Chapter 2 #2
“We’re trying to help you, you little fucker!” Sean snarled in his ear.
“Get off me!”
“What’s going on here?”
The weight came off Newt’s back and he turned his head to see Angus Leland, one of the PO’s he liked, looking down at them. Sean pushed to his feet and dragged Newt up beside him. Newt shook free of his hold.
“Family reunion,” Sean said. “Just excited to see my little brother again.”
Newt concentrated on gathering his belongings. He wrapped the remains of the paper bag around them and held everything tightly.
“Come back inside for a minute or two,” the PO said. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Your face is bleeding.”
Newt stepped towards him.
“Newt!” his father said. “We have a party planned. Your mother’s cooked. Your sister’s made a banner. Come home.”
Fuck off. Newt followed the PO back to the prison.
Of course, Burton stood just inside the first door. “Didn’t think I’d see you this soon.” He sniggered.
“He had a welcome committee,” Leland said.
Newt swallowed hard when the door shut behind him.
“What the hell was that about?” Leland asked.
“They want me to go home with them, sir. I don’t want to.”
“He has a place in a hostel in Kent,” Burton said. “Well away from his family.”
Leland looked at him a moment, then sighed. “Let’s clean that graze, get you a new bag for your things and find a safe way to get you out of here.”
The way out turned out to be lying down in the back of the deputy governor’s car. Mr Naylor was allowed to leave his vehicle in the interior car park. Newt felt lucky he’d been prepared to help him.
“Can’t see any sign of anyone hanging around,” he told Newt as he drove through the gates. “I’ll go a roundabout route to the station, just in case.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The snow had stopped falling. There was only the slightest trace left on the ground. He needed a better coat, gloves and a hat. There was a long list of stuff he needed and he didn’t have enough money for all of it.
Newt managed to get onto the train without spotting any of his family.
He kept staring through the window until the train had pulled out and breathed a sigh of relief.
He had two changes to make before he reached his destination.
As long as his family had no idea where he was heading, he should be fine.
Should be.
Fine was relative. He needed to remember that.
Life outside of prison was better in some ways and not in others.
Newt knew that would sound crazy to people who’d never been inside, because everything should have been better now.
But there was a comfort in routine and familiarity, eating at set times, knowing which inmates to avoid, feeling safer once your cell door was locked.
Newt found the hostel slightly scary and the world frequently alarming.
He jumped at loud noises, froze when people shouted, struggled trying to decide when to cross the road, found himself staggered at the amount of choice, overwhelmed by having to make almost any decision no matter how small.
He was constantly hypervigilant. He could never relax.
There was a whole list of issues, but adjusting to a new life was always going to take time.
He did manage to buy jeans that fit, a new pair of trainers, packs of underwear and socks, along with three T-shirts, a sweater and a phone, though spending money made him anxious.
He’d gone to the cheapest shops he could find.
Even so, the money he’d allocated didn’t go as far as he’d have liked.
In seven years, prices had risen a lot. In the end, he hadn’t thrown away the clothes he’d worn when he’d left prison. He couldn’t afford to.
Nor could he afford to do anything that wasn’t connected to looking for a job.
No cinema, no drinking coffee in a café, no treats like chocolate or cake.
The Jobcentre had found him a computer course and he’d enjoyed that.
The local library was great. He’d spent hours in there reading books about the ancient Romans, his favourite period of history.
Comfort reading. Once he settled into a routine, his confidence improved.
Socially, he was still a loner. He refused all offers from those in the hostel to go out for a drink.
When he was in his room, he looked at gay porn on his phone.
He couldn’t afford to subscribe to any site, so made do with watching free stuff.
Newt suspected gay sex wasn’t like this in real life, but he knew a lot more now than he did when he was seventeen.
He’d like a boyfriend, but without money to spare on going out, the timing felt wrong.
