get early release.”
Jordan nodded. “That reminds me. What am I supposed to have done to get banged up in the first place?”
Angel laughed. “I’ll think of something.”
The technician rolled the artificial skin right up to Jordan’s reconstructed shoulder and said, “There you are. As good as new.” She smiled oddly at Angel and added,
“Everything’s in place.”
It was Friday 20th April and Jordan was letting rip in the recreation room when Prisoner 1345 took an interest in his drumming. Under the watchful eyes of the guards, the man
leaned on the pool table for a while before coming forward. “You’re pretty good,” he said.
“I used to be.” Jordan held out his artificial arm. “This doesn’t help.”
“Still sounds cool to me.”
“Thanks.”
“They call me Giddy,” he said. “What are you in for?”
“I’ve got a habit of setting fire to things. They said I’m doing it to get my own back for my accident.”
“Are you?”
Jordan shrugged. “I just like flames.”
He couldn’t ever remember being so untruthful when he was plain Ben Smith. Then again, he was trying not to dredge up his past. He guessed that being a secret agent was always going to
involve deception.
Giddy didn’t seem to sense any threat in the young offender. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Jordan.”
“And what are you going to do when you get out?”
“How do you mean?”
“More arson?”
Jordan shrugged again.
“You’re young. You don’t want to come back here. It’s not a nice place to be.”
Jordan had learned that already. It was depressing. Everywhere he looked there were tall wire fences, locked doors, and prison guards. The place was a relentless grey. The loudest sounds were
barked commands and slamming gates. Everything happened slowly. Everyone walked at a snail’s pace. Nothing was worth running for. He spent a large part of every day in queues. Queues for
food, queues to go through doors, queues to be frisked, queues for the showers. Queues for everything. Prison erased choice and personality. Most of all, it was miserable because the prisoners
couldn’t just pack up and leave whenever they needed a break from life inside.
“After you’ve done your time, keep to drumsticks,” Giddy said. “Stay clear of matchsticks.”
“I’ll try.”
“Perhaps I can help.”
“Oh?”
“How do you fancy playing in a band?”
It felt good to be thumping out a rhythm again, but it wasn’t with the same joy. He was drumming as part of a mission, he felt as if his strong right arm was about to
thrust the stick straight through the skin and, like most nervous drummers, he speeded up the beat too much.
Taking a break from rehearsals, drinking a weird liquid that was supposed to be tea, Jordan asked Giddy, “What are you in for?”
“Playing guitar very badly.”
“Seriously.”
Giddy smiled. “Not so different from what you did. They got me for setting fire to a military camp. Not for the first time.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like the arms industry.”
Jordan played dumb. Puzzled, he looked down at his artificial arm.
Giddy’s expression was part amusement, part annoyance. “No. Not that sort of arms industry. Arms . Missiles, bombs, guns and stuff.”
“Oh. Right.” Jordan paused before adding, “What’s the problem with them?”
“What’s the problem?” he exclaimed. “They kill people. That’s what.” He started waving his hands around and nearly knocked over his tea. “Bombs are what
go off in the Middle East or wherever. Not England. Not usually anyway. We’re divorced from it. We don’t understand what it’s like. We don’t have to hide in basements and
hope. We don’t have to bury victims. We’ve forgotten the reality of war. We make weapons and sell them all over the place, but don’t see the result.”
Jordan nodded. “I used to live near Canvey Arms Factory. It’s not there any more. It went up in the estuary
Jordan nodded. “That reminds me. What am I supposed to have done to get banged up in the first place?”
Angel laughed. “I’ll think of something.”
The technician rolled the artificial skin right up to Jordan’s reconstructed shoulder and said, “There you are. As good as new.” She smiled oddly at Angel and added,
“Everything’s in place.”
It was Friday 20th April and Jordan was letting rip in the recreation room when Prisoner 1345 took an interest in his drumming. Under the watchful eyes of the guards, the man
leaned on the pool table for a while before coming forward. “You’re pretty good,” he said.
“I used to be.” Jordan held out his artificial arm. “This doesn’t help.”
“Still sounds cool to me.”
“Thanks.”
“They call me Giddy,” he said. “What are you in for?”
“I’ve got a habit of setting fire to things. They said I’m doing it to get my own back for my accident.”
“Are you?”
Jordan shrugged. “I just like flames.”
He couldn’t ever remember being so untruthful when he was plain Ben Smith. Then again, he was trying not to dredge up his past. He guessed that being a secret agent was always going to
involve deception.
Giddy didn’t seem to sense any threat in the young offender. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Jordan.”
“And what are you going to do when you get out?”
“How do you mean?”
“More arson?”
Jordan shrugged again.
“You’re young. You don’t want to come back here. It’s not a nice place to be.”
Jordan had learned that already. It was depressing. Everywhere he looked there were tall wire fences, locked doors, and prison guards. The place was a relentless grey. The loudest sounds were
barked commands and slamming gates. Everything happened slowly. Everyone walked at a snail’s pace. Nothing was worth running for. He spent a large part of every day in queues. Queues for
food, queues to go through doors, queues to be frisked, queues for the showers. Queues for everything. Prison erased choice and personality. Most of all, it was miserable because the prisoners
couldn’t just pack up and leave whenever they needed a break from life inside.
“After you’ve done your time, keep to drumsticks,” Giddy said. “Stay clear of matchsticks.”
“I’ll try.”
“Perhaps I can help.”
“Oh?”
“How do you fancy playing in a band?”
It felt good to be thumping out a rhythm again, but it wasn’t with the same joy. He was drumming as part of a mission, he felt as if his strong right arm was about to
thrust the stick straight through the skin and, like most nervous drummers, he speeded up the beat too much.
Taking a break from rehearsals, drinking a weird liquid that was supposed to be tea, Jordan asked Giddy, “What are you in for?”
“Playing guitar very badly.”
“Seriously.”
Giddy smiled. “Not so different from what you did. They got me for setting fire to a military camp. Not for the first time.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like the arms industry.”
Jordan played dumb. Puzzled, he looked down at his artificial arm.
Giddy’s expression was part amusement, part annoyance. “No. Not that sort of arms industry. Arms . Missiles, bombs, guns and stuff.”
“Oh. Right.” Jordan paused before adding, “What’s the problem with them?”
“What’s the problem?” he exclaimed. “They kill people. That’s what.” He started waving his hands around and nearly knocked over his tea. “Bombs are what
go off in the Middle East or wherever. Not England. Not usually anyway. We’re divorced from it. We don’t understand what it’s like. We don’t have to hide in basements and
hope. We don’t have to bury victims. We’ve forgotten the reality of war. We make weapons and sell them all over the place, but don’t see the result.”
Jordan nodded. “I used to live near Canvey Arms Factory. It’s not there any more. It went up in the estuary
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