The tarmac was wet. Ste remembered the feeling of it on his skin; down his forearm, against his cheek. The tarmac was wet. The world itself was black, even though he was sure his eyes had been open. The distant sound of jeering men was muffled as his ears tried to block everything out. He was returning to himself, his vision blearily coming back to life. Nobody was touching him.

The grey-clothed figures around were all scuffling and fighting, backing away. There was a yell, something that sounded like wild animal, and the fence was shaking violently. Ste raised his head. The men around him were moving too quickly for him to process. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried again.

The wetness of the tarmac had been blood. It was everywhere; on the fence, the ground, staining prison uniforms so that the men lumbering away looked like gored zombies. The silver-haired man was lying on the floor six feet from where he'd stood a moment ago. He was breathing, but his eyes were shut. Ste sat up. The commotion was slowing, and in the middle of it all … was Brendan.

He looked wild, and Ste's heart nearly stopped. The blood seemed to mainly be Brendan's: arms and legs torn to ribbons from vaulting the two barbed-wire-topped fences that had separated them. The inmates were wary of taking him on, despite him yelling at them to come and get him instead if they were that desperate. Guards were yelling, and Ste couldn't move for the shock.

Finally, Brendan looked at him. There was anger, relief and concern; and possessiveness, too. He stumbled to where Ste was still on the ground and sank down beside him to take hold of his wrist, offering a closed form of comfort. "You okay?" he asked.

Ste couldn't answer. He just stared.

"Steven," Brendan tried. His eyes were furtively glancing to and from Ste's face.

Ste had lost his voice. "Brundffnnn," was all that his mouth could mangle. He reached out an hand, floppy with the lack of adrenaline, and touched one of the slices in Brendan's arm. It was the first time Brendan seemed to notice it, and in noticing it, he felt it. His face became a tight grimace.

"It's okay, Steven. They're gonna drag me away in a minute so I need you to tell me you're gonna be all right, yeah?"

He didn't seem concerned with why he was in prison, and Ste was grateful for that. No difficult questions yet. He managed to nod his head before a sea of black and white uniformed officers surged over them.

And like just like that, Brendan was gone again.

Ste was in and out of the prison hospital ward in less than fifteen minutes. They asked him one or two questions, ticked off a clipboard then sent him back to his cell to 'sleep off the shock'. It wasn't a 'proper rape', so he'd probably just be fine. They gave him some anti-depressants to take back, just in case he was 'affected' by the 'gang of bullies' he'd been faced with.

He'd asked how Brendan was doing, but everybody ignored him. They clearly felt he was wasting their time by merely existing, and Ste began to gain an understanding of the 1990 rioters: they were still people. Did these officers not get that human beings react better to being treated like human beings, rather than stray dogs that they wished they could put down?

He sat in his cell, avoiding everybody in the only way he knew how. He was expected to just carry on like nothing happened, but every time somebody walked past his cell, he tensed. Every time he heard a loud laugh, he flinched. Somebody further down had knocked loudly on one of the metal doors, and Ste had sat there, frozen, for almost a minute before realising he was safe. Sat in his bed, Ste hugged his knees.

At dinner, everybody was looking at him. They weren't doing it overtly, but Ste could feel the stolen glances hopping in his direction. Some spoke in hushed voices, and he was sure they were talking about him. Deciding how to get him next. He maintained his composure long enough to wolf down his food as he walked. All he had to do was collect the food from the hatch, stand still for a moment as he ate, then put the plates into the dirty dishes. He was done. He returned to his cell, keeping his head up despite the muttering and the glancing.

He stayed in his cell after that. He skipped breakfast the next day, despite Nabeel's efforts to coax him downstairs. He skipped exercise, too, and was punished by having his visiting rights removed – not that he actually had any visitors, for all the difference it made. By lunch time his stomach was rumbling, but he couldn't bring himself to get out of bed. An officer came to see him after the other prisoners had eaten and left, asking him what he thought he was playing at.

Ste shrugged. "Not hungry," he lied.

"You think you're better than prison food?" the officer demanded. He had short-back-and-sides, and held himself like he'd been in the army.

"No, I'm just not hungry," Ste replied.

"So, you won't be hungry at dinner, either?"

"I don't know, do I? It's not dinner yet."

The door was slammed shut and locked. Ste was grateful.

