One broken victim flicked a vee at Leverthal’s back as he sauntered along the corridor. Hair slicked down and parted in three places. A couple of home-grown tattoos on his fore-arm, unfinished.

‘They have committed criminal acts, however,’ Redman pointed out.

‘Yes, but —, ‘And must, presumably, be reminded of the fact.’

‘I don’t think they need any reminding, Mr Redman. I think they burn with guilt.’

She was hot on guilt, which didn’t surprise him. They’d taken over the pulpit, these analysts. They were up where the Bible-thumpers used to stand, with the threadbare sermons on the fires below, but with a slightly less colourful vocabulary. It was fundamentally the same story though, complete with the promises of healing, if the rituals were observed. And behold, the righteous shall inherit the Kingdom of Heaven.

There was a pursuit on the playing field, he noticed. Pursuit, and now a capture. One victim was laying into another smaller victim with his boot; it was a fairly merciless display.

Leverthal caught the scene at the same time as Redman.

‘Excuse me. I must —‘

She started down the stairs.

‘Your workshop is third door on the left if you want to take a look,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘I’ll be right back.’

Like hell she would. Judging by the way the scene on the field was progressing, it would be a three crowbar job to prize them apart.

Redman wandered along to his workshop. The door was locked, but through the wired glass he could see the benches, the vices, the tools. Not bad at all. He might even teach them some wood-work, if he was left alone long enough to do it.

A bit frustrated not to be able to get in, he doubled back along the corridor, and followed Leverthal downstairs, finding his way out easily on to the sun-lit playing field. A little knot of spectators had grown around the fight, or the massacre, which had now ceased. Leverthal was standing, staring down at the boy on the ground. One of the warders was kneeling at the boy’s head; the injuries looked bad.

A number of the spectators looked up and stared at the new face as Redman approached. There were whispers amongst them, some smiles.

Redman looked at the boy. Perhaps sixteen, he lay with his cheek to the ground, as if listening for something in the earth.

‘Lacey’, Leverthal named the boy for Redman.

‘Is he badly hurt?’ The man kneeling beside Lacey shook his head.

‘Not too bad. Bit of a fall. Nothing broken.’

There was blood on the boy’s face from his mashed nose. His eyes were closed. Peaceful. He could have been dead.

‘Where’s the bloody stretcher?’ said the warder. He was clearly uncomfortable on the drought-hardened ground.

‘They’re coming, Sir,’ said someone. Redman thought it was the aggressor. A thin lad: about nineteen. The sort of eyes that could sour milk at twenty paces.

Indeed a small posse of boys was emerging from the main building, carrying a stretcher and a red blanket. They were all grinning from ear to ear.

The band of spectators had begun to disperse, now that the best of it was over. Not much fun picking up the pieces.

‘Wait, wait,’ said Redman, ‘don’t we need some wit-nesses here? Who did this?’

There were a few casual shrugs, but most of them played deaf. They sauntered away as if nothing had been said.

Redman said: ‘We saw it. From the window.’ Leverthal was offering no support.

‘Didn’t we?’ he demanded of her.

‘It was too far to lay any blame, I think. But I don’t want to see any more of this kind of bullying, do you all understand me?’

She’d seen Lacey, and recognized him easily from that distance. Why not the attacker too? Redman kicked himself for not concentrating; without names and person-alities to go with the faces, it was difficult to distinguish between them. The risk of making a misplaced accusation was high, even though he was almost sure of the curdling -eyed boy. This was no time to make mistakes, he decided; this time he’d have to let the issue drop.

Leverthal seemed unmoved by the whole thing.

‘Lacey,’ she said quietly, ‘it’s always Lacey.’ ‘He asks for it,’ said one of the boys with the stretcher, brushing a sheaf of blond-white hair from his eyes, ‘he doesn’t know no better.’

Ignoring the observation, Leverthal supervised Lacey’s transfer to the stretcher, and started to walk back to the main building, with Redman in tow. It was all so casual.

‘Not exactly wholesome, Lacey,’ she said cryptically, almost by way of explanation; and that was all. So much for compassion.

Redman glanced back as they tucked the red blanket around Lacey’s still form. Two things happened, almost simultaneously.

The first: Somebody in the group said, ‘That’s the pig’. The second: Lacey’s eyes opened and looked straight into Redman’s, wide, clear and true.

Redman spent a good deal of the next day putting his workshop in order. Many of the tools had been broken or rendered useless by untrained handling: saws without teeth, chisels that were chipped and edgeless, broken vices. He’d need money to re-supply the shop with the basics of the trade, but now wasn’t the time to start asking. Wiser to wait, and be seen to do a decent job. He was quite used to the politics of institutions; the force was full of it.

About four-thirty a bell started to ring, a good way from the workshop. He ignored it, but after a time his instincts got the better of him. Bells were alarms, and alarms were sounded to alert people. He left his tidying, locked the workshop door behind him, and followed his ears.

The bell was ringing in what was laughingly called the Hospital Unit, two or three rooms closed off from the main block and prettied up with a few pictures and curtains at the windows. There was no sign of smoke in the air, so it clearly wasn’t a fire. There was shouting though. More than shouting. A howl. He quickened his pace along the interminable corridors, and as he turned a corner towards the Unit a small figure ran straight into him. The impact winded both of them, but Redman grabbed the lad by the arm before he could make off again. The captive was quick to respond, lashing out with his shoeless feet against Redman’s shin. But he had him fast.

‘Let me go you fucking —‘‘Calm down! Calm down!’

His pursuers were almost there. ‘Hold him!’

‘Fucker! Fucker! Fucker! Fucker!’

‘Hold him!’

It was like wrestling a crocodile: the kid had all the strength of fear. But the best of his fury was spent.

Tears were springing into his bruised eyes as he spat in Redman’s face. It was Lacey in his arms, unwholesome Lacey.

‘OK. We got him.’

Redman stepped back as the warder took over, putting Lacey in a hold that looked fit to break the boy’s arm. Two or three others were appearing round the corner. Two boys, and a nurse, a very unlovely creature.

‘Let me go ... Let me go ...‘ Lacey was yelling, but any stomach for the fight had gone out of him. A pout came to his face in defeat, and still the cow-like eyes turned up accusingly at Redman, big and brown. He looked younger than his sixteen years, almost prepubescent. There was a whisper of bum-fluff on his cheek and a few spots amongst the bruises and a badly-applied dressing across his nose. But quite a girlish face, a virgin’s face, from an age when there were still virgins. And still the eyes.

Leverthal had appeared, too late to be of use.

‘What’s going on?’ The warder piped up. The chase had taken his breath, and his temper.

‘He locked himself in the lavatories. Tried to get out through the window.’

‘Why?’

The question was addressed to the warder, not to the child. A telling confusion. The warder, confounded, shrugged.

‘Why?’ Redman repeated the question to Lacey. The boy just stared, as though he’d never been asked a question before.