The Steering Group

by M. J. Laurence

  Fuck.

  Panting and out of breath, and startled by the appearance of the three security devils stopping me in my tracks – literally the promise of Mammon fulfilled – I looked up to the night sky, watching my warm breath vaporise into clouds and up further into the cold of the night and started to laugh. I knew I was fucked. Mr Buchanan was a hard bastard, with a reputation; he was a bit perplexed by my laughing. He stroked his beard before saying something like, “Go on, run, you little prick.” He wanted the chase and the fun of fucking me over on the tracks, which would lead to a definite extension of time and punishment. He needed the excuse to kick the granny out of me with his two henchmen.

  “Nah, I’ll stand and fight this one out, mate,” I replied. I remember there being some polite conversation, an exchange of threats and then eventually an invitation to the gym. Accepting an invitation to the gym was a topic of great conversation amongst all the boys, both the BULs and the Kilks; it was like a myth, stories told by people who had only ever heard the tale second or third hand. No one who spoke about it had ever actually witnessed ‘The Gym’ in person; it was spoken about like it was some kind of movie or a comic book story that must be seen. The most frequent outcome of any boy or any idiot who accepted such an invitation mentioned in these stories was always a trip to hospital. The invitation usually had two options, and as per the myths at DECAF I was offered three rounds in the boxing ring, or take a beating and just three months’ additional time, no questions asked. There was no way I was gonna be taking extra time.

  The gym was an older outbuilding, set away from the main complex up a steep single-track road and surrounded by dark trees filled with thick undergrowth. It was always wet and damp up that road for some reason and the gym was sort of like a large stone barn with moss-covered roof tiles. Inside was open, two-storeys to the rafters, with high beams and small annex for an office and toilet at the near end. Always damp and cold inside, it stank just like your laundry basket and worse. A stinging perfume of vomit, floor polish and sweat made for an unforgettable smell. All gyms today remind me of this place, the smell of sweat and its disgusting bacterial metabolism of body odour emitting from every contaminated object in the building.

  The gym consisted of three main areas: the boxing ring, large deck area for deck hockey, gymnastics and murderball, and a weights area, all overlooked by high wires and ropes for leopard crawls and rope climbing and of course the rings. The walls were lined by wood panelling with ladders, scramble nets and climbing frames just about all the way around, a few hobby horses and equipment boxes and about a dozen of those fucking medicine balls. Everything was well used, patched up, worn and outdated, as though it had all been donated some years previously. One common punishment was to clean the gym windows which were only accessible by leopard crawling up in the rafters; often boys would fall and break an arm or a leg. Nothing was ever said. In some cases I think boys fell deliberately to get time away from it all.

  When we attended gym lessons we were usually split into opposing teams and, as sure as eggs is eggs, you would be pitched either against your best friend or someone who really had a vendetta and wanted to take revenge ‘legally’, so to speak. Teams were always Skins and Tops, and in winter Skins would freeze their asses off no matter how hard the workout. The workouts were brutal and the usual sessions lasted two or four hours depending on if you were lucky enough to pull a double session. I still have the stretch marks on my biceps from the weights and presses, which were nothing short of brutal; these are stretch marks from too much exercise and not being a fat bastard. Being too young to take the physical punishments so frequently often caused the boys a lot of distress and injury.

  In a typical session, boys were subjected to grids and weights – so your arms were fucked for the ropes – a game of deck hockey and then a run, after which there wasn’t much left to offer in the boxing ring or for murderball. Murderball was a knockout game utilising a medicine ball used to throw at each other, a bit like tag, but the last one standing got to go for a shower and then the game was repeated. Basically, there was simply nothing left at the end and lads would get punishment if they couldn’t compete or complete. I always enjoyed the deck hockey as it was fucking easy to foul the shit out your opponent’s shins. It was a brutal game, and if you were smart you’d take out the big guys prior to murderball.

