They all sniggered and, watching them, Vinnie scowled. Let the cunts laugh, he thought, pushing his chest out and flexing his fists again. He’d show them who’d have the last laugh.
But it wasn’t his only thought; there was another one. One that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. In fact, not so much a thought as a niggle of an emotion. One he didn’t like the feel of, so he fought to keep it where it lay.
Which was in the pit of his stomach. ‘Come on then, fellas,’ he said, ‘Show us me new pad, then. Only I’m a bit peckish, so I hope room service are still working.’
The other plod – the one he hadn’t been cuffed to – suddenly grabbed Vinnie by the arm. ‘Think you’re clever, do you? You’re nothing but a Yorkshire fucking tyke.’ He grinned nastily. ‘And guess what?’ he added, glancing again at the desk sergeant. ‘The lads in the holding cell have all had a few bevvies already and, trust me, they’re gonna love you, lad.’
Without further comment to either of the others, he marched Vinnie through a door, and down a corridor, yanking him to a halt in front of the caged bars of a holding cell, the desk sergeant not very far behind.
Vinnie straightened himself right up and tried to look unimpressed by the inhabitants, three of whom were standing in a ragged row, presumably to greet him. They were a black bloke in his twenties, sporting a giant Afro hair-do, a couple of old geezers, filthy-looking (not to mention stinking) who were obviously tramps, and a fourth man who looked to be in his forties. He was covered in tattoos and obviously out of his tree on something, because he was sprawled out on a bench, a pool of recent-looking sick glistening on the floor beside him and contributing to the stench.
The copper unlocked the door and pushed Vinnie inside. ‘Some entertainment, lads!’ he quipped. ‘You all be nice though, okay? He’s just a little kid with a big gob.’
Vinnie slipped his hands into his jeans pockets and fashioned a grin for his bemused audience. He was shitting himself and he needed a strategy. Which of these fellow inmates was he most in with a shot at captivating? He needed to get someone on side, and quickly. The man who’d thrown up was beginning to stir now and pushed himself upright and, by some instinct – it wasn’t rational, the man was stinking and covered in vomit – he stuck out a hand. ‘Alright, mush?’ he said. ‘I’m Vinnie.’
The man laughed, but not unpleasantly, and immediately shook the outstretched hand. ‘Now then, you little cunt, you’re a bit young to be in here, aren’t you? What the fuck did you do?’
The black guy laughed as well then and, having obviously risen at the sound of his approach – like dogs do when they hear the rattle of a tin – they all sat down again on the remaining benches that went around the three walls. Vinnie breathed a silent sigh of relief and joined in the laughter. ‘Fucking GBH or ABH or something. Fuck knows. Whatever it was, I bit the big fucker’s cheek off.’
The big bloke and the black man both laughed even louder, thumping each other on the arm. Maybe they were friends. The black man wiped his eyes then and said to Vinnie, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, that’s livened us up a bit! I’m Maurice, man,’ he said, holding his own hand out. Vinnie shook it. ‘And this here’s Grant. How long you here for?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Vinnie, as the copper turned the key behind him. ‘They’re supposed to be putting me in a new approved school or something.’
‘Approved school, eh?’ The black guy scratched his head. ‘Well, make yourself at home, Vin. And don’t worry about these two,’ he said, pointing to the tramps, who eyed him incuriously. ‘They’re only here till they sober up. Obviously.’
‘Or fall down fuckin’ dead,’ Grant said. Upon which they both threw their heads back and burst out laughing again.
And as Grant laughed, Vinnie noticed the tattoo round his neck. It was a series of roughly inked blue lines – a dotted line, in fact – and underneath it, at the front, written in pretty shitty writing, was the faded and grubby instruction to ‘cut here’.
Vinnie couldn’t wait till he could get some tattoos. He’d remember that one, he decided. But for the moment – well, what now? They just sat here? That was what struck him most, the weirdness of the situation. That he was sat in a room with four men, two of them tramps. Nothing to do. Nothing to read. Nowhere to go.
Worst of all, they had started talking dirty. Not to him – now he was here he was no longer a novelty – but telling each other about birds they’d both shagged and what they’d done to them, which was a subject that, Miss Biggs aside, wasn’t doing it for him. They weren’t that young themselves, so chances were they’d be ropey old birds they were discussing, too. Yeuch.
He was bored stiff and began to wonder if he should ask for a pen and paper so he could write a letter or something to help pass the time. Fuck! he thought, remembering suddenly. His letters! They were still under his pillow in his bunk. He’d slipped them under there when he’d gone down to check out the ruck in the yard and hadn’t given a thought to them since.
Fuck, he thought again, realising that was the last he’d probably see of them. At least for a while. How could he have forgotten them? What an idiot. And what were the chances – even if he asked the copper to call the home in Brighton for him – of him ever getting his hands on them again? Already been scooped up in the laundry no doubt, when they cleared the room to make way for the next poor sod.
He felt even worse when he realised that there was absolutely no chance of him being allowed to call home and speak to his sister now. He sat back and rested his head against the cold, unyeilding wall, feeling guilty. He felt bad about that bit. Poor Titch.
Still, he decided, it was probably something and nothing anyway. Whatever was eating his little sis at the moment was probably fuck all compared to the shit he was in.
Josie lifted the nicotine-stained net curtains for what must have been the twentieth time and peered anxiously out into the blackness. Where was her mum? She should have been home hours ago. She’d left the house at about four in the morning, it had seemed like, and it was now after eight in the evening.
‘Any sign of her, Titch?’
She jumped at the unexpected sound of her dad’s voice. He’d been dozing, but clearly no longer. She shook her head.
‘Bollocks to it, then!’ he said with feeling, rising stiffly from his armchair, and reaching to grab his overcoat from the sofa arm. ‘She’s probably pissed off straight to the pub, Titch. You know what she’s like. Telling all her fucking mates about what the boy wonder’s been up to.’
Josie lowered the net. ‘No she won’t have, Dad,’ she said. ‘She knows better. I told her to come let me know as soon as she got back.’
She watched her dad shrug his coat on and slip his tobacco tin in the pocket, clearly bound for the pub now as well. It hurt her to think her mam might have gone straight to the Bull without popping home first to see her, because she knew how desperately she wanted some news about Vinnie. It had been on her mind since Saturday night, when her Auntie Mo had called round, saying the social worker had been on the phone wanting June. Something had happened – something bad – because her mam had been in a mood all Sunday. Had he been causing trouble? If so, what kind of trouble? She’d asked, but her mam said she didn’t actually know. All she’d say was that he’d been his usual stupid fucking self and ‘gone off on one’ with someone, which told her nothing she didn’t already know.
She wouldn’t have gone straight to the pub, would she? Surely not. But her dad clearly thought so, and maybe he was right. ‘Yeah, love,’ he said, ‘and pigs might fly. I’m telling you, Titch, she won’t give a fuck about what you said. Anyway, I’m off up to the Bull and I bet you a pound