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O llie had witnessed a few arguments, many disagreements, and the occasional fight on the wing. The day after, it was as if they’d never happened. Sure, there were ongoing grudges, but once they’d flared into a full-grown row, they tended to disappear for a while, brewing until they reached boiling point once again.

Teddy hadn’t attacked Jonesy, and during afternoon association the next day, Green invited Ollie to the pool table as usual. Jonesy didn’t make eye contact, and he was quieter than normal, but that soon changed when he and Ollie won against Green and Jack.

Ollie suspected they’d lost on purpose, but a whooping Jonesy didn’t care.

“I need some air,” Jack announced, laying his cue down on the table.

Green nodded in agreement and beckoned Jonesy and Ollie to follow.

Captain stopped Ollie on the way past. “Hey…”

Ollie waved at the others to go on without him.

“You okay?” Captain asked. “I heard there was some…tension on the wing yesterday.”

“I’m fine.” Ollie lowered his gaze. “I just… I didn’t know about…”

He left the rest unspoken. He imagined someone had filled Captain in.

Captain sighed. “If you ever feel threatened—”

“Teddy’s never—”

“If you ever do,” Captain interrupted, “you tell me. I’ll get you transferred to my cell.”

Captain was one of only three inmates who had a cell all to himself.

“Swear to me, Ollie.”

“I swear.”

“Don’t do anything you don’t want to do, understand?”

Ollie nodded.

Captain changed his stance from military stiffness to something more relaxed.

“How’s it going with the therapist?” Ollie asked.

“It’s going well. We just kind of…hang out. He never asks anything personal; I’ve told him it’s off-limits, so we talk random stuff.” He smiled. “And the support group I run with him and Abby had more sign-ups last week.”

Ollie didn’t know much about the support group. Doctor Jarvis, the prison therapist, had set it up for all the ex-military personnel in Hollybrook so they could support each other while they were inside. A representative from the Ministry of Defence came to Hollybrook every Wednesday, and Captain helped with the sessions.

Ollie smiled. “That’s great.”

Captain let go of a content sigh. “Knowing I’m doing something to help those like me, that’s a good feeling.”

Ollie reached up and squeezed Captain’s shoulder.

“Now go on,” Captain murmured, giving Ollie a small push. “They might’ve already shut the gate.”

Ollie hurried towards the corridor, knowing lock-up was only an hour away and they closed the yard half an hour before that. His gaze fixed on the door at the end, shut but not necessarily locked, he still had time.

The pain to Ollie’s face was so sudden and startling he tipped back, landing on his arse. He caught the blood gushing from his nose with his cupped hand while he stared accusingly at the culprit.

Not an inmate, but a gate.

A huge steel gate, which was clearly shut.

How had he not seen it?

It was right in front of his face.

The ringing in his ears died down enough for Ollie to hear Green roaring with laughter behind him. Jack held out his hand and pulled Ollie back to his feet. He snapped his fingers in front of Ollie’s eyes while he continued to hold blood in his hand.

“How the hell did you miss that?” Jack asked.

Ollie had been so focused on the door at the end of the corridor he’d failed to see the locked gate blocking the way.

“Here,” Jonesy said, holding out some tissue. “Don’t worry, it’s clean.”

“Thank you.”

Green’s laughter trailed off. “And you gave me a hard time for running into a patio door when I was twelve.”

“Let’s hope it’s not broken,” Jack murmured. “Or you’ll end up with a fucked-up face like Green.”

Green pouted. “You love my fucked-up face.”

One second, Ollie was boxed in by Jack, Green and Jonesy, and the next, they were being violently pushed away and Teddy was there, wide-eyed, mouth agape. He inflated with a breath, rising to his full height, ready to swing his fists and kill whoever had dared to touch Ollie.

“It was the gate,” Ollie blurted. “The gate.”

“Well, technically, it was you…walking into the gate,” Green said with a bright smile.

Teddy glared at Green until he retreated halfway across the wing.

“I’m okay,” Ollie assured him. “It’s not broken. At least, I don’t think it is.”

Officer Seinfeld approached, tutting under his breath. “You’ll have to go down to the hospital wing, get Dr Pichard to check you out.”

“Right now?” Ollie whined.

Dispassionate blue eyes stared at him through thin-framed glasses. “Yes. Now. Come on.”

Teddy’s arm shot out, keeping Ollie in place. His nostrils flared as he breathed hard, refusing to let Ollie pass.

Ollie nudged Teddy with his elbow, still with a handful of blood. “I’m fine.”

“Even you can see it needs looking at,” Seinfeld muttered.

He came closer but had one hand on his radio in case he needed back-up. Teddy didn’t just scare the shit out of the other inmates; he terrified the officers too.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Ollie said, lowering his hand enough for Teddy to see his smile.

Teddy dropped his arm, letting Ollie pass.

“Come on, Oliver.” Seinfeld sighed. “Let’s get you sorted.”

Teddy didn’t turn to watch him leave; he stayed posturing at the metal gate that had whacked Ollie in the face.

The only time Ollie had left the wing had been on the day he found out the truth about Rory.

Other inmates had visits, or meetings with their lawyers, but not Ollie, who followed closely behind Seinfeld as they passed the main gates to each wing.

Hollybrook Prison had six regular wings and one hospital wing.

Ollie didn’t want to end up on that wing.

He’d heard horror stories about that wing from other inmates.

“Here we are,” Seinfeld announced, unlocking another gate. He gestured for Ollie to go ahead of him.

