I’d done a dozen runs before. Mostly with weed, but this time was different; the bag sat heavier in my hand.
I wasn’t stupid. You don’t ask what’s in there. Just sling it over your shoulder and get it done. I got on the train and watched the sky darken. When I arrived, the vibe was off from the start. The guy waiting looked sketchy, wearing new trainers with his hoodie still reppin the security tag. Kept checking over his shoulder. Shifty fucker.
He said the code phrase too quickly, as if he’d memorised it in the mirror five minutes before.
But I still passed the bag over, still reached for the envelope he offered. And that’s when shit went south and the sirens hit. It was like the world exploded. They came from everywhere. Vans, dogs, plain-clothed cops sprinting down alleys. I froze for half a second too long. Long enough to see the buyer drop the envelope and raise his hands holding a taser. This was a sting, and I’d been royally set up. There was no chance of running, so my hands went up in surrender. Boots slammed into my back as I went down, face-first into cold pavement, gravel biting into mycheek. They cuffed me hard, throwing me against the bonnet of a car.
I didn’t even make it to seventeen before I got locked up. They found everything in there, enough to pin me for intent to supply, conspiracy, whatever else they felt like throwing at me. No bail. Danny stayed clear, didn’t even have the balls to show up at the hearing. My mum was probably too high to notice I hadn’t come home. Only Chester came, comforting a sobbing Squeeks in the back of the courtroom, jaw tight, arm wrapped around her. When they gave me nine months in juvie, he didn’t look surprised. It was just sad that it had come to this; I turned to Squeeks one final time as they slapped the cuffs back around my wrists. Mouthing “Be good” as they led me towards the door. I couldn’t bear to see her crumble. Chester caught my eye and nodded once. A reassuring gesture that he would protect my sister as much as he could. They stuck me in a holding cell with a kid who was no older than fourteen, crying like he thought someone was going to kill him. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and tell him to stop being a pussy and to shut the fuck up. Despite that, in the back of my mind, one thought gnawed its way in and refused to leave. Squeeks. Would she be safe without me?
The doors shut behind me with a sound that rattled in my chest. They took my laces and my hoodie. Even the chain Squeeks made me from an old key ring and string. The walls were white, but not clean—more like grey, which would give anyone a sense of depression just by looking at them.
They handed me a bundle: two bright orange sweatshirts, trousers, and several pairs of itchy-looking socks. No names, just INMATE stitched into the fabric. The colour itself made my lip curl in disgust. I was going to look like a fucking wotsit, but I didn’t have a choice; I was one of them now.
“Tyler McCabe!” the guard bellowed, flipping through a clipboard as his eyes locked onto mine.
No one ever called me by my name anymore; it was weirdly unfamiliar to me. I still remember the day people started calling me Screech. I was 10 years old, and Danny had dragged my ass out in a snowstorm to help move some dodgy stock from the warehouse behind our garage.
He was being extra dickish that day, and I don’t really remember what set him off, probably something stupid. It always was.
Maybe I’d said something too clever, or I’d looked him in the eye too long. Whatever the fuck it was, Danny had that twitch in his jaw, and the stance to match his ‘don’t fuck with me’ face. I was too small to fight back, and very much learning the hard way when to keep my mouth shut.
My arms tucked tight across my chest, and my breath bloomed into the cold air like a ghost escaping my lips. The warehouse had big, rusted corrugated walls, with half the windows smashed or boarded, and an eerie yellow glow leaking from a single floodlight above the back loading bay. I remember thinking it looked more like a slaughterhouse than anything else. Half expecting to see blood trails as we stepped inside.
Stacks of mismatched crates formed mazes across the floor, some stamped with foreign labels, others leaking unknown fluids that stained the concrete. In the corner was a makeshift table, scattered with weapons and knock-off tech. I remember Danny barking orders at me to move boxes, one after the other, stacking them against the wall. My small hands barely made it around the sides of the boxes when one slipped from my grasp. The contents spilt across the floor. Several beige bricks fell from inside. My eyes widened as Danny glared at me from across the room, halting his conversation with potential clients. Back then, I didn’t really know what I was looking at, but now, theremust have been thousands of pounds worth of coke in those crates. Danny stormed across the floor, clenching my hoodie in his fist, pushing his face into mine as my trainers slipped on the concrete. His tone was dangerously low as he grilled me for my mistake, forcefully shoving me, sending me crashing backwards into a stack of old car doors. I smacked my cheek along the edge, causing them to topple on top of me as I hit the ground.
