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  “Good morning.” A young woman situated behind a reception desk speaks to me directly.

  “Hi. I’m Flynn, Flynn Sullivan. I’m supposed to ask for Josh Upton. I think he’s expecting me.” I don’t really want to announce to her that I’m here on license to work off my crime, but I figure she already knows by the way she looks me up and down with disdain. She makes me feel like something she just wiped off her shoe.

  “Of course you’re Flynn, who else would you be?” She gestures to a row of seats at the other side of the entrance hall. “Sit over there and I’ll go get him.” The contempt drips from her every pore as she stands, running a hand through her hair, brushing it away from her face. Giving me another distasteful look, she picks up the charity box, which is sitting on her desk, and tucks it under her arm before making her way through a door behind her.

  Way to go, lady. Make sure the scum doesn’t steal the charity money. I want to yell out to her that stealing from charity was never my thing, I would never stoop quite that low, but I think better of it. I have to spend a lot of time here over the next few weeks, might as well not make any enemies just yet. Although something tells me I won’t have to do much to make an enemy of little Miss Sunbeam.

  My phone vibrates in my jeans pocket. Dragging it out, I presume it’s from Jay, making sure I turned up, but no, it’s from Mrs Fisher.

  ‘Good luck, my dear boy.’

  I guess my brother gave her my number. I tap out a quick reply, remembering to spell out each word so she knows what I’m saying to her.

  “Flynn? Hi, I’m Josh. You need to hand your phone in at reception. You can leave it with Laura.” He signals to the uptight girl behind the desk, who is still clutching the charity collection box to her chest like her life depends upon it. “She’ll make sure it’s locked away in the safe until your shift is over. It’s for your own and the residents’ safety. I’m sure you understand. We can’t be too careful in this day and age.” Glancing upwards, I take hold of the hand that is being offered to me and shake it firmly. Josh is in his early forties, I’m guessing. He looks kind of worn around the edges and a bit woolly, if you get what I mean. He definitely looks like he has earned every one of those wrinkles around his eyes, that’s for sure. He’s wearing a pair of cheap jeans that are way too blue for my liking and a New York Yankees sweatshirt. He has his staff badge hung around his neck on a lanyard, proudly on show for all to see. I bet his mother’s real proud.

  “Sure, no problem. I just have it for my brother’s school to contact me, you know, in case there’s an emergency or whatever.”

  Josh consults his clipboard before addressing me again.

  “Of course, it’s in your paperwork that you’re sole carer for…Jacob? Well, you’ll get a break in an hour or so. You could check your phone then, make sure your brother’s okay. Perhaps you need to give the school this number, for the time you’re here, anyway.”

  Laura is holding out a brown envelope with my name scrawled across the front for me to deposit my phone into. Flashing her my sexiest smile, I drop the phone in with a wink in her direction, just for good measure. Rolling her eyes at me, she seals the envelope and heads back through the door Josh emerged from. “No fraternising with the staff, Flynn. Company policy. Just keep your head down and do as you’re asked. That way we can all get this over with relatively pain free. Come on, let’s get you hooked up with Frank. He’s going to show you the ropes. You can use one of the empty staff lockers in the staff room to keep your bag safe.” He indicates to a door on his right as we head down the corridor.

  Two hours later and I still haven’t had that break that Josh promised me. Frank’s had me cleaning the public bathrooms with the world’s smallest cloth. He did give me a pair of rubber gloves, though, so I suppose that’s something to be thankful for. He’s old school and has already made a point of calling me a soft northerner on more than one occasion this morning. All because I didn’t want to stick my hand down a public loo and requested a brush to use instead. I’m reliably informed that we are emptying rubbish bins after lunch. I’m assuming I’ll get the scummy ones with the clinical waste in them. Frank’s already warned me how much they stink. I’m not sure what actually goes into the clinical waste bins, and I’m certain I’m better off not knowing. If the look of delight on my mentor’s face was anything to go by, I’m guessing it’s pretty rank.

  “Right, lad, you can go on your break now. Be back here in thirty minutes though. Sharpish.” Frank nods in my direction as he makes his retreat back down the corridor. Thirty minutes? Is this my lunch break or just a break? Checking my watch, I decide it’s probably a good idea to grab a bite to eat, just in case. I retrieve the brown paper bag from the locker I claimed for the day and head out into the glorious sunshine. I find a bench around the back of the building, which seems to be out of bounds to the residents, to sit and eat in peace.

  Mrs Fisher popped over this morning before Jacob went to school. She’d packed us both up with some lunch in separate paper bags. My brother refused to have the free school meal he was entitled to because the other kids teased him about us being too poor to pay. Instead he either goes without or Mrs Fisher gives him a sandwich. Peering inside my lunch bag, I immediately begin to salivate. The old bird’s packed me off with a load of homemade treats. Nice. Sticking my earbuds in, I scroll through the music on my retrieved phone and hit play as I begin to devour my lunch.

