by Tom Becker
As the sound of the guards’ tramping feet continued down the corridor, someone stirred in the bunk above Adam’s, and the outline of a head dropped down to look at him.
“Hey!” a voice hissed. “What’s the news from outside?”
Adam said nothing.
“Come on!” the voice persisted. “What’s going on?”
“Give it a rest, Mouthwash,” another boy called out drowsily. “You can bother him in the morning.”
“But Doughnut—”
“Shut it, or you can forget about me getting those comics for you.”
Muttering to himself, the first boy pulled his head back up and rolled over in his bunk, drawing an indignant creak from the springs. As silence enveloped the dormitory, Adam gathered his blanket around him. His aching limbs were still trembling, and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from bursting into tears. He lay awake for hours, accompanied only by the snores and sniffs from the bunks around him, before finally falling into a dark, dreamless sleep.
A loud thud startled Adam into wakefulness; when his eyes flicked open, he was confronted with the sight of two pale knees close to his face. His bunkmate – a short boy with spiky blond hair – had leapt down from his bed, and was now scraping a lump of grey chewing gum from the side of the post.
“Rise and shine!” he said, popping the gum into his mouth. “The goons don’t approve of lie-ins.”
The dormitory was stirring into life, boys drowsily rubbing their eyes and swinging their legs out of bed, shivering at the pinch of the cold air on their skin. Adam closed his eyes and slumped back on to the pillow. At the back of his mind, he had been praying that he would wake up in his bedroom, surrounded by his music posters and his computer games, with the sounds of his parents bustling around drifting up from the kitchen. Things had happened so quickly the night before that there hadn’t been time to take everything in. It was only now, lying there in his bed, as the other boys splashed water on their faces and brushed their teeth, that the truth hit Adam: this was real. He was a prisoner, behind bars for two hundred and seventy-four years. Nearly three centuries would have to pass before he could return home and see his family or his friends again. It was more than a lifetime – it was an eternity. Adam turned over in his bunk, determined that no one see the tears welling in his eyes.
“Looks like the newbie’s taking it tough,” he heard his bunkmate murmur.
“Bet he’s crying his eyes out,” a harsh voice sneered. “The girl.”
“Leave it out, Caiman,” another boy shot back. “I was here when you first arrived, remember? You were too busy wetting the bed to cry.”
“Please don’t make me sleep on the top bunk!” someone else added, impersonating a fearful girl’s voice. “I’m scared of heights!”
Howls of laughter swept through the dormitory, drowning out Caiman’s angry protests. Order was only restored by the sudden appeal of the sirens across the Dial.
“Attention! Attention!” a high-pitched voice rang out. “Roll call will take place in ten minutes in the exercise yard.”
Amidst much swearing and hopping around, the boys put on their boots and tumbled out of the dormitory. Adam looked up to see a heavyset, dark-skinned boy giving him a sympathetic glance from the doorway.
“Better get up,” the boy said quietly. “You’ll only get into trouble otherwise.”
Adam laughed bitterly. “Things can get worse than this?”
The boy paused, then nodded slowly. “Yes, they can. But only if you’re stupid. You’ll get the hang of it before long. Everyone does.”
With that, he waddled away after the others, leaving Adam alone.
Though he was tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, squirrel himself away from this dark world of zeppelins and roll calls and prison guards, the boy’s words stayed with Adam. As the sirens continued to wail he dragged himself out of bed, pulled on his boots and ran downstairs.
The walkway gate from Wing II had been opened by the time he got outside, and prisoners were trudging over the chasm towards a flat gravel yard on the other side of the Dial. It was incredibly cold, the weak winter sunshine failing to dispel the biting chill in the air. As he joined the back of the queue, shivering in his thin uniform, Adam noticed ruefully that almost everyone around him had extra layers of clothing: overcoats and hats and scarves, thick pairs of gloves.
