weak and vulnerable. I want to tear my flesh afterwards, to get rid of the fury that’s
going nowhere. Instead I go to the gym, run on the machine – no one else dares to use it when I’m there – until I feel pain in my legs, my feet, my bursting heart.
No one else thinks I’m weak. I’m getting a reputation as a hard man.
Luke’s body tells its own story. People see the muscles, they see the scars and they work out something that frightens them.
It’s as though the more scared I am, the more I scare other people.
And I am pretty scared now, because any day, any second of the day, Mikey could work out who I am.
He was never that bright, Mikey, and he didn’t really know me. I was just Arron’s friend, the tag-along. Back then I was short and podgy and I had short hair and a school blazer.
I suppose I must look very different now.
There was not even a flicker in his eyes as he handed me my food that first night, and I must have managed to keep my face really blank, because he didn’t say anything to make me think he
knows who I am.
I’ve not said anything, either – not to anyone. I haven’t seen him again, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t here.
He’s never in the classroom and he’s never in the gym and he’s never come near my room again. Sometimes I even wonder if it was really him at all.
Every day I chuck my food down the toilet uneaten in case he’s done something to it. I only eat the sealed stuff – yoghurt, crisps, that kind of thing.
I’m getting thinner, which is good because when he knew me I was fat.
Watching for Mikey, feeling hungry all the time, well, it takes the edge off everything else. I’m choked inside, thinking about Gran, about how no one even told me she was ill. They
didn’t let me see her.
I could have saved her. Last year, when she was in a coma, I said a Hail Mary and she woke up and it was a miracle, like she always believed could happen.
Why couldn’t I try for another miracle this time?
I hate the people who kept it from me – the prison officers worse, but also Mum and my aunts and my dad. They all knew. They didn’t tell me.
I scare myself with how much I hate them.
So I’ve put Ty away in a box somewhere inside me, and when he starts hating, I slam the lid down and think cold, hard, blank Luke thoughts until Ty shuts up.
Which leaves Claire. I can’t need her without being Ty. I’ll just have to hope that Archie – shit, that fool Archie, of all people – can sort of put her on hold for a
bit, that she’ll understand.
Stupid Ty’s stupid hope, his memories of what it felt like to be with Claire – that goes in the box as well.
It’s a week after the funeral and I’m just about OK, when the guy in charge of the gym, Mr Jones, he’s called, says he’s been watching me.
They’ve all been watching me. They know about Gran and they know about witness protection and they’re waiting for something to kick off. I’m not giving them the
satisfaction.
‘You what?’ I forget to be polite.
‘You. You can run, can’t you?’
‘Yeah, right,’ I say.
‘Ever been to a running club? Ever tried to make anything of yourself?’
He’s clearly expecting the answer to be no. He’s got the same look in his eye that the education guy got when he discovered I could do Maths.
Two kinds of people work in here – the ones who’ve written us off already, who just want to keep us quiet until we get out of here and become someone else’s problem.
That’s most of them.
Then there are the few who want to Make a Difference, put us on the Right Path, find something to transform us from feral criminals into pillars of the community.
There are only about three like that and they’re a pain.
‘I have been to a running club,’ I say. Big mistake. He wants all the details, all the races I’ve won. Times, dates, distances.
‘I could get you a community order, get you out of here to train once a week, maybe even compete.’
‘Nah,’ I
going nowhere. Instead I go to the gym, run on the machine – no one else dares to use it when I’m there – until I feel pain in my legs, my feet, my bursting heart.
No one else thinks I’m weak. I’m getting a reputation as a hard man.
Luke’s body tells its own story. People see the muscles, they see the scars and they work out something that frightens them.
It’s as though the more scared I am, the more I scare other people.
And I am pretty scared now, because any day, any second of the day, Mikey could work out who I am.
He was never that bright, Mikey, and he didn’t really know me. I was just Arron’s friend, the tag-along. Back then I was short and podgy and I had short hair and a school blazer.
I suppose I must look very different now.
There was not even a flicker in his eyes as he handed me my food that first night, and I must have managed to keep my face really blank, because he didn’t say anything to make me think he
knows who I am.
I’ve not said anything, either – not to anyone. I haven’t seen him again, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t here.
He’s never in the classroom and he’s never in the gym and he’s never come near my room again. Sometimes I even wonder if it was really him at all.
Every day I chuck my food down the toilet uneaten in case he’s done something to it. I only eat the sealed stuff – yoghurt, crisps, that kind of thing.
I’m getting thinner, which is good because when he knew me I was fat.
Watching for Mikey, feeling hungry all the time, well, it takes the edge off everything else. I’m choked inside, thinking about Gran, about how no one even told me she was ill. They
didn’t let me see her.
I could have saved her. Last year, when she was in a coma, I said a Hail Mary and she woke up and it was a miracle, like she always believed could happen.
Why couldn’t I try for another miracle this time?
I hate the people who kept it from me – the prison officers worse, but also Mum and my aunts and my dad. They all knew. They didn’t tell me.
I scare myself with how much I hate them.
So I’ve put Ty away in a box somewhere inside me, and when he starts hating, I slam the lid down and think cold, hard, blank Luke thoughts until Ty shuts up.
Which leaves Claire. I can’t need her without being Ty. I’ll just have to hope that Archie – shit, that fool Archie, of all people – can sort of put her on hold for a
bit, that she’ll understand.
Stupid Ty’s stupid hope, his memories of what it felt like to be with Claire – that goes in the box as well.
It’s a week after the funeral and I’m just about OK, when the guy in charge of the gym, Mr Jones, he’s called, says he’s been watching me.
They’ve all been watching me. They know about Gran and they know about witness protection and they’re waiting for something to kick off. I’m not giving them the
satisfaction.
‘You what?’ I forget to be polite.
‘You. You can run, can’t you?’
‘Yeah, right,’ I say.
‘Ever been to a running club? Ever tried to make anything of yourself?’
He’s clearly expecting the answer to be no. He’s got the same look in his eye that the education guy got when he discovered I could do Maths.
Two kinds of people work in here – the ones who’ve written us off already, who just want to keep us quiet until we get out of here and become someone else’s problem.
That’s most of them.
Then there are the few who want to Make a Difference, put us on the Right Path, find something to transform us from feral criminals into pillars of the community.
There are only about three like that and they’re a pain.
‘I have been to a running club,’ I say. Big mistake. He wants all the details, all the races I’ve won. Times, dates, distances.
‘I could get you a community order, get you out of here to train once a week, maybe even compete.’
‘Nah,’ I
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