LITMIR.BIZ

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went from breakfast, which he ate alone, to the common room, where he grabbed a bunch of felt-tip pens – pencils weren’t permitted as they were considered sharp objects – and a pad of drawing paper.

      He was trying to put an image of Rosie Whitlock onto the paper when his chair was jarred abruptly from behind and a pair of hands clamped down on his shoulders, pressing him down into the seat.

      ‘Watcha, Titch. What you in here for then, eh? That your girlfriend, is it? Ahh. Pretty, ain’t she? I’ll do her for you when I get out of here, you being too small and all.’

      Tommy went completely still. He almost felt relaxed. ‘Which order do you want me to answer all those questions in? Forwards or backwards?’

      ‘Smart arse, are you?’ The hands left his shoulders and a slap rocked his head. ‘Think you’re clever, do you?’

      Tommy heard several sniggers. There was a bunch of them. Without even thinking about it, he turned the felt-tipped pen in his hand, gripping it tightly. A shiver ran through him as fingers ran through the hair up the back of his head. Then they gripped painfully and began to lift. He rose with them, but his chair got in the way. He pushed it back with his knees, felt it snag on the carpet and begin to tip. Rising further, the chair reaching a steeper angle, he gently, carefully raised one foot off the floor, bringing his knee up until it touched the underside of the table in front of him.

      Waited an instant longer…

      Then slammed his foot up and back so that it hit the underside of the chair, driving it back into his tormentor’s stomach. The boy grunted. His fingers disappeared from Tommy’s hair. Tommy spun around fast. Several boys were surrounding him, all of them bigger than he was. Their leader was just beginning to recover and straighten up, his pockmarked face twisting into a snarl of rage.

      Tommy didn’t hesitate. He used the chair again, this time as a step-up, launching himself off its upturned front edge, his other knee driving at the older boy’s chest. The impact sent him staggering backwards, the group splitting to let him through. Tommy’s free hand grabbed his hair and held on tight, his momentum carrying him over the bigger lad, who stumbled and fell back. Tommy landed on top of him, his knee driving once more into his chest before slipping sideways to leave Tommy straddling him, one hand gripping his hair while he leaned down over him, the other hand holding the felt-tip pen just a couple of millimetres from his left eyeball.

      The bigger lad was wheezing beneath him, trying to get his breath.

      ‘Don’t blink. You’ll have a yellow eyelash,’ Tommy said. ‘I’m in here for rape and murder. The girl in the picture was one of my victims, but she’s going to help get me out of here shortly. It’s up to you whether you see that or not. These pens might be soft, but they’ll still burst your eyeball if they’re pressed hard enough.’

      The other boy swallowed. Tommy saw his throat working as he struggled not to cough.

      ‘Now, I’m not interested in joining your gang or any other. I don’t need them. See, the difference between you and me is that you’re a bully. You want status, attention or whatever. I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, so I don’t care what I do to anyone. I don’t have any boundaries. I could happily blind you. I could rape you. I could bite your ugly nose off. Or I could kill you.’ He shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference to me.’

      He grinned suddenly. ‘Get it? Blind bit of difference?’ He chuckled. ‘I could do any of those things without even blinking. Without batting an eye.’ He laughed again. ‘I’ve got loads more where they came from. Good, eh?’

      ‘Yes,’ the other boy said hoarsely.

      ‘So, you stay out of my way and I won’t have to hurt you. Understand?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Good.’ Tommy sprang up off him and spun around to look down at him, upside-down. ‘And don’t try sneaking up on me. I don’t give second chances.’

      The boy blinked and launched into a coughing fit. Tommy stared into the eyes of the lanky blond kid standing in front of him. The confident grin was gone from his lean face. He looked a lot less sure of the situation now. And, to be fair, it could go either of two ways from here, Tommy thought. He could be left alone, or the kid coughing his guts up on the floor could make a play to reassert his dominance. Which would no doubt bring trouble and pain to Tommy’s door, but he was used to both of them. They were almost old friends. ‘Out the way,’ he said. ‘Unless you want some of the same.’

      *

      Tommy looked up from the book he was reading as the door of his room was opened and one of the wardens leaned in and gave a jerk of his head. ‘You’ve got a visitor, Gayle. Come on.’

      Tommy didn’t move. ‘Who is it?’

      ‘Your solicitor.’

      Inwardly relaxing, Tommy closed his book and set it aside, swung his feet off the side of the bed and stood up.

      He’d finished his drawing half an hour ago, but it hadn’t done Rosie justice, so he’d screwed it up in a tight ball and thrown it in the bin, stalking out of the common room and heading back here. Now he followed the warder, a large, heavily muscled coloured guy called Adam, back down the corridor, past the common room to one of the small rooms that were used for visiting.

      He tried not to show his hesitation as Adam opened the door and stood aside. He hoped the warden had told him the truth about who it was. The last thing he wanted was some surprise, like his dad sitting there, waiting for him.

      He stepped forward nonchalantly.

      The chair on the far side of the central table was occupied by a man he’d never seen before. Somewhere between his dad and Uncle Colin in age, he was slim with greying dark hair and a three-piece suit.

      ‘Who are you?’ Tommy asked bluntly.

      The man tilted his head. ‘I’m Clive Davis. I’m your solicitor.’

      ‘Why?’

      Davis pursed his lips. ‘You’ve been charged with carrying an offensive weapon. A knife, I understand. We’re going to have to attend court. It’s a charge that can carry a term of confinement.’

      ‘Prison?’

      Tommy heard the door close behind him.

      Davis tilted his head again. ‘More like where we are here. You’re only – what – fourteen? You wouldn’t be sent to a conventional prison.’

      I’ve lived worse, Tommy thought. This past winter. ‘How long for?’ he asked.

      ‘It depends on the circumstances. It can be up to four months. Or you could get an official caution or anything between the two.’

      ‘So, they might just tell me off and let me go?’

      Davis pursed his lips. ‘That’s not the way to look at it, but in essence, from a practical point of view, yes. However, it goes on your record, so that if you’re charged again it’ll be taken into account and you will serve time.’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘So, tell me how you came to be here.’

      Tommy shrugged, spreading his hands. ‘I was just minding my own business, doing my job, and all of a sudden, this guy’s coming after me, so I ran. They caught me and searched me and, next thing I know, they’re charging me for carrying a tool of the job.’

      ‘A flick-knife.’

      ‘Well, I’m not going to carry an open blade in my pocket, am I? And penknives can be dangerous. I saw a kid using one once and it folded up on him, got his finger between the blade and the handle. No, thanks. A flick-knife’s much safer.’

      ‘But illegal.’

      ‘As a weapon. Mine’s a tool. It’s essential for the job.’

      Davis shook his head.

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