It was the thought of Brendan that finally dragged him out of bed and out of his cell. It had been three days. Officers had eventually started bringing scraps of food to him, but nothing like what he'd get if he'd just pull himself together and go downstairs.

Ste went straight outside the moment the doors opened, and headed for the fence at the back of the yard. The one he could see Brendan from. As he approached, a feeling of dread pitted his stomach. He felt sick. He could see the seemingly-innocent patch of tarmac, devoid now of blood, where he had been lying. Where they'd cornered him. He avoided that stretch of fence, standing ten feet to the left of it. He could still see it in the corner of his vision, though.

Between him and the other yard, there was a fence, a thirty-foot lawn, a patrol road, another lawn, and another fence. The tops of the fences were a tangled mess of angry wires; some of it barbed, the rest of it twinkling in the sun, light bouncing off the sharpened razors welded to its length. Ste thought of Brendan, how he'd thrown himself through two rounds of that horrific trap to defend him. It must have left scars.

Squinting, Ste tried to make out the prisoners in the other yard. He couldn't see Brendan. Frustrated, Ste turned his back. Everybody in his own yard seemed to quickly look away from him, and become very interested in their own conversations and carefully avoiding his gaze. Ste felt like screaming. What did they want? What were they after?

A group of them, about fifty feet away, suddenly all got up, looking excited by the prospect of something they'd decided on. Ste felt his blood turn cold. They were moving in his direction. What should he do? Should he scale the fence? He gripped the metal chicken wire, ready to turn and climb if he needed to.

Then the group passed him by without looking, and carried on toward the basket ball hoop. Ste let out a heavy breath, and his heart started beating properly again. He was fine. Everything was fine. Nothing was going to happen. He turned back to the other yard, and tried to spot Brendan again.

There was a lone figure, sat with his left side leaning on the fence. He was mostly shadowed and very difficult to properly make out, but Ste could just about see the white wrapped around his arms. Brendan. He didn't want to call to him and draw unwanted attention to himself. The muttering that followed him everywhere was bad enough without more fuel for the fire. Instead, Ste sank to the ground, his eyes never leaving the hunched figure, and watched him from afar.

It took until just before lunch for Brendan to realise that Ste was there. There was a change in him. He sat straighter. He appeared stronger. He raised a bandaged hand, and loosely held onto the fence. Hello.

Ste did the same back, just touching the fence, mirroring the action. Hello to you, too. It was like waving, but more secret. Ste wanted to say so much more. He wanted to ask how he was, thank him, tell him he loved him and needed him. Brendan's forehead bowed and touched the fence. They were so close, but Ste felt as though they'd never been further away. He felt impotent. They couldn't even communicate with each other, let alone speak properly. Let alone touch.

The thought of Jim swam greasily into Ste's mind. Jim might be able to help. Jim had said, after all, that they had to make sure he was safe. Brendan had proved that he was able to keep Ste safe. Ste had proved that he was a target for gangs.

How could he communicate to Brendan that he'd be back soon? He was saved the predicament by the buzzers for lunch going, both for Brendan and for Ste. They headed their separate ways, and Ste dutifully joined the lunch queue for the first time in days. He sat with Nabeel and his motley crew, but didn't say anything. They didn't say anything to him, either. They were letting him have his space. Ste began to wonder if he they had all been through the same thing, except nobody had been there to save them when the gang had gathered.

Ste got to the phone as quickly as he could. "Jim, hi. It's Ste."

"Afternoon, Ste. I heard what happened the other day."

"Yeah. Great. Listen, I need you to get them to move me to a different wing."

"... There'll be no prizes for guessing which one?"

"Nope."

"I'll see what I can do. But there are absolutely no promises. I'll come and see you later. If not, then tomorrow. Okay?"

"Brilliant. Yes. See you soon. Thanks, Jim."

"You're welcome, Ste. Bye."

Ste said 'bye' in return, then hung up. Buoyed by the conversation, he returned to the yard. He stopped part way there. There was a feeling creeping up inside him. Dread, he assumed. He couldn't take his eyes off that spot. He swallowed the bile that rose, and with legs that felt like they were being dragged through a swamp, he returned to his position behind the fence. Brendan was already there, talking to a man sat beside him with his back to Ste. He was looking at Brendan's wounds. He was taking care of him.