  As my playlist draws to an end, I’m aware of hushed voices behind me. Swivelling around on the bench, I realise they must be coming from the opened window behind me. There’s nobody else around this part of the grounds. Removing one of the earbuds, I strain to hear what’s been said inside. “I’ve told you before, it’s for your own safety. Leave. The. Door. Open!” It’s a female voice, and she’s obviously riled by whomever she’s speaking to. “I can’t defend you if you insist on putting yourself in these situations again and again. Are we clear?” There’s a muffled response from what appears to be a male voice, but I can’t make out the words. Then all I hear is the tapping of heels on the tiled floor, disappearing down one of the hallways.

  Standing, I instinctively stare into the window, trying to catch a glimpse of who was speaking, but I just catch sight of someone’s back as they disappear through an interconnecting door. There’s nobody else in sight. Shrugging, I pick up my rubbish and head over to deposit it in the nearby rubbish bin. As I walk past the next window along, I catch site of a young girl laid motionless in a hospital bed. She is beautiful—no, scrap that, she is stunning. Stepping back slightly, so I’m just out of her view, I admire her. She looks angelic, serene even, with the white sheet rested across her body, resting around her waist. The bed head has been raised so she’s almost sitting up, and her hair is framing her face softly. Her eyes are open, but it looks like she isn’t registering her surroundings. She’s staring blankly at the opposite wall, there’s no television to hold her interest, and she’s just staring. I wonder if she’s listening to music, but I can’t hear anything either.

  It’s then I notice the tear running down her cheek, closely followed by another one. She doesn’t move to wipe them away. Instead, she just lets them continue to roll down her face. As I track their path, I notice the damp patch of clothing just below her chin. It’s where all the tears are landing. I’m too focused on watching them drip from her chin to her T-shirt to notice she’s turned her head to watch me. Her expression is still cold and blank, but her eyes are now focused on me watching her.

  Embarrassed by being caught staring, I give her a slight, apologetic nod before depositing my rubbish and heading back inside to find Frank again.

  Chapter Six

  Flynn

  Today I’m at the group therapy session the judge ordered me to attend. It’s supposed to help me rebuild my life and ensure I don’t reoffend. I can’t see how sitting around a room with a group of like-minded individuals is going to stop anyone from committing further crime, but who am I to argue? I keep re
minding myself that at least I’m still able to take care of my brother, something I wouldn’t be able to do from prison.

  The room is typically painted cream with blue plastic chairs laid out in a circle. There are a few people milling around the edges of the room. If it weren’t for the staff wearing their security tags around their necks, it would be difficult to tell the scum from the employed. You see, that’s what we are—scum. I’m sorry if you find that offensive, but it’s how I describe myself. I’m not a pillar of the community, I don’t hold down a nine-to-five job and I do live on government hand-outs. Well, to be honest, the hand-outs aren’t enough to live on; that’s how I ended up here in the first place.

  A young woman with a clipboard in one hand and a coffee in the other approaches me. “Hi, if you could just sign in for me, that’d be great! I’m Heather. I’m going to be running the first six sessions.” She hands me the clipboard to find my name on the list. I chuckle when I see that the pen is attached by a small linked chain to the top of her board. When she realises what I’m laughing at, she looks slightly embarrassed. “You would not believe how many pens I seem to…lose, shall we say? Government cuts mean I can’t just keep ordering more of the darned things.”

  Grinning, I hand back her pen and clipboard. “The therapy must really work if you’re still chaining up the pens.” I make my way to one of the seats, ready to drift off to the annoying drivel we’re bound to be exposed to for the next few hours.

  When we’re all seated, Heather reintroduces herself to everyone and outlines the course, as she calls it, to us. Great, not only do I have to attend these fucking sessions, but I’m expected to fully participate in order for the lovely Heather to sign off on my attendance. Fan-fucking-tabulous. She goes around the circle of people, asking us to introduce ourselves and tell everyone why we’re here. Turns out I’m not the only petty criminal in the area. There seems to be a whole bunch of us here for more or less the same thing. Burglary, theft of vehicles, shoplifting, that sort of thing. She indicates it’s my turn to talk, and I notice all eyes are on me. I hate being the centre of attention, but I think of the alternative, imagining Jacob in some stranger’s home, and I open my mouth to speak.

  “Flynn Sullivan. I’m here ‘cause, well, I screwed up. Stole some meat and stuff to sell. We needed the money.” I shrug my shoulders and drop my gaze to the floor. My offence sounds shit compared to some of the crap the other guys are here for. “Oh, and I smacked the security guard who caught me and broke his jaw.” I cringe as I instinctively remember the sound his jaw made as it fractured. Yeah, maybe my offence was a little worse than I originally thought. Heather continues around the circle of truth. Some of them sound remorseful, but the majority just sound pissed off. They’ve obviously been dragged away from something more important.

  Crime, of some description or another, is far more worthy of their time.

  The last task of the day is to tell the group how we think the general public may perceive us, how our image may portray us, and whether we should let how we look on the outside define us as people. This is some deep shit, and I’m pretty certain that half of the people in this room didn’t understand the question. I snort a mouthful of tea out of my nose as the first guy in the circle puts his hand up to speak. “Can you explain that again? You lost me at ‘general public.’ Sorry, but my mum says I ain’t the sharpest tool in the box.” Everyone else remains silent but me; I cannot stop laughing, and I’m getting louder and louder.

