason laughed. “Christ, you really don’t know nothing. It’s a sex offender. Someone who fucks around with kids. Course you might be a nonce and just been told to say you’re in for death by dangerous driving. Though you look like a kid yourself. How old are you?”

  “Seventeen. I’m not a nonce.”

  “Fucking seventeen? Shit, they must short of space. Eighteen to twenty-two-year olds in Mako. You’re a baby shark.”

  “But I’m still a shark.”

  Jason smiled and nodded. “Good thinking. I was done for drug dealing. Second time in. And last. I want to see my kid grow up.”

  Caspian gaped at him. “You have a child?”

  “Yeah. Billy. He’s five. I was a dad at fourteen.”

  Christ.

  The room darkened and Caspian turned to see a huge guy blocking the doorway.

  Jason jumped to his feet. “Hi, Lewis.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Dignity and respect,” Jason whispered as he passed Caspian.

  “Cigarettes.” The guy held out his hand to Caspian.

  “I don’t have any. I don’t smoke.”

  “Then get them. You pay to be in this wing if you want to stay in one piece.” The guy walked out again.

  What the fuck? He knew it was only intimidation, but it was still scary. He shot to the door and called, “Fancy a tube of Polos instead?”

  “Bend over and I’ll shove them up your arse.”

  “They’re already up my arse.”

  Caspian held his breath, but the guy laughed. Back in the cell, Caspian sat on his bed with the induction booklet. He tried to read it—and failed to read it. Anxiety made his dyslexia worse. Words were dancing off the page onto the walls. He ate the finger of fudge while he still had the chance, then drank the juice. One thing he definitely needed to hide was that he was gay. Though he wondered if it mattered, if TV shows were right, that bending over in the shower wasn’t a good idea for anyone. He shuddered.

  A short time later, he was taken to a classroom where he and three others were given a two-hour talk by a squeaky-voiced woman about what to do and what not to do. There was an exercise yard, but he had to move around it in a clockwise direction. Or was it anticlockwise? Shit.

  The long list of prohibited items included wax, chewing gum, magnets, plasticine, toy guns, phones, Blu Tack, metal cutlery, explosives—well duh—wire, computer memory sticks and umbrellas. Umbrellas? If they didn’t have pointy ends, or poisonous tips was that okay? Though Caspian guessed the wire spokes could be used for all sorts of things. Stuff that would be carefully monitored included tools, yeast, cling film, rope, vinegar, glue and tin foil.

  Education was obligatory until he was eighteen. Shit. The one thing he thought he’d escaped. Not only was he in jail but he had to attend school as well? How crap was that? At least there was a huge choice of subjects to study ranging from Islam to parent craft to industrial cleaning. Fucking wonderful.

  The woman went down the list too fast for him to follow on the handout. But he did catch that he’d be paid forty pence for each class he attended which could be spent on chocolate or credits for phone calls. Classes started at 8.30 but staff began searching boys earlier so they could be moved in small groups to the education block.

  The more he listened, the more freaked out he became. Stress dried his mouth and made his heart pound. He’d forgotten almost everything the woman had said by the time she’d finished speaking. But it was all helpfully detailed in yet another booklet he’d struggle to read.

  He had his compulsory talk with the chaplain. Well, the chaplain talked, he didn’t. All he wanted to do was curl up on his bed and pretend he was somewhere else.

  Chapter Eleven

  When talk ceased downstairs, Zed slipped into bed. The front door slammed as he pulled the covers over his face. Oh God. He had to be careful. One wrong step, the wrong expression on his face and he’d give himself away. Do anything that might reveal a word of what he’d listened to and he was dead. There was no misinterpreting what he’d heard. Not another story from a master storyteller, but an actual plot. Jihad. They were going to detonate bombs at the Olympics.

  Well, not Fahid. He was the one behind it, but he was giving the honour of destruction to others. Parwez would be somewhere in the crowd for the 100 metres final. Wasim and a guy called Saheed would be at exits to the athletics stadium ready to destroy those fleeing once Parwez had detonated his bomb. Another guy, Javid, would blow himself up in the Westfield Stratford City shopping centre thirty minutes after the first device had exploded, the place where fleeing people would have been told to go.

  According to Fahid, the BBC and the internet had helpfully provided details of the security measures put in place. Bags and backpacks woul
d be searched on the way into the Olympic Park, unarmed troops working alongside civilians. There would be dogs that could sniff out explosives but Fahid seemed to think they’d be no problem. They only had around thirty animals to cover the whole venue and they could work for just thirty or forty minutes before they became bored or distracted.

  Timing was everything. If any of the three of them were approaching a place where a dog was working, or a guard looked straight at them, choose another line. If one of them was caught, he should detonate immediately. The other three would follow once they heard the first blast.

  Zed was still shaking as he thought about it. He heard Fahid coming up the stairs and froze. To his intense relief, Fahid continued past his door. Zed would have pretended to be asleep if Fahid had looked in on him. He was too freaked out to attempt to look normal.

  Fahid had spouted the crap about seventy-two virgins waiting for martyrs and Zed had heard them tease Parwez, telling him his first time would be even better than the wonder he’d hoped for. Zed’s brother had once told him the notion of virgins as a reward for martyrdom was a wilful misinterpretation of phrases in the Quran, a twisting of sentences in the Hadith. But people heard what they wanted to hear, believed what they wanted to believe.

  Suicide bombers! Zed bit back his moan. Was Fahid going to ask him to be a bomber too? Make him be one? He gulped. Once they’d fastened an explosive belt around him, locked it in place, what could he do? Yell at people to keep clear? Fuck. Zed forced himself to take deep breaths as panic gripped him. How could he even face Fahid now he was aware of what they were planning?

  Then he worried whether Tamaz knew anything about this. He was friends with Fahid. He had a key to his house! If Zed reported Fahid, he’d drag Tamaz into this whether he was innocent or guilty. Bile surged up Zed’s throat. He forced it down but the bitter taste remained. What can I do? What can I do?

  There was little sleep to be had that night. He went over and over every possible way he could get out of the house to tell the right person what he’d heard. He’d have to sneak out but leave his bag because he’d probably have to come back. If he didn’t, when the others were arrested, Fahid would know who’d betrayed them. And who was the right person to tell? Who’d believe him? Zed fled to the bathroom and was violently sick.