The jealousy was colder and stronger than Ste could have predicted. Oh my God, he was livid. How dare he? And how could Brendan … Well, he hadn't expected Brendan to be as celibate as the Pope in prison, but the faceless man – who probably didn't have looks that were even a patch on Ste – was being genuinely affectionate and he was trying to take care of him, and Brendan was letting him.

Ste wanted to throw the stranger onto the razor wire and jump on him until there was no more blood left to squeeze out. He wanted to punch and punch and punch until he stopped moving. He wanted to slap Brendan so hard, Cheryl would feel it. He wanted to scale this goddamned fence and give those two pieces of shit a piece of his mind.

And then, Brendan looked up, and he saw Ste was sat there, and everything melted away with the change Ste's presence brought upon Brendan – the lighter, stronger way he held himself; the way he became more animated. Ste was sure he'd smiled to him.

The other guy was just somebody to take advantage of to stave off the loneliness for a bit. He didn't compare to Ste. Ste was still Brendan's everything. Ste was a fool to doubt it, just because of a flash of jealousy. The jealousy was still there, though. He wanted nothing more than to switch places, to be the one examining the cuts, tutting over them, redressing them. Kissing them better. But a pale substitute had been found in the mean time (and pale was the word. Ste thought he must be one of Brendan's countrymen to appear so pasty,) to be a warm pair of hands.

They couldn't communicate so far away, so there was nothing else much to do other than periodically acknowledge each other's presence. Brendan's friend seemed to pander after him; bringing him snacks, a book, a board game so that Brendan wouldn't have to get up and get it himself. He didn't even question Brendan's unwillingness to move, just did as he was told. A total prison bitch.

At this distance, it was hard to make out faces and facial expressions, but Ste felt he could read Brendan's blurry features. Amusement and smugness, annoyance when he was being commanding and giving out his 'requests'. He insulted and degraded and patronised his bitch from a distance, and Ste had a feeling it was all for Ste's benefit. The poor guy didn't seem used to such treatment.

After the evening meal, Brendan didn't come back. Ste didn't hang around for too long. He didn't like that it was getting gloomy outside, and the cold didn't help. He sat on his bed, staring at the metal door, wondering if Jim would come and see him that night, or if he'd have to wait until the next day. He wasn't sure if he could stand another day. Ste's insides writhed, aching. A lot of this was his fault. He knew that. But in a way, it had worked. They'd found each other. They just needed to actually get near to each other.

A shadow lingered near his door, and Ste clutched the plastic dinner knife he'd snapped into a point beneath his blanket. The shadow didn't seem to be moving on. It was large, but short. Possibly Dave, who had no interest in him beyond their initial meeting. It could be Precious, if the height of his shadow was distorted by the angle of the light.

The profile of a short, quite fat man appeared in the doorway for a moment, staring at something on his arm, then was gone again. Ste let out a sigh of relief. He'd stopped because whatever was on his arm was bothering him. Nothing to do with Ste. He kicked out his blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

He wanted to sleep. He was exhausted. Looking over his shoulder all the time was tiring him out. He needed rest, but he did not dare fall asleep before all the cell doors were locked for the night. It was like dressing in a suit made of raw steaks and jumping into a pool of starved sharks.

Ste splashed cold water onto his face, thinking of his lovely warm bath at home and wondering when he was going to see it again. He hated the peeling paint here, and longed for the homely peel of his own wallpaper hanging from the walls of the flat. He even missed the horrid old couch he'd been meaning to replace. He closed his eyes, remembering Leah and Lucas and Brendan, living together in their little bubble, before Kevin had sold them out and torn them apart for a bit of money.

Ste tried not to think about Kevin. He hated that doe-eyed weasel more than he could describe. He hated him the same as he hated Walker – but hated neither of them with the same unwavering intensity as he hated Seamus.

He was brought out of his reverie with a jump. With his eyes closed, he'd bowed his had a little too far, and his forehead had touched the icy surface of his mirror. The reflection that looked back at him was already gaunt and haunted. His skin was pale, and around his eyes were dark circles from stress and lack of sleep. How had Brendan recognised him? He looked like an echo of who had been when he was happy.

It would be the next afternoon before Ste finally saw Jim. Jim looked as though he hadn't slept particularly well, either.

"How are you?" Jim asked.

"Surviving," Ste replied.

"You look terrible."

