Jackson stood in a small, grey room, furnished with a hardly adequate bed, and a toilet. He examined the solid steel door and it's closed peephole with despair. He'd been in the remand section of H.M. Pentoville Prison for approximately eight or nine hours. It could well have been more than that, for he'd still been dazed by the blow to his head when they'd brought him in. It felt as if a week had passed since he'd been roughly tossed into the holding cell, whereupon he had become smothered by it's reeking odors of excreta and vomit, and it's cold embrace which made his bones ache with the unknown that laid ahead of him.

The police had taken Jackson to the police station where he was duly charged with assault with intention to cause grievous bodily harm against Mr. Lloyd Crane.

A hasty appearance in court had followed -a preliminary hearing that lasted all of ten minutes. Jackson's father had failed to attend, choosing to leave the matter in the hands of his stern faced solicitor, a man by the name of Malcolm Stone.

The magistrate instructed that Jackson be placed on remand in Pentoville Prison. As he hadn't money to pay any form of bail or bond and no one to accept responsibility for him, there had been no other alternative than to remand him into custody and await the outcome of a trial.

Jackson had a low, disturbing feeling that he was going to be waiting in prison for a long time -Lloyd Crane would make certain of that. At that thought, he was overcome by a bout of nausea and quickly threw himself in front of the toilet bowl and vomited wretchedly.

He sat up after a time, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, thinking back to his arrival at the prison; he'd been subjected to a humiliating body search. His skin crawled and his muscles tightened as he remembered how the middle-aged guard's hands had so casually, and callously, assaulted Jackson's modesty. He'd wanted to cry out in horror and revulsion, but held himself in check, suspecting that any form of emotion or hint of fear, was not permitted in prison-

He had endured the disgrace and afterwards allowed to take a shower. He'd been alone, well almost; a solitary guard was assigned to watch over him in the men's communal shower block. It was a large room, which might have once been snow white in colour, but the tiles had become jaundice yellow and grimy, apparently from the centuries of filth and dirt which had collected in the cracks and corners. From the walls protruded the hot and cold water taps, directly above which were the shower nozzles.

The warm water had felt good and cleansing as it ran its course over his battered and violated body. He used a wafer thin piece of discarded soap to purify his skin, scrubbing vigorously at his groin and between his buttocks, subconsciously removing the unwanted memories of the prison guard's probings.

The lone guard stood with disinterest at the doorway, only occasionally bothering to look towards his charge. He didn't appear to notice the three men clad in weary looking prisoner garb as they sauntered passed the doorway of the shower block, where they came to a halt.

Two of the men were quite big, sharing similar facial features and overall body structure; dark, curly hair and deeply set eyes of chocolate brown, with thin lips, thick necks and hulk-like shoulders. Ancient acne and a couple of grisly fights scarred their faces. The third man, who stood flanked by them, was a little shorter and more like a pudding, in shape. He was also older, perhaps by as much as fifteen years or more.

His round face was babyish, but not in an attractive fashion. It was chubby and he had a ruddy complexion; his eyes were hidden in his fleshy face and were small and black, making him look like a cruel piglet, his receding hairline accentuating the likeness.

His face and eyes were aged in dark and secret ways by a hard life and unspeakable acts. He was clearly a well seasoned inmate of the prison. His void-like eyes visibly caressed the lean and naked youth in the shower; a youth with soft, golden skin and taunt, inviting and milky coloured buttocks and genitals framed by dark hair.

The man's two companions snickered amongst themselves -they would later turn out to be twin brothers; one of them let out a long fox whistle, while the other shouted to the youth: "Hello, Sweet arse! How 'bout it, bitch?!"

Jackson's eyes had snapped open, the disturbance bringing him back to his place of confinement. He turned around to see the three inmates by the door, two of whom were laughing, the other man had just been staring at him, with only his eyes showing any feeling. They'd been brimming over with a dreadful longing that sent a scorching, acidic bile creeping up the boy's throat, and which had made his pale face flush with embarrassment.

The guard intervened by sending the three men along on their way, in a tired, lackluster way, and he barked at Jackson to dry off and dress himself promptly.

He did so, but all in a state that felt like a dream, or rather, one that had got out of control and which had become an inescapable nightmare. As he'd dressed, he thought back to the stories he'd heard about what happened to men in prisons, particularly young men. The images that this train of thought provoked sickened him.

