In Cold Blood: A Brother’s Sworn Vengeance. Julie Shaw

and dark blue splatters, like some alien had thrown up all over it. The floor – a continuation of the walls, really – was covered in cold, hard vinyl, also mottled like the walls, but with the pattern reversed, a look that some idiot behind a desk must have dreamed up at some point, following a brief to make it is as chilly looking as possible. It was around eight by six, maybe smaller, and was pretty much identical to every other room on his corridor. A single bed – lumpy mattress, lumpy pillow, shit-all springs – a ‘desk’ that was actually just a strip of wood fixed along one wall, a chair – also wooden – and a matching bedside cabinet and locker to keep his clothes and personal belongings in.

      It did feel homey, though, sort of, now he’d made it his own. In reality, it was better than his room back at home, which had bare floorboards, and not much else bar a knackered set of drawers. Course, there was his bookcase, which he did miss, because it was his pride and joy, having been carefully crafted in woodwork lessons on those rare occasions he’d turned up at school. He’d brought some books with him, too, of course – his two Charles Dickens favourites – A Tale of Two Cities and Great Expectations – and his other favourite, The Count of Monte Cristo. He’d also personalised the expanse of wall above the desk with a bunch of posters, all carefully gathered from the magazines he’d stolen from the ‘do not remove’ pile in the library. They were pictures of models, mostly, plus a selection of pop stars: the Who, the Beatles, another of Jimi Hendrix, and the couple of photos of family he’d taken with him, plus some more June had sent in the post. It would do. It was something to look at, at any rate.

      He lay back on his bed to read his letters through a second time, happy to hear at last from his family. But something niggled about Titch’s one. He studied it again. There was definitely something wrong – what did she mean by all that crap about the Devil? Something was up, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. He was just reading it for a third time, trying to fathom what Titch was getting at, when the door burst open, startling him. It was Vincent.

      Such a small patch, the approved school, yet there were two Vincents in it. What were the chances? That he come in here and find there was already another him there? A hard lad, like he was and, having been there two months, well respected. As he would be; he was in for violence and using weapons. They’d soon been sorted out though, in the usual geographic way. Vinnie became Bradford Vinnie and his namesake Cockney Vinnie, him having come from the East End of London. That had been an eye-opener in itself, Vinnie having never been to London; he’d always thought of it as being very different from Bradford – the sort of place where only rich and famous people lived.

      But Cockney Vinnie didn’t like being called Vinnie anyway, so they’d now just become Vinnie and Vincent. And, perhaps partly because of the name-thing, good friends.

      ‘Come on, mate,’ he said now. ‘You gotta get outside. There’s only a fucking fight in the yard.’

      Vinnie jumped up immediately. Fights were always worth seeing. ‘Who between?’ he asked, putting Titch’s letter down.

      ‘Bacon Neck Brian,’ Vincent said. He looked excited. ‘He’s having a right old go at Mr Sullivan.’

      Vinnie ran outside with Vincent, the letters now forgotten. This was too good to miss. It wasn’t every day you saw a kid fighting with staff.

      Bacon Neck Brian, who was in for persistent stealing and robbery, had earned his colourful nickname years ago, apparently, on account of being badly scalded when his mother had decided to throw a red-hot cup of tea at his head. The resulting skin grafts had left his neck looking like, well, streaky bacon, hence the name. He had a red-hot temper to match it, too.

      As Vincent had said, it had all gone mad out in the yard. A circle of kids had formed around the fight, and they were all shouting and jeering. Mr Sullivan wasn’t all that bad, as it happened, so Vinnie couldn’t understand why Brian had kicked this off. Even so, Vinnie couldn’t resist a swift kick to Sullivan’s head when he ended up rolling around near his feet, Bacon Neck Brian having got the upper hand and decked him. It made sense. All eyes had been in Vinnie’s direction at that point, so it wouldn’t harm his reputation to show a bit of unnecessary violence. That was how you made your name in a place like this. In any place – he’d worked that out long since. Letting everyone see you were a bit of a psycho.

      Within minutes, whistles started to go off all around them and the yard began teeming with staff. And, on cue, all the lads suddenly stood to attention, wherever they were and whatever they’d been doing. They had all been taught this from the outset – it was one of the first things they’d learned. And for good reason, too; anyone found to be flouting this rule would lose privileges for a month. And that hurt. Nobody wanted to go a month without pocket money, fags, phone calls and writing paper. You would also lose your radio if you had one. Not that Vinnie did, as yet, but he already had plans to put that right. There were rich pickings to be had locally, or so some of the longer-term lads said, so he’d have it sorted soon as he had his first unsupervised trip into town.

      After it had all settled down and Bacon Neck had been taken off to be disciplined, Vinnie went back to his room. As it was Saturday, there were no lessons, so he decided to have another read of Titch’s letter before joining his mates in the recreation room. What the fuck was he missing here? He knew there was something; his sister’s letter was plain weird. She would have normally cheered him up, he knew, because that was the sort of kid she was. She liked writing and he’d expected there to be pages and pages from her – telling him all about what was happening back on the estate, rambling on about what she’d been up to with Caz. But just this. This short, gloomy, sad thing she’d sent him. Weird. He folded the letter in two and decided that he would ask for a phone call. You couldn’t usually make a call until you’d been there for a month – they’d already made that crystal clear – but he would go and ask anyway; say it was an emergency or something. Just in case he couldn’t though, he decided to write back straight away, before joining the lads for a game of pool.

      Alright Titch

      How’s it going? I just got your letter this morning. Fuckers hold ’em back from you for a few days in here, just for the fun of it. You don’t sound too happy, sis, what’s up? Nobody better be giving you any shit just cos I’m not on the scene. If they are, Titch, go see Pete or Brendan, or any of my mates, they’ll get it sorted. I know you, and even though I can’t hear your voice, I know what you’re thinking. My old man says I’m the Devil incarnate, so ha-ha, yes, your friend is right. The Devil can hear you. Seriously though, Titch, I know there’s something wrong. I am going to try to get a phone call this week, and if they let me I’ll ring you one night straight after school. I don’t know when though so don’t wait by the phone every night. It might even be never and then you’d be like Miss Havisham, waiting for Pip. Ha-ha, do you remember when I used to read you that book? If the teachers in here only knew how much I liked books, I would get some right stick. I have to go now, mate, but keep yer chin up, okay? I won’t be in here for ever, and I’ll soon be home to make you laugh again.

      Lots of love, your big brother Vinnie. Xxxxxxxxx

      Vinnie called in at the office on his way to the rec room with his finished letter, pleased to see the eye candy that was Miss Maureen Biggs – a young, leggy blonde bird who smiled a lot and worked there at weekends, and an object of lust for almost all the boys.

      ‘Afternoon, Miss,’ he said politely. ‘Can you make sure this gets posted today please?’

      ‘Course I will, Vincent,’ she said. ‘Anything for you, young man.’

      ‘Thanks, Miss,’ he said, smiling shyly, ‘and, actually, it’s Vinnie.’

      Miss Biggs returned the smile, revealing a row of almost impossibly perfect teeth. ‘Sorry, Vinnie’ she said. ‘You boys and your nicknames! I don’t know how I remember who’s who, I really don’t. Though I shouldn’t really mix you up with anyone else, should I?’ she added. ‘Not with that lovely hair of yours.’

      She smiled again and turned back to her desk then, but not before Vinnie could feel an intense heat flare in his cheeks. ‘Um, yeah, thanks, Miss,’ he mumbled, trying to