When the last inmate had stepped down on to the gravel yard, the gates were closed and the prisoners arranged in ranks. The guards strode up and down the rows, screaming for silence as they counted heads. At the front of the yard, two men stood apart, overseeing the proceedings. One was a paunchy, middle-aged man in a leather overcoat and a black peaked cap, a flicker of benign amusement playing across his face. The other was Mr Pitt, his filmy left eye roving hungrily behind his monocle as he surveyed the prisoners before him.
One of the guards hurried over to the larger man and saluted. “All present, Mr Cooper, sir.”
A jolt of recognition hit Adam. Mr Cooper had signed the letter Adam had opened in the changing rooms at school – this was the Chief Warder of the prison! He looked somehow friendlier than Adam might have imagined, especially compared to Mr Pitt’s furious demeanour. Mr Cooper smiled as he stepped forward, clearing his throat before addressing the crowd.
“It’s a cold morning, so I shall be as brief as possible. First, matron has informed me that someone is stealing bedsheets from the infirmary. I can’t begin to imagine who would be responsible for such a wanton and petty crime, but until the perpetrator returns the items in question no games of Bucketball will be permitted anywhere on the Dial.”
A disgruntled murmur ran through the crowd.
“Silence!” shouted Mr Pitt. “Not a word while the Chief Warder speaks!”
The murmur vanished as quickly as it started.
“Thank you, Hector,” Mr Cooper said mildly. “Now then,” he continued, “you will no doubt be aware that there was a new intake of prisoners last night. En route to the Dial, the Quisling suffered severe mechanical failure and was forced to make a crash landing. It is only thanks to the skill of Mr Pitt and his crew that a terrible tragedy was averted. We do not yet know how badly the Quisling has been damaged, but it looks like it could be out of service for several months at least. This will have a grave impact on our food supplies, and I am forced to announce that from today lunch time rations will be halved. This will be a trial for all of us – but I will not allow the decrease in rations to be used as some kind of excuse for bad behaviour and unrest. Act up, and you will learn the hard way – as countless other prisoners have before you – that there are limits to our patience.”
A hard edge had crept into Mr Cooper’s voice, and suddenly he didn’t look quite as friendly as he had before. The Chief Warder let his final threat hang in the air before dismissing the inmates.
Without any instruction or direction on how they were to spend their morning, the prisoners were free to drift away in groups across the Dial. Adam returned to his bunk in the prisoners’ quarters, where he spent hours in a dazed huddle beneath the sheets, vainly trying to come to terms with what was happening to him. At one o’clock the sirens blazed into life again, and the inmates were ordered to Wing III – the mess hall – for lunch. As he waited to cross the chasm, Adam couldn’t help but marvel as the walkway swung round the Dial, picking up prisoners from all the different wings and depositing them in turn outside Wing III.
A two-storey building filled with tables and a canteen that ran the length of the ground floor, the mess hall bubbled with conversation – the atmosphere heavily spiced with gossip, rude jokes and sudden squawks of laughter. Feeling at once very visible and very alone, Adam picked up a tray and moved along the canteen, accepting a bowl full of unidentified slop and a mug of weak tea on the way. The rest of the boys from his dormitory had congregated together at a table at the far end of the ha
ll. Wordlessly Adam went over to join them, taking a seat next to the dark-skinned boy who was known, he gathered, as Doughnut.
Looking down at his food, Adam poked the murky slop suspiciously with his spoon. He nudged Doughnut. “What is this stuff?” he asked.
“Stew,” the boy replied laconically.
“What kind of stew?”
“Meat stew.”
Adam wasn’t convinced. He slowly lifted the spoon to his mouth and took a taste. Instantly he spat out his mouthful across the table.
“Everything all right?” Doughnut asked mildly.
“H-hot!” Adam spluttered, flapping his hand in front of his mouth. The boys around him chuckled knowingly.
“Trust me, it’s best that way,” said Doughnut. “The hotter the food, the less you care how it tastes.”
“Well, well, well,” a voice chuckled behind them. “What a surprise. I was just saying to Jonkers: now, where might our good friend Doughnut be? Never thought we’d find him here, eating.”
