Page 6 of Claim

“Slade!” someone called.

“Oi, Razor!”

I kept my eyes forwards. As always.

Looking was a mistake. Reacting was worse.

We passed the gym, the library, the yard doors. Landmarks of a routine I’d built piece by piece over the last eight weeks. I used the gym when it was quiet, lifted to keep the muscle I knew I’d need. In here. Out there, if it ever came to it, which I doubted. I trained for the long haul, and for the longer one waiting when they finally sentenced me.

I read when they let me, too. A habit I’d forgotten I’d once enjoyed. Who knew, eh? Razor Slade, drug dealer and gang enforcer, sitting with a book. Funny, that. But it kept my hands busy and my head steady, and that mattered more than appearances.

I walked the same routes at the same times. Ate fast. Left early.

I made myself dull.

Dull kept me alive.

Even so, right then, same as always, I felt Ghost lingering. Same as every single fucking day of the eight weeks I’d been in here. He lived in the space between my shoulder blades. He was a pressure, a prickle, the sense of being assessed. And when I snapped my gaze sideways, long enough to confirm it, there he was. Leon “Ghost” Morris. Leaning over the railing on the opposite landing, loose-limbed, smiling at nothing in particular. He’d been let out on rec early. Free to roam while the rest of us stayed behind doors. Odd at first. Now routine.

Ghost was top dog in here.

And he was watching me.

Then, as per, something skittered across the floor. Metallic. Light. It spun once before resting near my foot. A coin. I didn’t need to look to know what it was, or that it was meant for me. It was a test, see. And looking made it real. Not looking made it my choice. But I knew what it meant.

You’ve got a price on your head and I’m cashing in.

I looked away.

Someone had a sense of humour, putting me on remand in the same block as the man from the rival crew I’d ensured had got caught and put inside. That wasn’t chance. No admin error. Someone had known. Someone had signed off on it. Orchestrated it.

Someone who wanted me gone.

Dent kept walking, boots echoing as he steered me deeper into the block towards the interview rooms. This wasn’t a personal visit. I knew that already. I had to agree to those and I hadn’t. I don’t think I’d keep it locked up if I saw Kee. Or Mum. Or, fucking hell, even Lennon. I’d probably break down. And I’d spent eight weeks not thinking about Tristan for that reason. At all.

Which was a lie.

So I was thankful it was just my piss-poor defence team.

The guards sat me down and left. The door closed with a softer click than the cell door, which somehow made it worse. The room felt smaller because of it. Airless. Claustrophobic. I leant back in the chair and waited.

Eight weeks since bail refusal.

Eight weeks of waiting for something to change.

Eight weeks of learning how long I could sit with the idea that this might be it. That this grey, grinding, watched existence could stretch out not for months but years. Forever, if the wrong people wanted it that way. I’d stopped planning. Stopped imagining anything beyond the next day’s routine. Hope was noisy. Hope got me noticed.

The door opened again.

Martin Ellwood came in first. I recognised the suit. Charcoal, expensive without shouting. And the way he carried himself as if professionalism was a shield. He’d been my solicitor since the night of the arrest. Out of his depth. The man behind him was younger. Jonny Davies. Junior associate. Brought along to take notes and look serious.

They sat opposite me.

No smiles. That wasn’t unusual. But nor did they soothe my fears either.

“Mr Slade.” Ellwood smoothed his tie, a reflex more than a necessity. “How are you holding up?”

I shrugged. “Still breathing.”