  So here I was with Mr Buchanan about to get in the ring for a bit of reality show and tell. One of the BULs was on punishment and was cleaning the shithouse. I remember the look of absolute horror on his face as he stood gawping, mouth ajar, with a you’re fucked look on his boat race. He stood statue-like, holding his mop and bucket and waiting for his brain to catch up with the situation unfolding right before him. His expression, coupled with my almost sudden realisation of what was happening, made for a very unnerving and extended few seconds. I think there was total disbelief at what was about to unfold in all three camps. Looking back, I don’t think I really knew how much shit I was in at all. But I had pulled from the archives a thought that made me smile: my mum always said to me, “Whenever you fall into a bucket of shit you come up smelling of roses.” I was hoping for proof after this event.

  Mr Buchanan was changing; he was calm and expectant, savouring the moment as if it were routine, as if this sort of behaviour were acceptable and beating on a 13-year-old kid in some way made him a hard man. The gym was warm, the temperature rising at the same pace as my heart rate. But I was strangely controlled, almost resigned to the outcome, but very determined to hit this cunt, just once. So I thought I would piss him off, get the heat into the fight from the start, say a few worthless words. He fucking laughed as I called to him, “Come on, you cunt,” and he lunged towards me, but I sidestepped and got a punch in right there. “You fucking dancer!”

  Now, anyone who has ever been in a boxing ring will tell you there are rules – yeah right, that shit’s for the television. This was Gypsy rules. It wasn’t over as quick as I’d expected or even dared to hope. I think he wanted to tease me, see what I had to offer before I gave up. I took a few blows to the head, shin scrapes to the legs; he was a dirty bastard. Being punched was like a pillow fight but with footballs – try smashing yourself in the face with a hard football a few times; you sort of get numb to it but at the same time disorientated. The gloves were old brown leather, cracked and hard, not soft or subtle, and the laces were too long, and each time I caught a punch I’d get the whip of a lace in my eye or across my face. It was all very amateur and I did my best to try and get a few punches in. I had a cut in my cheek from his glove and a fat eye, no corner to run to, and was holding up but not for long. Seconds feel like fucking hours in a ring against an opponent who is clearly way out of your league.

  Now, the BUL, a guy called Chris, had gone out back and somehow convinced the other two guards to fuck off, and he returned with a deck hockey stick. He ran over toward the ring; and as I looked up thinking, What the heck?, Mr Buchanan takes the opportunity and fucking floors me. It’s a weird sickening feeling and stars in your eyes isn’t a myth – they’re like little white dots that glide all over your tunnelled vision after a direct hit. They’re smooth little lights that like to cut through the haze into the green and black of your now closed eyelids. I was on the deck but soon conscious enough to see the hook of the deck hockey stick come under the ropes and pull Mr Buchanan off his feet and on to the canvas.

  Fuck. Chris is in the ring now and kicking his head in. Dazed and disoriented I’m up on my feet and on the attack. Chris has the hockey stick over his throat now and we’re trying to hold this cunt down, Chris at his throat and me holding on to his legs, which was like holding on to a giant caterpillar contracting and expanding, moving me backwards and forwards as I held on to his legs for my life. Remember, Chris is older than me and isn’t a little kid; we had him. Yeah, we had him but it was like catching an alligator – that’s great but what the fuck do you do once you’ve gotten hold of it? Lots of swearing, struggling, k
icking, violent twisting and epileptic movements until Mr Buchanan calmed down. Chris was cool, explained to Mr Buchanan that the whole event didn’t happen and all the beatings of boys was gonna stop. Shit, I didn’t know what to do. I looked at Chris as he pushed harder on the deck hockey stick, choking him further. I remember watching his eyes bulge. Fucking awesome seeing his eyes bulge out like that, looked like they could pop or something. I almost wanted to pull them out.

  Chris whispered something about drinking whilst on duty and leaving the gates unlocked whilst fighting other boys; he had been beaten by this guy years ago and had a photo in his hand – it was game over, the perfect bribe… or was it? I don’t know what was in that photo. The COs had drawn a blank as to some boys’ injuries and the continued disappearance of staff from the security points and missing boys from headcounts. The security guards had dropped themselves right in the shit. I guess they never had anyone stand up to them before, and Chris had something on them that was more than rumour.