"As do you." Ste took his seat at the table opposite Jim. He felt other prisoners sending glances in his direction and tried his best to ignore it.

"About what you asked … I had a few words with a few people."

"Will I like the answer?"

"They're worried about how Brendan might react should anything like this happen again. He nearly killed somebody."

"So? If they didn't want to be punished, they shouldn't have attacked me."

"Ste..." Jim tried, trying to find the words. "They consider Brendan a loose canon. He takes the fact he's a lifer to heart and knows he has nothing left to lose. And relationships in prison … they're not the same as on the outside. It's about power, about status. He'll be a different person in here, and you might not like him – and if you don't like him, he can't let you dump him. He'd never let you end it. He'd never let you go."

Ste considered this carefully, biting his lip as he stared at the wood grain on the table, thinking. "It's what I want," he decided. "Please. It's what I want."

Jim nodded. "They'll need some kind of proof that Brendan will be better behaved if they let him have this – and they will take you away from him the moment he acts out of turn."

"They'll use me as reward and punishment. I understand. This is still what I want."

Jim was biting his thumbnail. "I'll see what I can do, but I still can't promise anything. They'll be thinking more about Brendan than you, so I need to press the fact you can't look after yourself."

"Oi!"

"You can't, Ste. They ganged up on you and nobody except Brendan did a damn thing. It's lucky he heard you scream. He didn't even know you were there."

"You spoke to him?"

Jim nodded. "Briefly. This morning."

"H-How is he?" Ste dared to ask.

"Better than I've seen him, even with all the bandages."

"Did he ask about me?"

"He asked how you'd ended up here. He seemed to think it was my fault."

Ste bit his lip, a little sheepish. "It wasn't."

"Hopefully you might get the chance to tell him that yourself." Jim rubbed his tired eyes. "Honestly, Ste. This is such a mess. I can't even tell you how I think things are going to go. They want to slap ABH on you after your stunt in young offenders'."

Ste scowled. "That guy attacked me first."

"It's not like he walked away from it, is it?"

Ste shrugged. Jim then talked a little about his conversations with Amy, but she was still unmoving about bringing the kids to see him. She hadn't even told then he was in prison, so he could wait until he got out if he wanted to see them, she said. It wasn't anything less than Ste had expected of her. Jim ended their session by telling him he was working on getting the court date fixed, then he left again.

Ste returned to his fence, avoiding that spot, and settled down to wait for Brendan to come back. After a while, he felt eyes on him, and he raised his head to see Brendan's prison bitch staring at him from behind the fences. He looked small and defeated, and his arms were crossed over his chest, but Ste knew he was probably being sent death glares. So, the prison bitch had worked it out. Hopefully he would back off Brendan now.

He didn't though. When Brendan returned, the bitch fawned over him more than ever. He was eager to run around after him, eager to please, eager to choke Brendan with his affection. There was no need for Brendan to lift a finger. Brendan remained indifferent. He was reading a book, occasionally glancing up to see if Ste was still there. Ste remembered Brendan liked to read, and toward the end, Ste had managed to persuade Brendan to read aloud to him sometimes – as long as it wasn't the Bible. Ste couldn't stand hearing the Bible. He much preferred Leah and Lucas' watered-down kiddie versions they brought home from school.

The sun was warm, and Ste was quite enjoying being outdoors. With his attention mainly on Brendan, the rest of the prisoners seemed to just melt away. It wasn't until there was a hand on his shoulder that he remembered where he was. Ste jumped a mile high and sprang to his feet like the release of a tightened coil. He wildly looked into the eyes of three confused prison guards, one by one, and finally relaxed. "What?" he asked.

"Steven Hay?"

"Yeah?"

"Come with us."

They led him off, and Ste threw a glance over his shoulder. Brendan wasn't looking. Heart in his mouth, he followed the officers. They felt the need to cuff him as they approached the security gate leading to the central atrium of the prison. He was then led down a winding corridor to a large wooden door.

On the other side of the door was what looked to Ste like an interrogation room. Plain walls, with a metal table and a plastic chair either side of it. One of Ste's hands was freed, and the other was cuffed to a loop on the table leg. The officers retreated to corners of the room, and Ste waited. After what could have been about ten minutes, the wooden door opened again, and in walked a balding man in his fifties wearing an expensive-looking suit.