As two large shadows loomed over his meal, Adam was aware of the boys around him hurriedly finishing their meals and leaving the table. Only Doughnut seemed unconcerned.
“It is lunch time, Scarecrow,” he replied calmly.
Scarecrow scowled. “It’s always lunch time for you.” He leaned in closely. “Where’s those gloves you promised us? It’s nearly winter, and my hands are getting cold.”
Doughnut didn’t respond.
“I’m talking to you, fat boy!”
Doughnut calmly carried on eating his meal. Frustrated, Jonkers snatched Doughnut’s lunch tray and hurled it to the floor, while Scarecrow grabbed the chubby boy by the lapels and hauled him to his feet.
“Where’s our gloves?” he repeated.
Doughnut spread out his hands helplessly. “Look, there’s been a hitch with the clothing supply. I promise you, as soon I get a new delivery you’ll get your gloves.”
Scarecrow glanced at his companion. “Did you hear that, Jonkers? Tonnage here is giving us the brush-off.”
Jonkers shook his head slowly. “Can’t have that, Scarecrow. Can’t have people like him taking liberties with us. Better teach him a lesson.”
Adam put down his spoon and slowly stood up. “Leave him alone,” he said quietly.
For the past day it had felt as though Adam had reeled from one blow to another: from the face-off with Danny to the ambush on the beach to Mr Pitt’s sovereign rings raining down upon him. And now Scarecrow and Jonkers were picking on the only person who’d been nice to him in the entire prison. But these two, Adam could deal with.
All three boys looked up, united in their surprise.
“Who the hell are you?” asked Scarecrow.
“It doesn’t matter. Put him down.”
Jonkers laughed incredulously. “Or what, tough guy?”
“Or nothing. Just back off.”
Adam didn’t like fighting. But he hadn’t spent ten years around Danny without learning to take care of himself. Even now, he felt strangely calm. As Jonkers lunged at him, Adam picked up his bowl of stew and threw the scalding liquid in the boy’s face. Jonkers cried out in pain, clutching at his eyes. Before Scarecrow could respond, Adam spun around and clattered him over the head with his lunch tray, knocking him to the ground. He clenched his fists, braced for more, but suddenly a whistle was echoing around the mess hall, and a red-faced guard ran over towards them.
“What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded.
Before Adam could speak Doughnut stepped in and said, with a beatific smile: “Nothing to worry about, Mr Harker. My friend spilled his stew, that’s all.”
Mr Harker looked suspiciously at the sprawled figure of Scarecrow. “So what’s he doing on his backside?”
“Must have slipped on the stew,” Doughnut replied evenly.
Mr Harker turned round to face Jonkers. “Is he telling the truth?”
Jonkers was still wiping chunks of carrot from his face, his features twisted with fury, and for a second Adam thought he was going to drop them all in it. Then Jonkers nodded slowly.
“Yeah – it was just an accident, sir. No harm done.”
As the guard examined their faces, Adam could tell he didn’t believe a word of it. By his side, Doughnut remained a picture of affability, hauling Scarecrow to his feet and patting him on the back.
“All right then,” Mr Harker said eventually. “But for God’s sake clean this mess up before Mr Pitt sees it, or we’ll all be for it. And no more messing about, you hear me?”
The boys nodded vigorously. As Scarecrow and Jonkers sloped away, murder in their eyes, Doughnut went to the canteen and fetched a cloth. Under the watchful eye of Mr Harker, Adam helped him mop up the mess.
“Thanks for stepping in there,” Doughnut said softly. “I owe you one.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Adam replied. “It was nothing.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Scarecrow and Jonkers don’t tend to forget that sort of thing.”
Adam made a dismissive noise. “They’re all talk. I’m not scared of them.” He glanced across at the guard. “I can’t believe he swallowed your story, though.”
“Mr Harker? He’s all right, as goons go. He knows which side his bread is buttered.”
“Eh?”
