A Room Full of Killers. Michael Wood

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       FOUR

      The first day at Starling House for Ryan Asher had been daunting and frightening. After a mediocre lunch he had been to see the therapist, a Doctor Henrik Klein. He was a tall man who looked long past retirement age. He was completely bald with a bushy moustache that covered the whole of his mouth, muffling his words as he spoke. Originally from the Ukraine, he had lived in Britain long enough for his accent to morph into a broken attempt at English. He spent the first few minutes of the session leaning back in his armchair, arms folded, looking at the frightened teenager sitting opposite.

      ‘So, how are you feeling?’ His moustache bobbed up and down as he spoke.

      ‘OK,’

      ‘OK? You’re only feeling OK? Anything else?’

      ‘No. I don’t think so.’

      ‘You don’t think so? How can you not think so? Surely you know how you feel.’

      ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘What are you fine about? You’ve been brought to Sheffield under the cover of darkness and find yourself living in a maximum security youth prison with seven other killers, and you’re fine? You’re not scared, frightened, petrified? Shouldn’t you be crying in agony? Or are you so hardened that nothing fazes you anymore? I need more from you than “fine”.’

      The forty-five minute session continued like that with Dr Henrik Klein learning absolutely nothing about Ryan Asher other than the fact that he was scared and wanted to see his mum, even though he knew it was never going to happen.

      After therapy, Ryan needed a few minutes alone. The session had been heavy and demanding with Dr Klein throwing question after question at him as he tried to get him to admit his real feelings. He had no idea what his feelings were. He felt numb and wanted to go home, yet there was no longer a home for him to go to. Unfortunately, there was to be no respite. He was sent straight into the office of Mr ‘Call Me Fred’ Percival, as the other boys referred to him, for a basic English and maths test. He was an imposing man with a high forehead and fat stomach. With a thick Brummie accent he told Ryan that he lived on the premises during the week so would be around if he had any questions about absolutely anything.

      ‘It’s a tad overwhelming, all this, isn’t it?’ Fred said, looking at the wide-eyed teenager. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about. It’ll take you a few days to settle in, get to know your way around, and the other boys, but you’ll soon find your feet.’ He smiled.

      ‘Thanks,’ Ryan said, and smiled for the first time in months.

      Fred climbed down from the desk he was perched on and went to sit next to Ryan, placing a large hand on the back of his shoulders, similar to what Callum had done, but Fred wasn’t threatening at all, although he did seem to be standing a little too close.

      He leaned in, merely inches from Ryan’s face. ‘If you ever want to talk about anything, not just maths and English, don’t hesitate to ask, OK?’

      ‘OK.’

      ‘Good lad,’ Fred said. ‘Right, shall we get started?’

      The tests were relatively easy. He struggled on a few of the maths questions but managed to answer them all within the time limit. He breezed through the English test. He remembered one of his teachers, Mrs Moore, had told his mum one parents’ evenings that if he concentrated more in class instead of messing about he’d go far. She envisioned a bright future for him. Her powers of clairvoyance were obviously having a day off. He had no future of any colour.

      With the tests finished, Ryan was shown into the recreation room where the other seven boys residing in Starling House were whiling away the dull afternoon.

      He tried to sneak in undetected but the creaking hinges on the door betrayed him. The boys were scattered around the room – some were playing pool, others table football, and the rest were watching a DVD. He slinked over to the sofa and perched himself on the end. He looked uncomfortable as he leaned back and watched the TV. It was showing a Star Wars film but he had no idea which one.

      He kept looking at the boys around him but didn’t see their faces or their awkward smiles, just their crimes. Lewis Chapman murdered his younger brother. Mark Parker beat his father to death and strangled his mother. Lee Marriott killed his parents by setting them on fire, and Craig Hodge killed his aunt and uncle. Then there was Callum Nixon. Ryan had taken an instant dislike to the cocky show-off. He seemed to delight in people knowing he had killed two teachers. What the hell was he doing here living with these evil monsters? Then he remembered. Ryan was an evil monster himself. He wondered if the other seven felt the same regret and remorse as he did.

      ‘You been to see Call Me Fred?’ Lee Marriott was a thin boy with brilliant blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and skin so pale he was almost translucent.

      Ryan smiled. ‘Yeah. Just finished the tests.’

      ‘Here’s a tip: when he gets on a subject he really likes he spits when he talks; so always lean back when he comes near you.’

      ‘Cheers.’

      ‘You any good at pool?’

      ‘Not really.’

      ‘Table tennis?’

      ‘A bit.’

      ‘We’ll have a game after tea if you want.’

      ‘Yeah. Sure. Thanks.’

      ‘No problem.’ Lee moved up the sofa so he was next to Ryan. ‘Look, don’t worry about this place. It’s scary at first but you’ll soon settle in. Miss Moloney’s all right as long as you’re all right by her, and the other staff are pretty cool too. As for the rest of us lot, we all get along just fine – we have to really,’ he sniggered.

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Let’s have that game now. I fucking hate Star Wars.’

      By the time the evening meal came around at 6 p.m, Ryan had spoken to all seven boys and was relatively relaxed in their company. There were a couple who seemed a bit distant but, when he factored in the reason why they were all here, he could perfectly understand that.

      Ryan entered the dining room with Jacob, Mark, and Lewis. They were laughing and joking. To the outsider they looked like four school pals on their lunch break. Once they were seated the plastic cutlery gave away the seriousness of where they were.

      Ryan had been too knotted up to eat at lunchtime. Now he had settled in and relaxed with his contemporaries for a few hours, he found he was hungry, and was the first to finish his bland chicken dinner. They all chatted between mouthfuls: safe subjects like football, TV, and the fact Mark Parker couldn’t do more than ten press-ups in the gym.

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