The Traitors

by Tom Becker

  Two weeks after Adam had discovered the Dial Cookbook, the guards had carried out an impromptu search of the dormitories, amid rumours that bags of fertilizer had gone missing from the allotments. But if an inmate was trying to cook up some “Volcano Chilli”, he or she managed to escape detection. Maybe Adam should have mentioned it to someone, but there was no telling who he might have ended up betraying – and if there was one thing of which Adam was sure, it was that he didn’t want anyone calling him a collaborator.

  Following the morning roll call, Mr Cooper delivered one of his familiar cautionary speeches before breaking into a benevolent smile.

  “It has now been four months since I brought to your attention the robbery of sheets from the infirmary,” he declared, “and I am disappointed that no one has come forward to return the stolen items. However, following an appeal from some of the more senior inmates, we have agreed that the crime was the act of a lone foolish inmate, and that punishing the entire prison population serves little purpose. For that reason, we have decided to lift the ban on Bucketball.”

  A cheer went up from the crowd, and several prisoners started clapping. Behind the head warder, Mr Pitt glowered, a picture of frustrated violence.

  “Let it be clear, though,” Mr Cooper continued, holding up his hands for silence. “Any more thefts of this nature, and we will remove Bucketball privileges for the rest of the year. If you refuse to think of the consequences that will befall you if you are caught stealing, I would encourage you to consider the harm you may bring to your fellow inmates. That is all.”

  As the guards cleared the yard, the inmates surfed back to their quarters on a wave of excitement, friends gesturing at one another to ensure that they’d be on the same team at game time. Back in his dormitory, as the rest of the boys changed into shorts and T-shirts, Adam disappeared beneath his bunk, reappearing with the copy of Bookworm’s Inmate’s Handbook that he had decided to borrow from the library during his first miserable week on the Dial. As he flicked through the pages, he came across a short passage devoted to Bucketball:

  Down the centuries the game of Bucketball has become one of the Dial’s most singular and beloved features: a pastime dreamt up within the prison’s walls. As far as we know, it is played nowhere else in existence. During the game two teams compete for the possession of a ball, with the aim of carrying it to their opponents’ end of the exercise yard and placing it in a bucket known as the “goal”. The team with the most number of buckets at the end of the game wins.

  For those who have never witnessed an actual game of Bucketball, it should be noted that its simplicity on paper is deceptive. Indeed, Bucketball is a game more notable for its lack of rules than its actual rules: tactics and team numbers are left entirely to participants, and there is no time limit – games (individually known as “rumbles”) stop when the sides are simply too tired to continue. Though this does lead to a certain amount of roughhouse behaviour (e.g., headlocks, rabbit punches, throttling), all competitors are urged to adhere to the highest levels of sportsmanship. To this end, three golden rules have been set in place:

  1.) No hair-pulling

  2.) No eye-gouging

  3.) Handshakes all round afterwards

  Given the massed numbers of players and the anarchic nature of play, it is perhaps unsurprising that there have only ever been four recorded buckets in the history of Bucketball. The other few thousand games have all ended 0-0, with the moral victors generally determined by the side boasting the fewest number of trips to the infirmary.

  As Adam closed the book, Mouthwash burst into the room.

  “Heads up, lads!” he said. “Game’s going to start in ten minutes. You want to borrow a spare kit, Adam? You’re not a real inmate until you’ve played a rumble.”

  “I guess,” Adam replied dubiously. He glanced over at Doughnut. “Are you coming?”

  Doughnut stretched out on his bunk and yawned lazily. “Count me out. While you chumps are getting your heads bashed in, I’m putting my feet up.” He winked at Adam. “Got some business negotiations to take care of, anyway.”

  Adam quickly changed into his borrowed kit, then jogged outside and joined the inmates making their way over to the exercise yard. It looked as though almost everyone in the prison had turned out for the game. The tiered benches on the sidelines were overflowing with chattering people. Even the guards had turned out in force, including Mr Cooper – though to Adam’s relief, Mr Pitt was nowhere to be seen. The two teams were already filing into position, each forming a protective line in front of a bucket placed at opposing ends of the yard.