The thought of having sex scared him. He needed condoms and lube, though there seemed little point in buying them yet. Going to a club was a step too far and too expensive. It would have to wait. In the meantime, the internet and his hand worked fine.
Newt made sure he was on time for his appointment with his probation officer.
Mike Grenville, a guy in his fifties with no hair and a bulldog-like face, seemed the type who’d take no nonsense.
Newt listened, nodded when appropriate and tried to sound upbeat and cheerful when he answered questions.
It was possible he’d never see Mike in person again, unless he fucked up.
Check-ups would be by phone. The service was too stretched to keep physical tabs on every former inmate and Newt had behaved inside. He doubted Mike would worry about him.
Finding a job was a priority but after twenty applications, he’d not even managed to secure an interview.
He widened the search area, expanded the type of work he’d accept and finally got an interview for a job at a farm shop a few miles from Tunbridge Wells.
Getting there would be a problem, a bus would take him so far, then he’d have to walk, though not as big a problem as landing the job.
Newt was still optimistic and he wouldn’t let that optimism go.
That didn’t mean it was going to be easy.
Even without the stress of finding work, being free after seven years locked up was hard to deal with.
There were triggers he was constantly fighting to overcome, like flinching at loud noises, jumping if people got too close.
It was going to take time not to expect trouble at any moment.
But if was going to make a success of his life, he had to fit in.
He had to talk more, make friends, learn to trust people.
Unfortunately, he’d not yet met anyone he trusted or liked. People could be absolute shits. Especially, it seemed, those who could have changed his life by giving him a job.
There was no requirement for Newt to disclose his criminal record to a potential employer, or tell them he was out on licence. But if they asked, he was legally obliged to be truthful.
Of course, the first question gave him a problem.
“What was your previous job?” The middle-aged guy who ran the farm shop looked across at him and smiled.
“I worked in a kitchen in Leeds.” A blur of the truth.
“It says here you have a psychology degree. Why are you looking for this sort of work?”
“I had…family issues. I don’t want to do anything stressful for a while.”
It was a crap answer. He hoped the man might assume he’d been ill or that his family had caused him problems. Maybe saying he had a degree was a mistake.
But he was twenty-four. He hadn’t spent three years getting the degree but it was what would be assumed.
Then he only had to account for another three years of his life.
He’d only worked in the prison kitchen for a year.
Hopefully, he wouldn’t be asked for references.
“Do you have a criminal record?”
Oh fuck. That was quick. “Yes.”
No smile now. “For what?”
“Armed robbery.” Newt almost stood up at that point. There was no job here for him. Employers weren’t supposed to discriminate based on criminal records unless it directly affected the job on offer, but armed robbery fucked up almost every type of employment.
“We’ll let you know.”
Newt forced himself to say thank you before he walked away.
Two weeks on, he’d lost count of the number of jobs he’d applied for, though he’d counted his interviews.
Seven. At every one of them he’d been asked about a criminal record and that was that.
Did he have it tattooed on his forehead?
Surely not everyone was going to ask that question.
How long was he supposed to persist before he accepted no one would give him a chance? He didn’t want to rely on benefits.
There was no choice but to keep trying. Knowing his luck, after he finally got a job, some former inmate would turn up and out him.
He couldn’t even do voluntary work without a Disclosure and Barring Service check being done, which he would fail.
If there was any chance of him being around kids or vulnerable adults, he definitely wouldn’t be given the job.
He tried to go into every interview feeling confident, believing he had a chance, because he was aware that a downcast manner would have a direct effect on the person interviewing him. He wanted them to think he was bright and cheerful, only it was getting harder and harder to maintain that facade.
That morning, he’d caught the bus to Tonbridge to attend an interview with an insurance company with an office just off the High Street.
The interview had gone really well, and he’d actually thought he might have a chance until the woman had asked the fucking question.
As he’d answered, she’d scooted her chair back, as if she thought he was going to attack her.
Newt saved her having to say no. He just got up and left, barely managing not to slam the door.