And I screeched.
One of those high, involuntary, throat-ripping noises that clawed its way out of me before I could swallow it. The laughter soon followed, not just from Danny but the others too. Uncomfortable grins on their faces as I pulled myself free.
Danny stood there, doubled over, his face bright with cruel delight. Wiping tears from his eyes as if I’d just given him the best goddamn joke he’d ever heard.
“Christ, listen to you,” he barked through his laughter. “What the fuck was that? You sound like a little rat!”
He pointed at me, smirking. “That’s it. That’s your name now … Screech. Suits you, y’little freak.” I stood up slowly. Wiped the blood off my mouth with the back of my sleeve. And I smiled at him. I don’t actually know why I did it. Maybe to show him I wasn’t weak. Either way, the name stuck. Everyone started using it. First, it was like a joke, then it was just… me. Tyler McCabe disappeared somewhere into the darkness in my mind. And Screech took his place, a louder, cockier façade, a walking fucking warning label.
The officer barked, pulling me back to my emotionless surroundings. “Room B-32. Keep your mouth shut, keep your head down.”
I already knew the rules of places like these, thanks to Danny, who had taken the time to share his own experiences with me. But with more made-up bravado, so he didn’t look like a wet wipe.
To me, it was just a different version of the estate, just with louder echoes and thicker bars. My cellmate was some kid called Malik, slim and sharp-eyed. Taller than me, 6ft maybe. His body sprawled on its front, feet hanging off the bottom of his bunk as I entered. He looked me up and down, clocked the grazes on my pale face from the arrest, and my unwelcoming expression. “Ah, new kid is it?”
I nodded.
He returned, looking back at his magazine, which I can only describe as porn in cartoon form. Whatever floats your boat, I guess.
His tone drawled as he flicked through the pages, “Keep your food close. Don’t borrow shit you can’t pay back, and don’t cry at night. The last kid did that, and I wanted to throttle the fucker. Plus, they listen, and they will use it against you.” I scoffed as I placed my new belongings down on the bed.
The first few days blurred into a chaotic shitshow, and Malik stuck to me from that moment. It was as if I had my own personal tour guide, even though I hadn't asked him to be. He was pretty well connected with most social groups here, which didn’t really surprise me, as he didn’t know how to shut the fuck up most of the time. I just drifted beside him like a shadow blending into the concrete walls.
Morning drills consisted of dragging my feet around the yard for 20 minutes. They called it exercise. I call it a horde of hormonal teenagers slumping around like something out of a zombie movie.
The tasteless food— I mean, I wasn’t used to much, but it wasn’t food, more like troll vomit accompanied by a brick of a bread roll. But I never really stayed too long in the dining hall. It was the go-to place the other lads used to puff out their pubescent chests and pick on the weaker kids. And the fightsthat took place, you either watched from the sidelines or got dragged into.
But we didn’t really have anything else to keep us entertained, so watching some poor excuse of a WWE match was highly amusing. I quickly learned which corners to avoid and which guards mostly looked the other way at the smuggled fags tucked into the delivery of fresh sheets. My favourite soon became a guard called Darnell, he’d sometimes stash a lighter in his taser holster, slipping it to me during room inspections. So, for the first week, I ate quickly, walked fast, and slept with one eye open, which I had always been used to.
I was becoming accustomed to the rushing sound of the guard’s boots flying past our cell room door, soon followed by frantic shouting, as yet another fight had popped off. I propped myself against my cell room door as the guards dragged one of the lad’s lifeless bodies down the corridor. Some kid had got overly happy with a shiv, planting it into the other lad’s eye. Haven’t seen him since.
I guess I got lucky in that regard, although Malik was annoying as shit at times, I didn’t fear for my life every time I entered my cell.
