'We're not finished yet, Cal,' he says.

'I mean it, Paulo. I've had enough.'

'Not yet,' he says. There's a weird glint in his eye. I've seen it before, normally when he's bawling out one of the kids for throwing a dirty punch or giving him shit about why they haven't attended the club. I'm telling a story here, Cal. And we're finished when I say we're finished.'

'Paulo, I've heard this story.'

I know you have. But somewhere along the line you missed the point of it.'

He wants to play hard, fine. Fuck him. I sidestep as he lunges. One of his punches hits my chest. I land a strong glove on the side of his head. Paulo shakes it off. I try another. He punches my wrist.

'So I tell Morris Tiernan where to go, right?' he says. I tell him I'm not interested. And that should've been it, am I right?' He holds out one glove to me. I try to hit it, but he whips his hand away in time. 'You'd think he'd get the message. But no, he sends a lad round to keep asking. And this lad, he won't take no for an answer either. So he starts on with the lip, starts on with the "stupid fuckin' cunt" bit.'

I try to back up, but Paulo bears down. 'What's your point, Paulo?'

'The point, Callum, is that Morris Tiernan doesn't stop at one visit. Which means when Mo doesn't turn up here the next day and neither do you, I get to thinking. And I don't like what I come up with.'

'Paulo — '

'You took the fuckin' job,' he says. Straight out with it, deadpan.

I stand still, arms by my sides. He winds down. I can't look at him. I stare at his feet.

'Well?' he says. 'Yeah,' I say. 'Yeah, what?'

I look up at him, feeling like one of those lads of his. 'Yeah, I took the job.'

His jaw clenches, but he tries to look calm. He nods slowly, then breathes out. Says, 'That's what I thought.'

I shrug. 'I had to, mate.'

'Nah, you're alright,' he says. His eyes have glazed over. When he speaks, it's like he's reading it off a cue card: 'You think you should do this, you think you should risk another five-stretch, you go ahead and do it. You were good to keep it out of here. But you finish this off quick. This is the last time. I hear you're working full-time for the man, I'll cut you off. You play favourites and you'll find yourself out in the cold.'

'I get it.'

He looks at me, frowns. There's a brief flare, then back to glass. 'Nah, mate. I don't think you get it at all. That's the fuckin' problem.'

PART TWO

Run Boy Run

Your prison number is given to keep track of your property, files and paperwork. It remains the same even if you move to another prison. It should be written on any letters addressed to you.

I didn't get any post, didn't want any. Who was going to write to me? Declan? Nah, he was busy getting himself fucked up. Word going round was that Dec had developed a taste for downers. Besides, I told him not to visit. Told my mam the same thing. My uncle Kenny told me I'd brought shame on the family. I told him to go fuck himself.

You have a weekly allowance of Ј2.50, Ј10 or Ј15 based on your privilege level. Smoking is not allowed in visits areas. Exercise is thirty minutes to an hour, depending on weather and category.

Rules and regulations, the twenty-three bang-up when a knife went from the kitchen or a tool from the workshop. Locked in and pacing the cell, wanting to look like a jungle cat, but ending up like a stray dog. Afterwards, the spurs shook with aggression. Some lads didn't take to being banged up. Which was fucking unfortunate.

Some lads thrived on the aggro.

A lifer called James Figgis had taken a liking to me. The bloke was an ex-hooligan with a London Intercity firm, said he had links to the severe right-wing extremists, the real bad blood-oath bastards. He followed me about the yard, gobbing in my ear when he talked. The world, run by Jews, the New

World Order dedicated to keeping the Anglo-Saxon down, how the Pakis and wogs and chinks and the rest of those faceless, bloodless East Europeans with their h6llow eyes and sticky fingers were ripping the jobs from the common white man. White was right and there weren't no black in the Union Jack.

He said he'd pegged a guy in Birmingham, a Rasta. Took a double barrel and the guy's kneecaps point blank.

'He screamed like a fuckin' coon,' he said.

That kind of attitude, it's not long before someone takes offence. The someone in question was an Asian guy Figgis took to be a terrorist. His name was Kumar, he was a Muslim, and he worked in the kitchens. One morning in the breakfast line, Figgis went to grab a bowl of Rice Krispies and Kumar threw a pan of boiling water in his face. The Asian watched me, two cons back, as Figgis dropped to the floor, screeching, steam rising off his face like piss on a cold day.

I couldn't take my eyes off Figgis. His hands up around his face, but not touching. Too afraid, his skin scalded, his eyes screwed shut and stinging red. Screaming like a bairn. Like 'a coon'.

A screw grabbed Figgis under the arms and pulled him out of the kitchen while we all looked on. Figgis' legs kicked out, his feet squeaked against the lino. Kumar returned to the back of the kitchen, but he never took his eyes off me. They had a matte finish, just completely black.

I didn't say nowt. Kept my mouth firm.

'Yeah, you better,' Kumar said to me on the spur. 'You better keep it locked, mate.'

His voice was too deep for his frame. It felt like God was speaking to me, some really nasty Old Testament cunt.

There was a bang-up after that. I would have been glad of it

if Kumar hadn't spoken to me. But his voice boomed in my skull.

You will be eligible for community visits after you serve at least three-quarters of your sentence, depending on your Parole Eligibility Date (PED) and your Sentence Expiry Date (SED).

It couldn't come fast enough.

TWENTY

'You can fuck yourself,' said Baz. 'That's what you can do.’

‘That's nice talk, Baz,' I said.

'You chucked a mug of fuckin' tea at us. I were just messing.'

'And so were I.'

I know when you're messing, Mo. And you wasn't mes- sing then.'

'Fuck off and get round here.’

‘Get the bus, nobhead.' I told you once, Baz.’

‘Get Rossie.'

'Get fucked. And get round here.'

I bleeped him off. Fuckin' Baz with a pet lip on 'cause I chucked a mug of tea at him. Fuck's sake, what were the world coming to when a mate couldn't chuck a mug at another mate without all this whiney bitch nonsense. Not like I burned him bad or owt. Fuck's sake, even if I did it'd be an improvement to that face. And the fucker had no right messing with us like that. He weren't the one worried about his fuckin' sister took up with a lad twice her age. It were embarrassing, man. Humiliating. What kind of family was we that'd let that happen?

So there were more to be done than pissing with Baz, know what I mean? I sat on me couch and smoked a ciggie, drank a bottle of Vittel. Did a wrap of speed to break me into the day. Me cheek were back to normal. Nothing scarred this cat.

When Baz rang the buzzer, I went downstairs, got in the passenger seat of his Nova. I laughed at Baz's face: it were bright fuckin' red and blotchy. 'Fuckin' hell, Baz,' I said. 'You want to stay out the sun, mate.'

'Where we going?' he said. He didn't look at us.

'We're going to see Innes.'

'I thought you was done with that.'

'What made you think that, Baz? I weren't finished with that.'

'But the lad — '

'The lad were a fuckin' scally. Bout time someone with some sense took this thing over.’

‘Mo — '

'You gonna shut the fuck up and drive, mate? I know what I'm doing.'