say, although my whole body’s aching for a proper run, a run outside, and it’d feel so good if there were people to run against, people that I could crush and
humiliate and stomp all over just by running much faster than they do.
‘Are you sure?’ he says. ‘You’ve not got long here, have you? Wouldn’t it make the time go quicker if you could achieve something while you’re here? Get out
somehow?’
I’m shocked. I thought that prison meant prison. I thought that all I had to do was keep my head down, keep alive, survive for six weeks. Now he’s telling me I can have little trips
to the outside world. I can run races. He’s messing with my mind.
Is he the one? Is he working for them? Is he trying to get me out of here for a reason?
‘Nah,’ I say, again, but my voice is weak and wavery and he can see – anyone can see – that I don’t really mean it.
‘I’ll make enquiries,’ he says.
And that was a week ago and he’s sorted it so I can go and train twice a week at a running club, and he’s got a list of competitions too.
Driving out of the prison, it’s like my body’s been wrapped in chains, and someone opens the padlocks and they all drop off. My legs feel longer, looser, my arms swing free. My lungs
expand. The throbbing headache that I’ve had on and off for the last two weeks eases a little.
I must have made a noise, sighed or something, because Mr Jones asks me if I’m OK.
‘Yeah.’
‘Happy to be out?’
I’m not sure that happy is actually a word that will ever apply to me again.
‘Sorry about your gran. Getting on a bit, was she?’
I wish he’d just shut up. I don’t say anything and he turns the car into a side road and parks.
‘No tricks now,’ he says. ‘I’m trusting you to behave. No trying to give me the slip.’
I don’t bother to reply to that one.
‘You realise that if you do one thing wrong you’ll lose all your privileges?’
I nod. It’d actually kill me to lose that radio. Music helps to drown out the words in your head.
‘You’ll be serving the whole sentence.’
‘Yeah, all right.’
‘You can talk!’ he says. ‘I was wondering. Here we go.’
We go into the club and through to the track. I’m already changed, I just peel off my tracksuit. I’m not sure how well I can perform in these crap trainers.
Then I see the other runners – normal kids, free, kids who sleep in their own beds at night, kids who see their families every day.
I hate them. And from the way they’re staring, they’re not that keen on me, either.
‘This is Luke,’ says Mr Jones. ‘Why don’t you warm up, Luke?’ and he starts chatting to the trainer. Neither of them takes their eyes off me. The other kids are
warming up too. I jog, stretch, jog a bit more. Christ, it feels good. The headache’s gone. I’m drunk on fresh air.
The trainer lines us up for the 1500 metres – four of us. Two big, tall black guys. A redhead with a freckle-splattered face. Me.
Beating them is so easy that they might as well not have bothered to run.
‘Told you,’ says Mr Jones to the trainer. He shows me my time. ‘Outstanding.’
‘I can do better,’ I say, ‘if I get to train properly – every day.’
‘I’ll talk to the governor,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure what will be possible. I’ll do my best.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, and for one blessed minute the hate and rage inside me die down and I don’t feel less than human any more and I’m looking at him like we’re both
from the same species.
‘That’s better,’ he says, and I think he’s going to pat me on the back. I step backwards.
‘If – and it’s a big if – I can organise better training for you, and if the governor agrees, then there’s an athletics meet in Northampton next month,’ he
says. ‘You interested?’
Am I interested?
On the one hand it’s crazy to do anything at all that could draw attention to myself.
On the other – a day out of prison a chance to compete,
humiliate and stomp all over just by running much faster than they do.
‘Are you sure?’ he says. ‘You’ve not got long here, have you? Wouldn’t it make the time go quicker if you could achieve something while you’re here? Get out
somehow?’
I’m shocked. I thought that prison meant prison. I thought that all I had to do was keep my head down, keep alive, survive for six weeks. Now he’s telling me I can have little trips
to the outside world. I can run races. He’s messing with my mind.
Is he the one? Is he working for them? Is he trying to get me out of here for a reason?
‘Nah,’ I say, again, but my voice is weak and wavery and he can see – anyone can see – that I don’t really mean it.
‘I’ll make enquiries,’ he says.
And that was a week ago and he’s sorted it so I can go and train twice a week at a running club, and he’s got a list of competitions too.
Driving out of the prison, it’s like my body’s been wrapped in chains, and someone opens the padlocks and they all drop off. My legs feel longer, looser, my arms swing free. My lungs
expand. The throbbing headache that I’ve had on and off for the last two weeks eases a little.
I must have made a noise, sighed or something, because Mr Jones asks me if I’m OK.
‘Yeah.’
‘Happy to be out?’
I’m not sure that happy is actually a word that will ever apply to me again.
‘Sorry about your gran. Getting on a bit, was she?’
I wish he’d just shut up. I don’t say anything and he turns the car into a side road and parks.
‘No tricks now,’ he says. ‘I’m trusting you to behave. No trying to give me the slip.’
I don’t bother to reply to that one.
‘You realise that if you do one thing wrong you’ll lose all your privileges?’
I nod. It’d actually kill me to lose that radio. Music helps to drown out the words in your head.
‘You’ll be serving the whole sentence.’
‘Yeah, all right.’
‘You can talk!’ he says. ‘I was wondering. Here we go.’
We go into the club and through to the track. I’m already changed, I just peel off my tracksuit. I’m not sure how well I can perform in these crap trainers.
Then I see the other runners – normal kids, free, kids who sleep in their own beds at night, kids who see their families every day.
I hate them. And from the way they’re staring, they’re not that keen on me, either.
‘This is Luke,’ says Mr Jones. ‘Why don’t you warm up, Luke?’ and he starts chatting to the trainer. Neither of them takes their eyes off me. The other kids are
warming up too. I jog, stretch, jog a bit more. Christ, it feels good. The headache’s gone. I’m drunk on fresh air.
The trainer lines us up for the 1500 metres – four of us. Two big, tall black guys. A redhead with a freckle-splattered face. Me.
Beating them is so easy that they might as well not have bothered to run.
‘Told you,’ says Mr Jones to the trainer. He shows me my time. ‘Outstanding.’
‘I can do better,’ I say, ‘if I get to train properly – every day.’
‘I’ll talk to the governor,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure what will be possible. I’ll do my best.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, and for one blessed minute the hate and rage inside me die down and I don’t feel less than human any more and I’m looking at him like we’re both
from the same species.
‘That’s better,’ he says, and I think he’s going to pat me on the back. I step backwards.
‘If – and it’s a big if – I can organise better training for you, and if the governor agrees, then there’s an athletics meet in Northampton next month,’ he
says. ‘You interested?’
Am I interested?
On the one hand it’s crazy to do anything at all that could draw attention to myself.
On the other – a day out of prison a chance to compete,
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