Jackson had been allowed to wear his own clothes, rather than being issued with prison uniform, for he was on remand and therefore not required to wear a uniform.

He was taken to the holding cell where he was to spend that night. On the next day he would be placed into a cell which he would be sharing with one of the other inmates.

Presently, the light in Jackson's cell went out. How long had he been crouching before the toilet, holding onto it as if it were a dear and stable friend? He wasn't sure; time had no real meaning ...except for the clanging bells that had gone off periodically throughout the day, signaling all manner of unknown activities. But he would learn about them soon enough, he feared.

Jackson heard the clippity-click of a passing warder's shoes and the jiggling of keys and chains, and the ominous, echoing booming of heavy steel gates and doors closing, and keys turning neatly in their locks

'Lock me up and forget about me ...please ...I hope I die quickly...' Jackson sighed, shaking his head.

'This can't be happening!” He cried inwardly with frustration. It had all gone so wrong. Nothing had turned out as he had planned.

From some dark, unknown corner of the prison, a nerve shredding scream escaped from the confines of a cell. Jackson closed his eyes and vowed to keep them closed.

'Screams ...they are the only things that can escape from here', he thought to himself, feeling himself fall into a chasm of despair. He wondered what was transpiring in the prison, at the source of that scream. Was a prisoner being bashed senseless by a fellow inmate or perhaps by some of the guards ...or both? Or had the owner of that screamed just killed himself? Or was it something even harder to face than death? He dragged himself away from his only friend, the toilet bowl and decided to acquaint himself with the cot.

As his body sank onto the pancake thin mattress amidst a virtual orchestra of creaks and groans from the weary springs, he reflected on the new direction his life had taken, drawing one very apparent conclusion: he was such a damned fool! A complete and utter idiot! If he'd only controlled himself and hadn't allowed his father's attitude and words affect him as they had; perhaps Jackson wouldn't have found himself waking to a living nightmare reality.

A trance-like doze muddled his brain and despite himself, his consciousness slipped into darkness, but it wasn't a complete sleep. It was light with paranoia. His mind dreamt of shadows lurking down darkened corridors and the flashing of knives. Lloyd Crane's disembodied voice boomed like peals of thunder:

"You're a stupid little fuck! Now you're in the sewer with the rest of the crap ...where you can rot and feed the rats and maggots..." Hideous, rolling laughter. "And now you've got no mummy to run to... you're gonna' suffer and burn in Hell, like she is, and I'm going to take you there," Lloyd's voice dissolved into dark chuckling.

Jackson was awake long before dawn. He lay on the bed listening to the prison as it stirred to another day. Guards changed shifts, with the musical chant of possible freedom jiggling on their chains as they strode down the corridors.

A bell clanged noisily, telling the prisoners to get out of bed. Another bell would sound after it, sending them off to the showers; another would march them off to face breakfast, followed by a bell to signal the start of the working day, Jackson guessed. Maybe later, there would be another bell, indicating it was time for lunch, and further bells marking the return to work, followed by some kind of recreation period, then dinner, then to send the inmates back to their cells and finally when it was time for lights out. It was a routine that would never vary, and Jackson would have to learn and become apart of it to survive.

But no guard came to his cell to lead him to the showers. Instead, he was kept in his cell until just before breakfast.

The officer who let him out was a thick, heavyset man, who informed the youth that he was to be shifted to his new cell immediately. There was an air of permanence in the guard's voice that disturbed him.

The officer had him gather his belongings and to follow him. Jackson quietly explained that he had nothing but the clothes that he wore. The officer didn't react. In silence, he led the youth along the grim and intimidating catacombs of the prison building.

It was gradually becoming more active, like a waking beehive, with prisoners shuffling about in their uniforms. A good number of the inmates weren’t in uniform, however, and Jackson figured that they, like him, were being held on remand.

He endeavored to avoid making eye contact with any of the other prisoners. He didn't want them to see the terror in his eyes and didn't want to appear confrontational in any way .He just wanted to live through the ordeal and untouched. But the deeper he was taken into the bowels of the prison, and judging by some of the attention he was attracting from the inmates he encountered along the way, his hopes dwindled.

There was no way he would be leaving the prison alive if he didn't submit to one, and no doubt many more, of these men at sometime. He decided that perhaps it would be better to leave dead than to allow them to rape him. He also promised that if it came down to that, Jackson wouldn't burn in Hell alone. He'd take a few of 'them' with him. They could all burn together.