  As he threaded his way through the crowd, Adam noticed Jessica talking to Corbett by the fence. The Tally-Hoer towered over her, his meaty legs and arms covered in tangled black hair. Looking more closely, Adam saw that Jessica’s back was pressed to the fence, and there was a tense expression on her face.

  “Adam!” she called out, with a desperate wave. She smiled gratefully as he walked over. “Are you playing today?”

  Adam nodded, mindful of Corbett’s hateful gaze burning a hole in the back of his neck. “Yeah. I thought I’d give it a go.”

  “You’ll be great. Good luck!”

  “You’re going to need it,” Corbett added in a growl. He stalked off towards the benches, where a knot of Tally-Hoers had gathered to watch the game. Adam gave Jessica a sidelong glance.

  “Was he bothering you?”

  “No more than usual,” she replied. “I think he likes me. He’ll get bored and leave me alone eventually.” A shy smile flickered over her lips. “Thank you for asking, though.”

  “No problem. And if you ever want to—”

  “They’re just about to start. Go on!” Jessica propelled him gently towards the teams. “Try not to break anything!”

  Grinning, Adam jogged on to the field of play and took up position by Mouthwash’s shoulder. He guessed that there had to be at least forty people on each side. Here and there, Adam was surprised to see girls in the line-up, doing warm-up stretches as they tied their hair back into ponytails.

  He nudged Mouthwash. “Girls play this game?”

  The other boy giggled. “Don’t let them hear you say that, or you’re dead meat. There’s been quite a few good girl ’Ballers down the years. I remember one a few decades ago – Daisy, I think her name was – giving Major X a right old going-over. We had to peel him off the floor. The lad got so embarrassed he hasn’t played a game since.”

  A cheer went up from the sidelines as a guard carrying a battered leather football stepped into the centre of the yard. The guard hurled the ball high into the air, then beat a hurried retreat as the inmates stampeded towards it. Caught on his heels, Adam was jostled by his own teammates as they ploughed past him into the giant melee. The ball vanished from view beneath a maelstrom of whirling fists. With a roar, Corbett reared up from the centre of the scrum, red-faced with anger. The Tally-Hoer had opponents hanging off either arm – he roared again as he tried to shake them off.

  It didn’t take long for Adam to realize that the Handbook had been right: Bucketball was less of a game, more of a legitimized riot. Occasionally one team would get hold of the ball and try to pass it to one another, but it wasn’t long before the ball-carrier was dragged to the floor and everyone dived on top of them. Weakened by months of no exercise and a poor diet, Adam was soon gasping for air. He was moving on sheer exhilaration. For the first time since he had landed on the Dial, Adam felt free. Again and again he caught his breath just so he could throw himself into the fray, barely feeling the opposition elbows as they burrowed into his ribcage, or the blows glancing off his head.

  Adam had just wriggled out of one scrum when he heard a scream of excitement go up from the sidelines. He turned in time to see the ball squirt out from under the pile of bodies and roll straight towards him. Cheered on by the crowd, Adam picked up the ball and barged a
girl out of the way while fending off another boy with a hand to the face. Suddenly, there was daylight ahead of him. Adam accelerated away from the pack, the ball tucked safely under one arm, pursued by shouts of dismay from the opposing team. His heart pounding, he saw that there was only one smaller boy standing between him and the bucket, and Adam had all the momentum. He was odds-on to score and the crowd knew it, their screams reaching a crescendo.

  Adam was lowering his shoulder, readying to charge into the final defender, when a foot caught his. His legs tangled up with each other, and suddenly he was skidding headlong across the gravel. The ball flew from Adam’s grasp and away across the yard, which now rang to the sound of booing. Adam lay on the ground, coughing in a cloud of dust.

  A hand patted him roughly on the back of the head. “Hard luck, butter fingers,” said Corbett. Kneeling down, the Tally-Hoer grabbed Adam’s ear and hissed into it: “That’s for getting me nicked in the chapel, rat. And if you don’t want your legs broken, stay away from my girl!”

