Underdawgs

Chapter 1

The cop shop on the corner of King Street and Colmans Way has not changed one bit. It's small, dark and dingy, the whole place reeks of shoe polish, sweat and over-inflated egos. Report papers and evidence files litter the floor. The windows are dirty, the air is musty and there are coffee stains on the tables. In short, the place is a dump and I'm going to be stuck here for at least another hour.

      My cell is about two and a half by three meters, it stinks of piss and someone has left a nice pile of chunder in the corner. The walls are plastered with tags and graffiti, and there are bloodstains on the floor. Along one wall runs a padded bench, and a CCTV camera sits in the top right corner - my only means of company.

      I've been in here a while now, about eleven hours I reckon, though it's hard to tell. It must be past noon because I've sobered up from last night and a cop came round with a lunch tray about an hour ago.

       It s been a long night. I slept a bit, but got woken twice – first by a pisshead in cell four who tried to jump one of the cops when they came to check up on him, and again a little later when a junkie in cell two started ranting and screaming about them stitching him up.

      I'm exhausted and I probably look like shit. I wish I was like my best mate Blackjack; he wakes up hungover from a night of heavy drinking and still looks good. Blackjack is stupidly good looking. It really pisses me off, chilling with him while there're girls around is painful.

      I guess my own looks aren't too bad. I have dirty blond hair which is shaved at the back and sides and cold blue eyes. My skin is fair, but not freckly. I'm not handsome, but I'm not ugly either, sort of average looking.

      I used to have a picture of Robert, from when he was my age and I look a lot like he did, except for the blond hair and blue eyes – they're from my mother. My mother was a goddess.

      I get up from the padded bench and pace around the cell. I really want the cops to hurry up and interview me so I can get out of this place.

      I guess we're all waiting on Robert, given they can't interview an underage person without a parent or guardian present. Though guardian and parental aren't exactly the best words to use when describing Robert. Knowing him, he's probably passed out and hasn't heard his phone go off like a billion times. Either that or I'm not important enough in his mind to warrant any hurry.

      I flop back down on the bench and look up at the ceiling, dying for something to do, wishing I had my old beat up copy of Yeats – the one with The Second Coming in it, which I've dog-eared so many times the page now has a permanent crease. It'd help pass the time and keep me distracted from the fate that awaits me when I'm called into one of the cops' interview rooms.

      People are always surprised when they see me reading books; they stare at me like I'm doing something wrong. I guess it doesn't fit the rest of my profile. Like a lot of guys where I live, I dress like your stereotypical juvenile delinquent: black hoodie, denim jeans and sneaks. The four guys I grew up with and consider my brothers – Kev, Spike, DJ and Blackjack – won't be caught dead in anything else. It's not a statement we're trying to make, we aren't like the Hipsters with their strict dress codes, or the Graffers and Lads who can be identified by their clothes and are run like gangs. We're just a bunch of mates who look out for each other and happen to wear the same thing.

      I glance down at my hands resting casually on my knees, my knuckles ripped and torn, my wrists raw and red from where one of the cops who'd arrested me slapped the cuffs on and did them up just one or two notches too tight. I rub my wrists tenderly and examine my knuckles. They won't heal for a while.