Chapter Nine Razor
chapter nine
Razor
I knew it was stupid.
I knew I was acting like some fucked-up, sentimental cunt.
But whatever.
I lay on my back on my top bunk, one arm tucked under my head, the other holding the card up in front of my face. The light was thin; the early morning sending in a weak grey leak through the mesh and bars. It was enough to make out the lettering. To trace it with my thumb.
Tristan Hale-Fitzroy.
Barrister.
Embossed. Clean. Raised as if meant to last.
I’d turned that card over more times than I’d slept.
There’d been a lot of fortunate shit since the night I’d met him in that alley and thought he was a rent boy.
I’d been stabbed. His mate had been a doctor.
He’d tipped me off about a quiet sting that helped me scrub my gear off the streets I was trying to take back.
He’d dragged Billy Amos out of a mess that would’ve killed him and dropped him into Lennon’s gym instead.
Might’ve saved that kid’s life. His family’s too.
And yeah. There’d been the other part. The part I didn’t pretend hadn’t mattered. Him in my bed. In my arms. Letting me see things no one else ever had.
A lot of accidents. A lot of things lining up.
But this?
Him on my case. Sitting across from me in a prison interview room with a file open and my name typed inside it. That wasn’t an accident. That was a circle closing.
I didn’t know if I wanted it.
They’d said it was my call. I didn’t have to agree.
And the sensible thing, the thing I should do, was say no.
Keep him clean. Keep his name out of my dirt.
Not drag him into my shit that would stain him in ways money and polish didn’t wash off.
Nor turn whatever we were into a transaction.
Client and counsel. Liability and risk. I should want him far away from this. From me.
I rolled the card between my fingers, felt the corner bite into my skin.
On the other hand…
If I let him take my case, he’d come back. He’d have to. And maybe he’d stop me doing something really fucking stupid before this place finished rearranging what was left of me.
I stared at his name until the letters swam.
Then the door opened before morning buzz and Dent stood there, keys in hand. “Slade.”
I shoved the card into my pocket and pushed myself upright. “Yeah?”
“You’re moving.”
I swung my legs off the bunk. “What? Where?”
He gave a thin smile. “You’ve got yourself new digs.”
My stomach tightened. New digs meant a new cell. New landing. New problems.
It’d been a week of keeping out of Ghost’s way, both of us circling, neither willing to light the fuse, but management thought something was brewing, anyway. And if they thought weapons were involved, splitting us up would be their first move.
“Grab your stuff.” Dent held the door open with his back.
Colin stirred on the other bunk, rubbing his eyes, confused.
I dropped from the bed and gathered what little I had into the string bag: toiletries, folded paper, nothing worth calling possessions.
I shot Colin a look. He was the only one in here who might’ve thought he was helping by letting slip that Ghost and I were circling each other, that things might get messy if left alone.
Had he gone to the screws?
Probably.
Probably told himself he was doing me a favour.
I didn’t bother saying goodbye.
Dent waited, impatient, and I stepped out into the corridor with my bag over my shoulder, the door slamming shut behind me.
“Where?” I asked him.
“Different wing.”
“Why?”
“Operational.”
Operational was prison-speak for someone’s decided something.
Dent walked me through corridors I didn’t recognise, past doors that stayed shut, the sound of the place changing pitch as we went.
Every prison had its own noise. You learnt it.
The rhythm. The scrape and shout and metal-on-metal under everything.
This one didn’t match mine. Different echo. Different timing. A different wing.
Men watched as I passed, eyes lifting, heads turning. New face. New meat. I kept my bag tight in my fist.
Dent stopped at an open door.
Inside, there was no top bunk. No second mattress. Just one narrow bed bolted to the wall, sheets folded neat at the end.
I looked at it. Then at him. “What’s this?”
“Single cell.” He jerked his chin. “In.”
“Why?” I stepped inside, cataloguing the space.
“Operational.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You can get to breakfast when you’ve… settled.” He turned away, and the door clanged shut behind him.
I dropped my bag and stood there for a second, listening. A single cell sounded good on paper. No one breathing in your ear. No one stealing your sugar. No one to keep you awake with their fucking rituals. And you could also have a nice wank when you wanted.
But it also meant there was no buffer.
No witness.
No obstacle.
No one to get through to reach you.
