Page 51 of Claim

“Operational.”

I rolled my eyes.

“You can get to breakfast when you’ve… settled.” He turned away, and the door clanged shut behind him.

I dropped my bag and stood there for a second, listening. A single cell sounded good on paper. No one breathing in your ear. No one stealing your sugar. No one to keep you awake with their fucking rituals. And you could also have a nice wank when you wanted.

But it also meant there was no buffer.

No witness.

No obstacle.

No one to get through to reach you.

Isolation didn’t mean safety in here. It meant access.

I scrubbed a hand over my face and sat on the edge of the bed. This wasn’t protection. This was positioning. But whatever. It didn’t matter what I thought. I made the bed, then grabbed my cup and headed back out when the unlock went. Two men were standing a little too close to my door. Big. Shaved heads. Ink crawling up their necks and across their hands. I gave them nothing, slipped past and followed the smell of weak coffee and burnt toast.

All wings were built the same. Once you’d learnt one, you could read the rest without trying. Phones along one wall. Servery opposite. Tables bolted down in rows like a school canteen, everything designed to keep bodies moving and eyes on show.

I grabbed a tray and joined the queue, kept my head level, and took the place in with my peripheral vision. You didn’t stare in here. You also didn’t walk blind. The trick was knowing who to avoid and who you might need later, without letting anyone catch you weighing it up.

Then I saw a sight that stopped me dead.

A kid.

Yeah. A kid, even if the law said otherwise.

Sat on his own at one of the far tables, shovelling toast into his mouth as if resenting the effort of staying alive.

Darren.

His focus stayed fixed on the tray, shoulders hunched, trying to make himself smaller. As a group passed behind him, one of them clipped him hard enough to jolt his spine. Laughter followed. Darren flinched, swallowed it, didn’t look up.

Fuck.

Jesus. Fucking. Fuck.

There were two reasons this was bad.

First—he was marked.

You didn’t get treated like that unless people thought you were weak, or dangerous in the wrong way. Darren was on remand, same as me. Possession. No plea. No trial yet. The filth leaning on him because that’s what they do with boys like him. Young, scared, desperate to believe someone in authority was offering them a way out.

We didn’t get plea deals here. And we weren’t in some Netflix fantasy where you grass and walk free. Here, the system ran on evidence, procedure, and how you behaved once you were caught. But you could talk. If you wanted to. Not for a reduced charge, but to be seen as cooperative. Remorseful. Someone worth treating gently later. Judges noticed that shit. Parole boards noticed it. And the screws definitely noticed it. Extra yard time. A better job. A place on a course. A recommendation written with kinder words.

That was the carrot.

And the stick was time. Years of it.

Darren didn’t have the sense to see the board he was being moved around on, let alone how dangerous it was to play. He had nothing worth trading, anyway. Nothing the police didn’t already half-know. Which meant witness protection was a joke for someone like him.

But word like that never stayed quiet.

Once it leaked that someone might talk, that was enough. Truth didn’t matter. Neither did proof. In here, suspicion did the damage on its own. There was no code. Never had been. Men grassed every day. Not because they were brave or broken, but because anything that shaved time off was worth it. Not years. Just how long a year felt. A quieter wing. Fewer beatings. A door that closed instead of staying open. Some of them lied for it. Made things up that sounded useful. That was the gamble the system played, and it paid more often than it didn’t.

Darren didn’t understand that. He wasn’t smart enough to see how fast a rumour became a verdict. It wasn’t even really his fault. I’d sat through his hearing. Had Tristan strip the jargon down to what it actually meant. The pressure wasn’t subtle. They were holding Darren on remand not because of what he’d done, but because of what he might say if they kept him scared and boxed in long enough.