Retiring from Crime

My release day dawned not with a bang, but with the quiet hum of the electric lock disengaging. Three and a half years. Four strikes. A barrister who’d practically fainted at the sight of my legal CV, a document that looked more like a criminal’s rap sheet than a legal defense. Apparently, ‘separate violent categories’ was the golden ticket, or at least the slightly tarnished, bent-up one. Belmarsh, with its imposing walls and even more imposing reputation, had been my home. But this time, I wasn’t the wide-eyed newbie. I’d been around the block, or rather, around the yard, enough times to have built a network, a reputation. My family’s connections, a tangled web that stretched far beyond the prison gates, had ensured I wasn’t just another face in the crowd. I landed a cushy gig as an introduction orderly, a glorified cleaner, but my real hustle, the one that kept the contraband flowing and the officers lining up, was my styling business. Unofficially, of course. A haircut, a shave – these were services in high demand, and my discreet services always came with a little something extra, usually in the form of tobacco.

Prison life, I’ve learned, operates on a currency entirely its own. Tobacco, shower gels, chocolate bars – these were the commodities that held real value. And money? Well, that was a whole different ball game. In my thirteen or fourteen years behind bars, only two souls had dared to stiff me on payment. Hunter was one. The other… well, the other was a whole saga. See, in the outside world, a punch in the jaw is just a punch. In here, it’s a declaration of war, a system where if someone thinks they can settle their debts with brute force, you’re in deep trouble. The prison system, bless its heart, has its own set of rules, a twisted parody of the laws we supposedly live by. You learn to shut it down, immediately.

There was this one bloke, a real piece of work, who’d apparently knocked some poor sod unconscious. The kicker? This particular bully was locked up for manslaughter, a former cage fighter whose hands, even outside the ring, were considered lethal weapons. He was a professional, see, but fighting unprofessionally? Illegal. This guy was a genuine terror, a hulking brute who’d been making everyone’s life a misery. Until I stepped in. After I dealt with him, a good eleven or so guys emerged from the shadows, thanking me for thoroughly disgracing him. Apparently, he’d been at their doors, weeping, begging for mercy after months of his own brand of torment. Blackmailing their families, siphoning their canteen money, running up phone bills on their credit – nasty, really nasty stuff.