The man didn't look at him. He got himself settled into his chair, shuffled some papers from his briefcase and took out a pen. "Steven Hay?" he asked, still not looking.

"Yep."

The man sighed. "I'm Governor Salisbury." Finally he looked up. "I need to talk to you about Brady."

Ste swallowed. "What about him?"

This made Salisbury chuckle. "I hear from your barrister that you want to be moved to his wing, and I'm here to bargain with you to give you what you want."

Ste nodded slowly. "What kind of bargain?"

"Well … Brady has been … problematic." Salisbury smoothed down an eyebrow. "His temper has been … unpredictable. I personally find him quite affable. I've spoken to him at length about you, and about what happened the other day. About moving you across. I find he's different to the others – and if this was anyone else, I doubt I'd have entertained the idea."

"So …?"

Salisbury cleared his throat. "He's getting feral. There's no other way to describe it. The other inmates are terrified of him. They don't even comment on the fact he's non-heterosexual. He sends alarm bells ringing in all corners of my mind, and I probably shouldn't like him, but hey-" He shrugged nonchalantly. "-what can you do?"

"So...?" Ste repeated, dragging out the sound a little longer.

"I want to make a deal with you. If Brady carries on as he is for much longer, he's looking at permanent solitary – that's twenty-three hours a day in a concrete block, and one hour walking in the yard after all the prisoners have gone in. He hasn't killed anybody inside yet, but looking at his past victims, his temper was obviously the deciding factor, and his temper is getting shorter and shorter. But then, a few days ago happened, and suddenly … not a peep from him."

"Right. I see. And the deal?"

Salisbury sat back in his chair, regarding Ste carefully. "A solitary block would need to be built especially for him. This will cost a lot of money. Why should I not, instead, claim we are overcrowded and need to double-up a few cells? It's half true, so nobody will question it too closely. A short-term petty criminal like you would be easy fodder for doubling up during a temporary stay. And when I've gone to these lengths, I need some things from you, too."

"Such as?"

"Well, there's the obvious. Keep him in line. Look out for him. Help him behave. He crosses the line, then it's you we'll put in solitary for a few days, understand?"

Ste bit his lip, but nodded anyway.

"Good. He understands this, too. But what he doesn't know is … I want information."

"Information?"

Salisbury cleared his throat uncomfortably. The real reason he was being lenient. "We have reason to suspect – judging from the information provided by DI Gabriel Walker's investigation – that Brady's victim count may have been higher than the five we know of. The Cheshire Police are very eager to find out more, and are pressuring me to access such information."

"He won't tell me anything."

"I'm sure he would if he knew we'd take you away from him."

"I'm a short-term petty criminal. I'd be taken away from him sooner or later. He knows that."

Salisbury nodded.

"If I'm gonna be a rat, I need personal gain. There are two people being manipulated in this deal, y'know, not just Brendan."

Salisbury tilted his head to the side, a slight smile pulling at his lips. "Well, well, well. What is it you want from me, then?"

Ste hadn't exactly thought about it. He could bargain for anything he wanted, he supposed. Brendan would have known this was coming. Brendan would have thought about it beforehand. "I haven't decided yet," Ste coolly replied. "I'm sure I'll think of something."

"I want our bargain settled before any movements begin," insisted Salisbury.

"Then how about we set ourselves an exchange agreement? I find out information in exchange for something of equal value to it, as and when I please."

Salisbury inhaled deeply, then let the air out slowly. Ste watched him, waiting. The Governor's eyes narrowed slightly. "And that way, you will be less indebted to me should you find out nothing," he pointed out.

Ste nodded. He hadn't thought of it that way but, yes, it was true. If he promised to find out everything and couldn't, he'd be punished. If he exchanged the information he could get when he got it, the transaction was instant. Assuming, of course, he had Brendan's permission to share any information. Ste wasn't going to betray him.

Cracking his knuckles, Salisbury began to tidy himself up and rise out of his seat. He offered Ste his hand. "We've reached an agreement, then?"

Ste considered the hand on offer. He had a feeling he was about to get royally screwed. He shook the hand with his own free one. "Yeah. For now." Salisbury bristled at his final comment, but said nothing. He left without another word, and the officers in the corners of the room returned to life and freed Ste from the metal table.

Finally, he thought, as he was led back to his cell to collect his few possessions, it seems things might be starting to look up...