  With that, Corbett lumbered away after the ball, which had been swallowed up by a scrummage near the sideline. Adam slowly picked himself up and began brushing the gravel from his skin and clothes. His elbows were red-raw from where he had scraped them, his lip was swollen, and blood was running down his left knee.

  On the other side of the pitch, Mouthwash disentangled himself from a brawl and jogged over to him. “Bloody hell, mate. You all right?”

  Adam nodded gingerly. “Guess so. What happened?”

  Mouthwash grimaced. “You were clean through, but Corbett managed to get back and trip you up.”

  “What was the booing about?”

  “Tripping’s not exactly banned, but no one likes to see it. Corbett’s such an ape. You want to stick around and try to get some revenge?”

  Adam shook his head. “I think he’s won this one. I’d better get this blood off me. I’ll see you later.”

  He patted Mouthwash on the back and hobbled off the pitch, trying to ignore the sympathetic round of applause the crowd gave him. It didn’t matter how close he had come to scoring – he still felt humiliated. A boy with a bucket and sponge ran along the sideline towards Adam and began washing the blood from his legs.

  “Not bad for a first go,” he said admiringly. “Keep this up and you’ll get some proper Bucketball scars.”

  “You don’t have to sound quite so happy about it,” Adam replied sourly. He looked up to see Jessica hurrying towards him, her face creased with concern.

  “I saw what happened,” she said. “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine!” Adam replied in a cheery voice, trying not to wince as the physio scraped the gravel from his elbow.

  “Don’t let Corbett get to you,” she said quietly, squeezing his arm. “You were the best player out there – you’ll get him next time.”

  She stayed by his side for the rest of the rumble, watching as the game petered out into a series of weary punch-ups. When the whistle finally went, Corbett saw the pair of them together and immediately stalked back to the prisoners’ quarters, refusing to shake hands with anyone. Suddenly Adam’s cuts and bruises didn’t hurt quite so much, and he reflected that maybe Bucketball wasn’t such a bad game, after all.

  Adam woke up the next day to find his joints aching and his limbs as stiff as tree trunks. One game of Bucketball had made him feel like he’d gone twelve rounds with Mr Pitt. To make matters worse, he had a lesson that morning. Adam spent two torturous hours shifting uncomfortably in a wooden chair, silently cursing both the volume of Betrayals in front of him and Mr Harker’s tired pleas for the inmates to stop talking. When the siren eventually rang for lunch time, Adam had to resist the urge to go back to bed. The weather may have improved on the Dial, but food was still too scarce to risk missing a mealtime.

  Adam was slurping up the dregs of a particularly watery carrot soup, the Inmate’s Handbook propped open in front of him, when Doughnut waddled up to his table.

  “All right, mate,” he said. “Listen, do you like music?”

  Adam shrugged and pushed his empty bowl away. “Why – downloaded anything good recently?”

  “Come with me, funny man. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Picking up his book, Adam followed Doughnut out of the canteen and over to Wing VII, where they walked past the classrooms and headed upstairs. Having missed movie night, it was the first time Adam had entered the theatre, and he found himself standing in a surprisingly vast, airy hall. Dust sparkled in the afternoon sun as it poured through the high, arched windows. The curtains on the stage had been drawn back, revealing a group of inmates perched behind a collection of musical instruments – violins and cellos, trumpets and horns, even a large grand piano. The only other onlookers aside from Adam and Doughnut were Major X and two Tally-Ho cronies, who were plunged in conversation in a corner of the hall.

  “Pretty cool, isn’t it?” said Doughnut. “At the end of every summer we put on a show up here, play music, do sketches – stuff like that. Even the guards come to watch. Mr Cooper’s the biggest fan of them all.”

  “Where did all the instruments come from?”

  “The guards brought them over from Earth. See, they’ve got to give us something to do, or we’d all go completely nuts. And a harp’s not much use in a prison break.”