Doughnut chuckled. “I forgot what it’s like when you first get here. You’ve got a lot to learn, my friend.”
“Tell me about it,” Adam said glumly.
“All right, then,” said Doughnut, getting to his feet. “Let me show you around.”
It took them an age to leave the mess hall. At every table they passed, people leapt up to stop Doughnut: watchful boys who pressed notes into his hand with meaningful nods; girls with ingratiating, feline smiles who slipped their arms around his back while they whispered in his ear. Doughnut received the pleas and entreaties like a benevolent monarch, clasping hands and promising to do what he could.
Having disentangled himself from one particularly persistent blonde girl, Doughnut finally led Adam out into the fresh air.
“Bloody hell!” Adam exclaimed, shaking his head. “Is there anyone here you don’t know?”
Doughnut shrugged. “No one who counts. Most people come and find me eventually.” Noting Adam’s quizzical expression, he explained: “I’m a fixer. I get things for people. Things they can’t get here.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Mostly it’s food and clothes, that kind of stuff. People are always on at me to get them TVs and computers and stupid stuff like that, but even if I could smuggle them in here, the Dial ain’t exactly the height of modern technology. So I tend to get the lads comics and magazines. Girls are much harder to deal with. I mean, do I look like I know anything about eyebrow pencils?”
Adam smiled. “Not really, no.”
“Doesn’t stop them hassling me about it, though, believe me.”
Doughnut waddled over to the mess hall gate and opened a box attached to the wire fence. There was an intricate mechanized diagram of the Dial inside, with two movable hands representing the walkway. Doughnut set the hands to a new position on the diagram, then closed the lid. He blew out his cheeks, tapping his foot.
“I hate waiting for this thing,” he muttered. “God knows how many years I’ve spent doing it.”
Feeling a light tap on his head, Adam looked up. The sky was ominous with black clouds. By the time the walkway had rumbled round in front of the mess hall, the air was alive with rain, and Adam and Doughnut hurried across the chasm with their jackets pulled up over their heads. A gaunt, dilapidated building rose up in front of them, brickwork smeared with grime, tiles missing from the sagging roof and water cascading down from the rickety guttering.
Dashing off the walkway and through the gate marked “Wing V: Library”, Adam heaved open
the thick wooden door and ran inside. He stopped and caught his breath, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Rows of leather-bound volumes stared down at him from the bookshelves, bathed in orange lamplight as soft as a whisper. On either side of the library, two wrought-iron spiral staircases led up to a tier of balconies lining the walls, where more books were stored behind glass cases. Silence nestled amongst the undisturbed shelves and the empty reading desks.
Adam glanced over at Doughnut, who was glumly rearranging his sodden hair. “What are we doing here?” he whispered.
“Going to meet a friend of mine.” Doughnut peered through the half-light. “You hear that?”
Straining his ears, Adam could just make out a faint squeaking sound coming from somewhere deep in the library. “Your friend’s a mouse?”
“Very funny. Come on.”
As they followed the squeak through the labyrinth of bookshelves, Adam’s nostrils were overpowered by a musty smell of neglect. The drumming rain was seeping through the ceiling, landing with a splash into metal pails dotted at intervals across the floor.
Rounding a corner, Adam came face to face with the source of the squeaking. A young boy was pushing a wooden trolley of books along the aisle, occasionally filing away a volume on the shelves. With every revolution, one of the trolley wheels let out an anguished squeak.
“Bookworm!” Doughnut called out, his voice echoing round the library.
The young boy winced. “Keep it down, will you? I can’t tell everyone else to shush if you’re screaming the place down.”
Doughnut spread out his hands in protest. “We’re the only people in here!”
“Even so,” Bookworm replied solemnly. “You’ve got to maintain your standards.” He pulled down a book from the shelves and placed it on the trolley. “Would you like a cup of cocoa?”
Doughnut grinned. “I was hoping you’d ask that.” He turned to Adam. “Bookworm’s famous for his cocoa.”
