"Saturday's Child" - читать интересную книгу автора (BANKS RAY)

PART ONE The Saturday Boy

You will be taken to the prison reception.

Reception made me think of an airy room with a bubbly blonde behind a counter, all smiles and bright eyes. It was a room, that's where the similarity ended. Badly lit. It smelled vaguely of shit, and I couldn't place the source. I didn't mind. I'd get used to it.

Already conditioning myself.

You will be allowed to keep some things. These things will become your ‘property’. You will be asked to sign a form saying that you have seen what is in your bag, and that it has been sealed in front of you.

They asked if I understood what was happening to me. I stared at the fat guy with the pockmarked skin behind the reception desk. I watched the way his face moved. His cheeks buckled around the sides of his mouth. Before he got a chance to ask me again, I nodded. I understood exactly what was happening to me. I leaned over to sign the form. My wrist ached as I pressed down on the pen. When I set it down, I noticed blue ink on the inside of my hand.

You may have a bath or a shower.

I'd already had one that morning. The skin on my face still felt tight, newly shaved.

You will be given a prison number and told where to sleep. You will be seen by a member of the prison health team. Please tell the health staff if you feel very down or panicky or if you can't cope with your feelings or worries.This will be treated as medically confidential.

I went through the examination without complaint. I was fine, I told the doctor. Absolutely fine. I wasn't panicking. I wasn't worried. Everything was fine. Because I'd told myself this was inevitable. At twenty, I'd resigned myself to Her Majesty's pleasure. I'd already gone through the bullshit accusations in my head a long time ago. I'd already spat at the police, kicked off with the duty sergeant, and it had got me this far with a cracked rib (healing) and not much else.

And, Christ, I didn't show it, but I was knotted up inside. Scared wasn't the word. Petrified. Terrified. Stone cold fucking dead on my feet frightened.

Sometimes it doesn't matter if you're innocent or not. Sometimes all that matters is how you do your time.

I had a maximum of five years to look forward to.

Thanks to Mo Tiernan.