  Adam glanced at his friend. “That’s how you got hold of stuff for people, isn’t it? It must be! You brought it over on the Quisling?”

  “The penny drops,” said Doughnut, amused. “Only taken you half a year.”

  Adam frowned. “But how? You can’t leave the Dial.”

  “I can’t. But then I’m not a trustee. Or a goon.”

  “The guards help you bring things over?”

  Doughnut laughed. “How else could I do it? I’m a fixer, not a magician. Mate, everyone will do a deal with you in the end – as long as you know what to offer them.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

  Startled, they turned round to find Major X glaring at them, his hands on his hips.

  “I’m just showing Adam the orchestra,” explained Doughnut. “No drama.”

  The Major trained his gaze upon Adam. “I thought after Bucketball you’d have got the message that you’re not welcome around the Tally-Ho.”

  “Hey!” Doughnut protested. “Leave him alone! What’s your problem?”

  “We’re tightening security,” snapped Major X. “We think someone around here’s not on the level.”

  “Well, you don’t have to worry about either of us, do you?” said Doughnut. “I’ll vouch for Adam. And if that’s not good enough for you, you can forget me getting any more shovels for you.”

  The Major glowered at the fixer, barely managing to bite back an angry retort before stalking off.

  “Ignore him,” Doughnut murmured. “He thinks everyone is a rat.”

  For all his friend’s reassurance, Adam couldn’t help feeling a bit uncomfortable. He nodded at the orchestra on stage, who were carefully tuning up their instruments.

  “So are these guys any good, then?”

  “They’ve been playing together for years, my friend. Watch and learn.”

  Major X stepped up to the conductor’s podium and tapped a baton sharply on a music stand, silencing the musicians. He raised his arms into the air. Adam waited expectantly.

  “Here we go,” said Doughnut.

  With a flourish the Major swept his arms down, and the orchestra burst into life. It was the loudest noise Adam had ever heard – a deafening racket that assaulted his eardrums and made his head hurt. He wasn’t sure what was worse – the onslaught of screeching violins, the sullen plink-plonk of the piano, or the discordant farts of the brass. At the back of the orchestra, Mouthwash thundered away on a pair of large drums, oblivious to any sort of rhythm. No one appeared to even b
e playing the same piece of music.

  Adam stared at Doughnut, who was merrily tapping his foot on the floor. The fixer looked back quizzically.

  “What’s up?” he shouted over the din.

  “What’s up?” Adam yelled incredulously. “They’re rubbish!”

  Doughnut nodded. “Absolutely terrible,” he shouted back cheerily. “Sounds like someone’s set a zoo on fire.”

  If the orchestra were aware of their musical shortcomings, it didn’t seem to bother them. They continued to lustily parp, bang and fiddle away, broad grins plastered across their faces. In front of them, Major X was a flurry of activity, weaving intricate patterns in the air with his baton. As he watched the conductor, Adam was suddenly aware that the other Tally-Hoers had vanished. They weren’t amongst the musicians, and the only way out of the hall was past Adam. Slowly, things began to fall into place.

  Adam tapped Doughnut on the arm. “One thing about this racket,” he shouted, “you can’t hear a thing over it. I mean, you could do anything up here, and the guards wouldn’t have a clue. I reckon you could even dig a tunnel.”

  “What did you say, mate?” Doughnut cupped a hand to his ear, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I can’t hear you.”

  Adam grinned. Now that he understood what was going on, he could relax and enjoy the mayhem. If anything, the orchestra got worse the longer they carried on – completely ditching any pretence of playing their instruments properly. Adam burst out laughing when a boy playing the trombone lost his slide, causing havoc amongst the brass section as he searched for it on the floor.

  After an hour of ceaseless racket, Major X held up his hands for silence. His brow was drenched in sweat, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. He tossed his baton wearily to one side.

  “Excellent rehearsal, ladies and gentleman,” he said. “It’s going to be a top-notch show this year, I can tell. But to make sure, we’re going to have to put in lots of practice. Let’s meet up again at the same time tomorrow, when Mr Corbett will be taking over the conducting duties.”