  “Flynn, as you seem to find the task amusing, perhaps you can go first. Maybe then the objective will be clearer to Simon.” Heather smiles sweetly at me, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. They remain cold and angry as she stares at me, waiting for me to continue.

  Clearing my throat, I begin to talk, only to have her interrupt me. “Sorry, Flynn, I think each of you may benefit from standing when you give your little speeches.” She indicates with her hand for me to stand.

  Bitch. She’s done that to humiliate me even further. Well, sorry, lady, but you’re going to have to try a whole lot harder than that. Pushing on my knees, I rise to stand and take a step into the centre of the circle, where I stand to face her directly. Tucking my fingers into my front jeans pockets, I pull myself up to full height. As I speak, I refuse to break eye contact with Heather, and the room remains silent.

  “I think people look at me and think ‘scum’. They don’t see the guy inside. But I guess that’s my problem; it’s the only persona I allow people access to. I think the way I dress, the way I am around people I don’t know, makes them think that I’m not worth their time. When I walk down the street, women cross the road to avoid me and kids taunt me. Do I act aggressively towards them? No, I don’t. Do I smoke, drink excessively? Yeah, probably. Did I kill anyone? No.” Taking my hand out of my pocket, I scrub my fingers through my shaved hair before beginning again. “Nobody looks at me and sees Flynn, the one who looks after his kid brother. Flynn, the one who steals to provide for his brother. Would I steal again? Without a doubt. If Jacob needed something I couldn’t provide, of course I would. We’ve been on our own for almost three years. My mother died, leaving me to look after Jacob. She left us with nothing, just enough to pay the funeral costs.” I can see that Heather is uncomfortable with my monologue. She’s fidgeting and trying to break my stare but I won’t give in. I’m not known for giving in.

  “Where’s my dad? Well, your guess is as good as mine. He’s scum too, just like me. I guess they’re right when they say the apple never falls far from the tree. So, in answer to your question, Heather, yes, I believe how we look on the outside defines us as a person.” Finally breaking her gaze, I turn and return to my place within the circle. I think I made my point.

  “Thank you, Flynn, that was very…insightful. Simon, would you like to go next?” She dismisses me brusquely, and I take my place back with the rest of the group, happy that I’ve made my point.

  When everyone’s had their turn in the spotlight, Heather clears her throat and addresses the room. “I think we should break for today, guys. Next week we’re going to be meeting some victims of the types of crimes you have been committing. We’ll be listening to how your actions have affected their lives. You’ll each be paired with one member of the public, so come prepared.” With that, Heather stands and exits the room, leaving everybody else to file out after her.

  I light up a cigarette the minute I am out the door. I take a minute to shake off the last few hours of my life as I sit on the low wall and watch the people go by. There is nothing I hate more than so-called “do gooders” looking down their nose at me. I know I’ve not led the best life these last few years, but I did what I had to do to survive. I didn’t ask to become a substitute parent to Jacob. Life threw us a shit hand, and I had to deal with it. I gave everything up to look after my brother, and I don’t regret a moment of it.

  Chapter Seven

  Harper

  Stuart Williams, as well as being Phil Braxton’s right-hand man and number one mechanic, is one of my closest friends from my racing career. From the moment I walked into the garage with my father that first time, he’s been by my side, my constant companion and partner in crime. He’s always seen me for what I am, a real live wire, giving all the boys a run for their money from day one. Never once did he allow my gender or size get in the way of my goals Instead he pushed me harder and further than the boys, daily. I was always the first to question his advice. If Stuart told me to do something differently, I needed to know why, what it would achieve, but more importantly, if it would make me a winner, because ultimately that’s what I wanted to be.

  A winner.

  I think that was why he finds it hard to visit now. He certainly isn’t a regular at Bluebell Hill, nor was he at the hospital much over the last year. Watching me vegetate in the clinical surroundings must have destroyed his faith in me. He said seeing such talent go to waste was infuriating at the least. I know he’s gone through a range of emotions over the last year, begi
nning at sympathy and understanding to now, wanting to shake the life out of me and beg me to just get better and get back out on the track.

  “How’s my favourite driver doing today? I brought the training video in for you to watch. Ricky’s kind of keeping your seat warm for you, just until you’re ready to come back, of course.” Stuart sets up the DVD player on my legs, pressing play before he settles into the chair beside my bed. “Just watch. He makes a right mess of the second bend and almost loses it on your corner…”

  My corner. Nice to know that’s how they remember the site of my accident. The accident that tore the life right out of me. Although Stu’s right; Ricky did mess up the bend. I like that he brings me these videos occasionally. I miss the guys—well, most of them. There’s one or two I’m glad to see the back of, but that’s a different story. I’m watching Stu’s face more than the video though. I can see he loves the thrill of the competitions. If I’m honest, so do I. But do I miss it enough to snap out of this self-induced paralysis? Probably, but then if I go back to racing I have to deal with the other matter. At least in here, where I lie quietly, I can avoid the whole fucking mess. Well, I mean, not avoid it, because it’s followed me, but here…here I can shut it out. I can shut down my body. I’ve proved I can do that very well.