  Now, this was an interesting scenario, we had entered uncharted waters. We didn’t know if we had it under control, if the bribe would last, if the photo would be taken from Chris in a dorm raid or locker search, plus we didn’t know if we could hold out against an officer’s word in an internal investigation, if it ever came to that. I guess being young we thought we had pulled it off – only time would tell. On top of this we also had the BULs to deal with; a failed run was not gonna pass without a kicking. I hoped Chris would help us out there. We would need to re-organise and bullshit our way out of the situation.

  Going back into the main buildings and getting breakfast was nothing short of interesting. No one said a thing; I think the bruising and injuries said it all and it’s best not to ask too many questions. I remember casually walking into the dining hall and sitting down in amongst my wing and calmly waiting for my table to be called forward to the food counter. The pain was kicking in now and I just needed to get something to eat, get cleaned up and go to the dorm. Wasn’t gonna happen: had a slip of paper handed to me at the food counter. The BULs wanted a meet on the hot seat.

  Summoned to the hot seat, I wasn’t fully conscious I don’t think, sort of drifting in and out of reality, or was it even consciousness, not sure. There was a crowd gathering, and the BULs had arranged a tunnel of death. I thought it was for me and really thought I wouldn’t make it. I had resigned myself to the possibility of my running days coming to an abrupt end. Yeah, I guess I had given up or just accepted this as the end of it all, but the punishment was for another lad who had grassed up a BUL who had gotten extra time. Word had spread and Owen and I were nothing short of untouchables now following the gym incident with our new friend Chris.

  Tunnels of death had to happen in the morning or at shower time so that the crowds in the locker room would look normal, I guess. All the boys had gathered. I can’t remember this boy’s name, only his nickname, Horse. Yeah, those sorts of things get noticed in communal showers and any difference that is noticed is an excuse to make fun or a cause for bullying. I was held back to watch. Everyone was lined up around the locker room with the idea he had to make it round, with everyone, BULs and Kilks alike, ordered to kick the shit out of him; no way this poor bastard was gonna make it all the way round. He made a good effort. Halfway, I think. I’d passed out a few times and everything was a blur accompanied by screaming static.

  I don’t remember too much of the conversation that followed between me and the BULs following the tunnel episode, except waking up in the urinals worse off than I was before. It was just a mild concussion I think, cuts and bruises, the norm, but I ended up not leaving the infirmary for a while. I didn’t do another run. I dreamt of it, dreamt of escaping so bad. I only had a few months until I became an BUL as I’d been there a year. I remember spending many hours talking to Chris in the infirmary trying to find out how he got the photo and what he had on the security guards. He never did tell me, nor where he kept it. What really mattered was that we had pulled off the impossible, in so much as the heat wasn’t on us and life had gotten a little easier. Owen came to visit every day and brought news of the latest scams and goings-on. He also brought my schoolwork, which I didn’t have so much interest for. He was becoming a real close friend.

  I got to know Horse, who had just come back from A&E during that time in the infirmary. He was a really nice kid. He was real fucked up after the tunnel of death, so we compared notes and injuries and promised when we became BULs we would stop the whole regime of bullying and just have boys and the correctional officers – no more bullying, beatings or abuse of any kind and that’s what we would enforce, and we fucking did. It was to be an enforcement that would be more painful for the ones who had endured the worst of it all, not the new boys.

  When I left the infirmary, I took time out, kept myself to myself and even became a bit of a recluse. I kept to the routine and only spent time with Owen, Bradley and Horse. We spent time together, talking and sharing our dreams and our regrets – mostly our dreams – smoking cigarettes and trying to make time pass. We had to decide what exams we would sit so I guess a bit of reality kicked in for us all and we tried to study and learn some stuff in class but it was all half-hearted by both the tutors and by us boys. An opportunity missed, I think. Looking back, I think if I knew what I know now I would have studied and gone to university. That opportunity wasn’t very realistic for me back then, neither mentally nor physically.