Isolation didn’t mean safety in here. It meant access.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and sat on the edge of the bed.
This wasn’t protection. This was positioning.
But whatever. It didn’t matter what I thought.
I made the bed, then grabbed my cup and headed back out when the unlock went.
Two men were standing a little too close to my door.
Big. Shaved heads. Ink crawling up their necks and across their hands.
I gave them nothing, slipped past and followed the smell of weak coffee and burnt toast.
All wings were built the same. Once you’d learnt one, you could read the rest without trying. Phones along one wall. Servery opposite. Tables bolted down in rows like a school canteen, everything designed to keep bodies moving and eyes on show.
I grabbed a tray and joined the queue, kept my head level, and took the place in with my peripheral vision. You didn’t stare in here. You also didn’t walk blind. The trick was knowing who to avoid and who you might need later, without letting anyone catch you weighing it up.
Then I saw a sight that stopped me dead.
A kid.
Yeah. A kid, even if the law said otherwise.
Sat on his own at one of the far tables, shovelling toast into his mouth as if resenting the effort of staying alive.
Darren.
His focus stayed fixed on the tray, shoulders hunched, trying to make himself smaller. As a group passed behind him, one of them clipped him hard enough to jolt his spine. Laughter followed. Darren flinched, swallowed it, didn’t look up.
Fuck.
Jesus. Fucking. Fuck.
There were two reasons this was bad.
First—he was marked.
You didn’t get treated like that unless people thought you were weak, or dangerous in the wrong way.
Darren was on remand, same as me. Possession.
No plea. No trial yet. The filth leaning on him because that’s what they do with boys like him.
Young, scared, desperate to believe someone in authority was offering them a way out.
We didn’t get plea deals here. And we weren’t in some Netflix fantasy where you grass and walk free.
Here, the system ran on evidence, procedure, and how you behaved once you were caught.
But you could talk. If you wanted to. Not for a reduced charge, but to be seen as cooperative.
Remorseful. Someone worth treating gently later.
Judges noticed that shit. Parole boards noticed it.
And the screws definitely noticed it. Extra yard time.
A better job. A place on a course. A recommendation written with kinder words.
That was the carrot.
And the stick was time. Years of it.
Darren didn’t have the sense to see the board he was being moved around on, let alone how dangerous it was to play. He had nothing worth trading, anyway. Nothing the police didn’t already half-know. Which meant witness protection was a joke for someone like him.
But word like that never stayed quiet.
Once it leaked that someone might talk, that was enough.
Truth didn’t matter. Neither did proof. In here, suspicion did the damage on its own.
There was no code. Never had been. Men grassed every day.
Not because they were brave or broken, but because anything that shaved time off was worth it.
Not years. Just how long a year felt. A quieter wing.
Fewer beatings. A door that closed instead of staying open.
Some of them lied for it. Made things up that sounded useful.
That was the gamble the system played, and it paid more often than it didn’t.
Darren didn’t understand that. He wasn’t smart enough to see how fast a rumour became a verdict.
It wasn’t even really his fault. I’d sat through his hearing.
Had Tristan strip the jargon down to what it actually meant.
The pressure wasn’t subtle. They were holding Darren on remand not because of what he’d done, but because of what he might say if they kept him scared and boxed in long enough.
Which meant he wasn’t a defendant anymore.
He was prey.
And that led neatly to the second problem: if he was prey, I couldn’t be seen with him.
And if I wasn’t seen with him, I’d never forgive myself.
Darren was Keeley’s kid’s dad. My niece’s father.
Responsibility I hadn’t asked for and couldn’t walk away from.
It didn’t matter that he was a fuck-up. Didn’t matter that this was his mess.
I wasn’t letting something happen to him while I watched.
Which meant association. Attention. And that this move, this operational reshuffle, also wasn’t a coincidence.
Someone, somewhere, was having a right laugh at my expense.
I took my tea and toast and crossed the room. Then I slid my tray down opposite him, the scrape of plastic on metal loud enough to make him look up. And he just about shit himself.
“Fuck.” He leant back hard, staring at me as if I was a ghost.
Ironic.
“Darren.”
Up close, he looked worse. Old cuts stitched badly around one eye. Cheeks hollowed out, skin pulled tight over bone. He hadn’t had a single easy day in here.