Read Online Fighting to the Death by Carl Merritt - Free Book Online
Authors: Carl Merritt
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kid up on the word of her estranged, punch-happy boyfriend. And she blamed herself for what had happened. But there’s no way she could be responsible for the rantings and violence of a man like Terry. The next morning the cozzers hauled me out of the cell and I gave a statement admitting what had happened. If I hadn’t stuck that pen in him then maybe I wouldn’t have been so harshly treated. One of the coppers said that pen turned it from a common assault charge to Grievous Bodily Harm.
I’ve got to say here and now the cops were fairly decent to me. They only cuffed me when they had to and they didn’t rough me up at all. Round where I lived you expected a few problems down the local nick, but this time they were as good as gold. I think they felt sorry for me because Terry was so clearly a toerag. But there was nothing they could do as he was insisting on pressing charges. One of the coppers pulled me aside and saidhe thought it was a disgrace that a big fella like Terry would press charges against a fifteen-year-old kid. He reckoned I’d severely damaged Terry’s pride more than anything else.
I admitted the GBH charge so they held the trial within a couple of days of my arrest. As I had no previous convictions I thought I’d get off with something like a community service order. I was – and still am – a shy sort of bloke so all those people staring at me in court made me shrink even more into myself. I even caught a glimpse of that bastard Terry smirking at me from across the courtroom. I answered all the questions with a short ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and I could tell that was narking off a lot of the officials. Then there was my mum in the public gallery, close to tears. This was her baby accused of defending her against the man she now hated more than anyone else in the world. She’d earlier even tried to press counter-charges but the police told her not to bother.
The magistrate gave me three months’youth detention. My legs wobbled for a few seconds after he said it. I couldn’t quite believe my ears. Then my mum stood up and shouted at Terry: ‘He’s the one you should be locking up.’
I was taken away in cuffs. I was about to serve a stretch inside for defending my tiny, fragile mum against a six-foot-plus bully who’d tried to smash her to a pulp. Something wasn’t right, but I was too young and too scared to say anything. My head bowed, I just took the punishment. I was numbed and resigned to what had happened. I didn’t fight. I didn’t try to have a bundle with the guards. I just went quietly.
Minutes later I was pushed into the back of a dark blue transit van with blacked-out windows and driven off to Her Majesty’s Borstal in Rochester, Kent, which was – I would soondiscover – one of the worst youth detention centres in the whole of Britain. The screws picked up three other kids on the way there. Two of them were crying throughout the journey, which didn’t make things any easier. Meanwhile I sat in the back chained up like a rabid dog, trying not to look too worried. But beneath my brave exterior I was in tatters. I felt broken and wasted. And I wondered if I’d ever get my life on track again.
CHAPTER FIVE
Two-Way Stretch
I ’d been told by some relatives before my sentencing that if I was sent down then the best way to handle it was not to talk much to other inmates. My uncle Pete said: ‘Keep your head down and you’ll get through it, son.’
And in some ways he was right. I quickly got myself a reputation as someone not to mess with. I was considered a big, brooding ‘psycho’ type who hardly uttered a word, and that suited me fine. I also made a point of keeping my eyes to myself because once you catch someone’s glance inside then there’s always trouble.
It might sound predictable, but the most dangerous place in Rochester was the shower room. You always had to keep your wits about you and it really was a case of backs against the wall. The bullies and
I’ve got to say here and now the cops were fairly decent to me. They only cuffed me when they had to and they didn’t rough me up at all. Round where I lived you expected a few problems down the local nick, but this time they were as good as gold. I think they felt sorry for me because Terry was so clearly a toerag. But there was nothing they could do as he was insisting on pressing charges. One of the coppers pulled me aside and saidhe thought it was a disgrace that a big fella like Terry would press charges against a fifteen-year-old kid. He reckoned I’d severely damaged Terry’s pride more than anything else.
I admitted the GBH charge so they held the trial within a couple of days of my arrest. As I had no previous convictions I thought I’d get off with something like a community service order. I was – and still am – a shy sort of bloke so all those people staring at me in court made me shrink even more into myself. I even caught a glimpse of that bastard Terry smirking at me from across the courtroom. I answered all the questions with a short ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and I could tell that was narking off a lot of the officials. Then there was my mum in the public gallery, close to tears. This was her baby accused of defending her against the man she now hated more than anyone else in the world. She’d earlier even tried to press counter-charges but the police told her not to bother.
The magistrate gave me three months’youth detention. My legs wobbled for a few seconds after he said it. I couldn’t quite believe my ears. Then my mum stood up and shouted at Terry: ‘He’s the one you should be locking up.’
I was taken away in cuffs. I was about to serve a stretch inside for defending my tiny, fragile mum against a six-foot-plus bully who’d tried to smash her to a pulp. Something wasn’t right, but I was too young and too scared to say anything. My head bowed, I just took the punishment. I was numbed and resigned to what had happened. I didn’t fight. I didn’t try to have a bundle with the guards. I just went quietly.
Minutes later I was pushed into the back of a dark blue transit van with blacked-out windows and driven off to Her Majesty’s Borstal in Rochester, Kent, which was – I would soondiscover – one of the worst youth detention centres in the whole of Britain. The screws picked up three other kids on the way there. Two of them were crying throughout the journey, which didn’t make things any easier. Meanwhile I sat in the back chained up like a rabid dog, trying not to look too worried. But beneath my brave exterior I was in tatters. I felt broken and wasted. And I wondered if I’d ever get my life on track again.
CHAPTER FIVE
Two-Way Stretch
I ’d been told by some relatives before my sentencing that if I was sent down then the best way to handle it was not to talk much to other inmates. My uncle Pete said: ‘Keep your head down and you’ll get through it, son.’
And in some ways he was right. I quickly got myself a reputation as someone not to mess with. I was considered a big, brooding ‘psycho’ type who hardly uttered a word, and that suited me fine. I also made a point of keeping my eyes to myself because once you catch someone’s glance inside then there’s always trouble.
It might sound predictable, but the most dangerous place in Rochester was the shower room. You always had to keep your wits about you and it really was a case of backs against the wall. The bullies and
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