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help . . .’
    ‘That’s how it goes,’ Gaz said with a shrug, taking the sting out of it. ‘And?’
    ‘And he took us on a job. Patel’s Quality Used Vehicles, off Ilford Hill.’
    ‘Patel’s, huh?’ There was actually the ghost of a smile on Gaz’s face. Patel’s had been the chief rival to his old man’s operation. ‘Good choice.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Sean said heavily. ‘You’d think.’
    It should have been the perfect crime. Sean had been taught by the best in the business – Gaz’s dad – that if you really want to make money, then you let the other guy do the work. You let someone else pimp a car up with all the flash gear, and then you take it all off again. Gaz’s old man made more money selling off the bits – rims, stereos, body kits – than if he just sold the whole car. And Patel’s parts would be untraceable. Half of them would be hooky too, with the old serial numbers filed off. They wouldn’t have been going to the cops in a hurry.
    Sean and the lads would have got into the shop, found the keys to all the cars, ripped off as many parts as they could, loaded them all up and driven them back to asecure lock-up at Littern Mills. Job done and Patel severely pissed off.
    ‘Only it all went tits,’ Sean added, carefully not mentioning who had been the one to drop the phone. Anyway, that twat Curly shouldn’t have nudged him. He described the jump, and the motorbike, and what had happened next.
    Copper howled with laughter. ‘Oh, Harker, you stupid tosser. OK, well, it’s done and here we are. You, me, Gaz – we’re going to rule this joint. You’ll see.’
    Soon after that, King was back. He took Sean to the medical centre, where the doctor listened to his chest and back with a stethoscope, shone a light into his eyes and ears, and asked questions about his medical health. Then it was over to a small meeting room in the unit, where Prison Officer Jacqui Parker shuffled papers in a folder, gave him a patient, friendly smile that was just too switched on for his liking, and asked if he had ever thought of self-harm or suicide. She tried to convince him that if he behaved himself, he could get out of this place with a clean break from the past and never have to come back again.
    After the interview, King took him for his first shower in captivity. Then he was able to grab some fish and chips – and finally it was back to his cell, his hair stilldamp. The sound of the door closing and locking behind him echoed around inside his skull long after he had gone to bed. At first he just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Next to the smoke detector there was a red arrow in a circle, with words in English and – he guessed – Arabic: Qibla prayer direction .
    Then the lights went out automatically. After that he lay on his back in the dark and stared at the ceiling, where the detector and the arrow would be.
    Ahead of him lay a week-long induction. Then the rest of his sentence. Beyond that, the rest of his life. But to progress to any of that, first he had to get to sleep. It had been a long day, the shittiest one of his life, but it was still way too early for bed, and his body was pumped full of adrenaline.
    Burnleigh was too quiet. Sean missed the music and voices and road noise that you got on the estate. The silence was almost like a steady background roar, but it was enveloping. He could feel it surrounding him, and at last it brought sleep with it. His last thought was that, hey, it was shit but he had two friends here. Well, one friend and Copper. It might be all right . . .
    An electronic scream blasted into his eardrums, and every muscle in his body spasmed. He sat up sharply and bellowed into the darkness. ‘THE FUCK!?’
    Alarms were blaring out in the corridor. DRRR-DRRR-DRRR . . .
    He heard shouts, and booted feet running on lino. There was a crackle of static, and an amplified voice spoke.
    ‘ All inmates, stand by your beds and prepare for evacuation. All inmates, stand by your