  Then it was discharge and intake day, but before that happened the new SNCOs (senior non-commissioned officers) would be announced. I fucking became an NCO! Fuck. In the little world of DECAF it was like being made in the Mafia, becoming part of the Gambino family or something. Well, I was just turning 15 and, becoming a BUL as well, big changes were gonna happen, and Horse was to be the big cheese and become the head BUL – what a great new start. My group was on domestic duties that day and I remember supervising the floor buffering in the main drag and seeing a new intake looking on in horror; yeah, it was funny, especially when they walked past the galley and the fucking place was near on fire because I had put those fucking green plastic plates, bowls and cups in the oven to get warmed up… well, to melt the fucking things so we could demand some fucking proper crockery!

  There’s not much to say about the next year, except we did try to change everything and it was really great to see the life come back into some of the boys I had seen pushed to the edge and some beyond it. The correctional officers weren’t sure what to make of it all as there really wasn’t much trouble to deal with except the odd crazy kid, who didn’t know how fucking lucky they were, kicking off for all the wrong reasons. I guess they needed a lesson and reminding on occasion what had been sacrificed to allow them to live in relative safety and comfort.

  Horse, and I became the new regime with the help of two great lads called Mike and Sam, and the one thing we wanted to continue doing was to make money and trade on the outside. Now, it wasn’t quite like the previous year: we had agreed we wanted to stop the drugs and focus on cigarettes, the toasted sandwich business, alcohol, and the running of a sort of tuck shop – remember, we were kids. It was because of the resilience and the sacrifices of Horse that life became bearable in that institution. He was a true hero, and because of him I also managed to get the video library up and running for a small cinema that we would run out of the dorms at night. It was a good plan as it helped calm the nights and changed some of the mentality about what went on in the dorms. Although it turned out to be a bad idea to play kung fu films as on those nights all the lads would become Bruce fucking Lee and try kicking the shit out of each other. It was much more for fun than out of hate or spite, and laughter was heard for the first time in years in those dorms. The boys could actually go to sleep without fear of being beaten up or anything else. I’m sure like me many boys still had nightmares for many months. Thanks, Horse, you saved us all.

  Life went on.

  I think I had about three months to go and there was a
military recruitment drive coming to the establishment. I put down to have an interview. It was just after the Falklands War and there was a lot of drive from the MOD for recruiting. Now, the housemaster came to see me just before that day. He took me to one side and very calmly explained how it was gonna be, after pulling out my file and reading it to me. The atmosphere remained calm up until the point where the recommendation was for a transfer after the age of 16 to another detention centre, or recruitment into the military. I remember just thinking the military was an easy option, plus you get paid, so I don’t think they quite got what they were hoping for. I wasn’t in the least bit concerned. I think that fucked them off royally, and I left by simply saying we all had enough to make them all inmates someplace soon too. He fucking knew his threats were empty and mine had substance but he kept trying to assert his authority over me and give some weight to his pathetic rank in this establishment of misfits.

  I had my interview with two Royal Navy officers. One was a great big fat cunt and the other was as skinny as a butcher’s dog There was a two and a half ringer, or lieutenant commander, depending on the currency you want to use, and a two ringer lieutenant who was the fat cunt; it was like a Laurel and Hardy double act. I was fascinated by the medals and the gold bars with the pleated gold ring above them, so I guess I wasn’t paying too much attention at first. Now, I had a grandioso plan to be a navigating officer. No idea why, but that’s what I put to them. I think I had seen a photo in a magazine or something, or maybe the time I had spent with Captain Pies had inspired me. After a raised eyebrow, a shuffle of my file and a big drag on a cigarette, the fat cunt simply said, “You don’t have any qualifications, son.” So I calmly as fuck pulled out some Benny Hedgehogs (Benson & Hedges cigarettes), lit up and said, “Okay, how about I become a naval architect?” There was little reaction to that, except the skinny fucker looked at my file and asking if I spoke Russian. I remember replying in Arabic and then in Russian just to show off. They both sat up. There was a lot of interest in me now, then a serious conversation that I think lasted maybe two hours or so.