He misses the warmth; the old radiators chucking out heat so the men all wore tee-shirts in winter and complained they were boiling. He could do with a bit of that now, bone-cold he is. In the dining room there\u2019d be a massive queue for the slops, the not-actually-chicken chicken, the mashed something, the curried whatever, and the noise from all the fellas scraping back chairs and bantering and chewing and talking their bollocks. Could do with a bit of that n\u2019all, stuck in this dingy room on his own all the time, avoiding the druggies and paedos. He\u2019s had noodles in a plastic pot and a four-pack. He misses the routine; the Y\u2019alright, Bob? Ite? Hey man. The head nods and elbow bumps, the having a day full of things to do. He\u2019d had a decent job in the laundry, \u00a314 a week in his spends so he could afford chocolate and tuna and fizzy drinks in his canteen. Camaraderie. He\u2019d even grown fond of that tosser Rajesh in the end despite the rocky start. Monday was chapel, he\u2019s never been religious but the fellas there were cool and there was always a cuppa and a biscuit. Tuesday and Thursday art class. Who\u2019d have thought he\u2019d ever, but the tutor said he had a gift for it and he\u2019d got well into sketching the birds he sometimes saw out in the vast countryside sky. He missed that sky now. It was different in London, like the birds knew not to bother. But even before he got to the open prison it\u2019d been better hadn’t it. Not having sky hadn\u2019t mattered much. Closed conditions were shit, everyone knows that, but the Franklin twins had been there and his padmate had been a right laugh; an Irish lad with a quiff that never failed to amuse him. The food was a lot better. There was the little fat woman who taught level one maths and English and had smelt like roses. The chaplain. The two officers who remembered him from before and got him put on the best wing. The TV they all watched at the same time. The noise and the beatings and the drugs were shite, but\u2026
\nHe stands up, immediately sits back down on the bed, back up again. Spreads his arms. He can\u2019t stay here. He can\u2019t. He\u2019ll head to the little Tesco where there\u2019s one guy on the door who always eyes him. He\u2019ll grab some cans and stuff them under his jacket. He\u2019s on probation, they\u2019ll have no choice but to send him back. Now he\u2019s decided, he can’t wait to escape.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
He can\u2019t stay here. He can\u2019t. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[1340,311],"class_list":["post-16500","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","tag-flash","tag-prison","writer-sara-crowley"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16500","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=16500"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16500\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16620,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16500\/revisions\/16620"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16500"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16500"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16500"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}