The room they stepped into had been pulled straight from a hospital. It was only the thick metal bars over the windows and the gate to what Ollie assumed was the wing that gave it away. There were blue curtains hanging down, drawn around two cubicles, with the one at the furthest end open, showing the hospital bed and all the equipment.

“Doctor Pichard,” Seinfeld called.

One of the curtains opened, and Pichard stepped out. “No need to shout, I’ve got a sleeping inmate I’d rather not have woken.”

He wore white scrubs over a blue shirt and had his name badge pinned beneath his left breast pocket. His blond hair had streaks of grey, particularly at his temples, and his blue eyes seemed tired, lined with wrinkles, but not unkind when they fell onto Ollie.

Ollie knew Pichard had been the one to stitch up Rory’s side when he’d got stabbed after only a week on the wing.

“You weren’t sleeping in there, were you?” Seinfeld asked.

“No,” Pichard answered. “I was resting my eyes. It’s been a long day.”

Seinfeld knocked his shoulder into Ollie’s. “This one decided to headbutt a gate.”

Ollie rolled his eyes.

“Likely story.” Pichard sighed.

“No, he really did. I watched him do it.”

Seinfeld grinned, but Pichard’s expression turned serious. He came closer, peering into Ollie’s eyes.

“I didn’t see it,” Ollie said. “I was heading for the door to go outside and didn’t see the gate was shut.”

Seinfeld shook his head, chuckling. “Idiot.”

Pichard looked over to him. “I swear it was you a few weeks ago who couldn’t find his glasses when they were right on top of your head.”

Seinfeld stopped laughing.

“Let’s see if it’s broken, shall we?”

Pichard guided Ollie behind the curtain and patted the bed. Ollie obediently perched, taking his hand away from his nose for the first time since he’d collided with the gate.

Pichard snapped on a pair of gloves.

“Do you need me or…” Seinfeld pulled an awkward face. “I’m desperate for a slash.”

“You know you should see someone about that overactive bladder of yours…”

“ Hilarious . Can I go piss or what?”

“I guess so,” Pichard replied, turning his back to him.

His hands were cold as he cupped Ollie’s face and pressed tenderly at his nose. The gate clunked, signalling Seinfeld’s leaving. Ollie winced as Pichard inspected him, then pulled back to sneeze blood onto the tissue he clutched in his hand. It hurt. Ollie would’ve described it as the most painful sneeze he’d ever done if Pichard had asked him.

Pichard didn’t ask.

“Sorry,” Ollie mumbled.

Pichard shook his head. “No need.”

Ollie thought more blood might flood out of him after his sneeze, but it didn’t.

“Aren’t there any officers in here?” Ollie asked.

“There’s one just outside the gate.” Pichard frowned. “Or there should be.”

Ollie hadn’t seen anyone when they’d come down the corridor.

“And there’s a few on the wing.” Pichard tipped his head to one side. “Just through there. They’ll hear if I yell.” He leaned away. “Why? Not planning anything, are you?”

“No, of course not.”

Pichard smirked. “Luckily for you, I can’t feel a break, and the bleeding has stopped.”

“Good.” Ollie relaxed. “I’d hate to think what would happen if I couldn’t go back to the wing tonight.” At Pichard’s questioning look, he added, “My cellmate will be worried. He’s a bit on the protective side.”

“Who’s your cellmate?”

“Teddy.” Ollie smiled. “Teddy Saul.”

“The name rings a bell.” Pichard nodded. “He’s sent quite a few inmates her—”

“He’s not like that,” Ollie blurted. “Well, he is like that, but that’s just one side to him, a small side. Teddy’s kind, he’s caring, he’s…gentle.” He lowered his head. “With me, at least.”

Pichard took a step back. “There’s rumours about him…his previous cellmate.”

“Teddy had nothing to do with his death.”

Pichard held up his hands. “Be careful, that’s all I’m saying.”

“I don’t need to be careful around him,” Ollie snapped.

Pichard retreated again. “Sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Am I cleared to go back to the wing?”

“If you’re okay hanging on a second, I’ll get you some ibuprofen. It’ll help with the pain and the swelling.”

“Ibuprofen?”

“It’s the best I can do.”

“Thanks.” Ollie bit his lip. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Pichard encouraged him to stand. “There’s a few forms for you to sign, then I’ll be able to get your meds.”

He strolled away, moving behind a counter where he tapped on a laptop. “Full name?”

“Oliver Linton.”

“Wing?”

“F.”

“Prison number?”

“55214.”

Pichard scrolled the page, clicking buttons and nodding at whatever he read on the screen. “All good.” He held out a clipboard. “If you can sign and date.”

Ollie went to take it, but the clipboard slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

Pichard didn’t scowl at him; his wide-eyed gaze shot to the drawn curtains.

When nothing happened, he exhaled, slumping in relief.

“I think you just about got away with that.”

Ollie scooped up the clipboard, took the pen from the top of the desk and scribbled in the designated boxes.

“I’ll go get your meds,” Pichard said, pulling a key from his pocket. “Don’t walk into the gate while I’m gone.”

Ollie cracked a smile. “I’ll try not to.”

“And don’t drop anything else.”

He pressed a finger to his lips, signalling for Ollie to keep quiet.

Pichard unlocked a gate, one that Ollie would’ve never admitted he hadn’t noticed. The other gates were painted green, but this one was white, the exact same colour as the wall behind it. Pichard locked the gate behind him, then turned a corner out of sight.

Ollie perched on the edge of the bed again, waiting for Pichard to come back.

He heard it then.

The sound of someone breathing.

Only one of the three cubicles had the curtains drawn completely around it.

Ollie swallowed, willing Pichard to hurry up and return.

The breathing got louder, until it rasped, wheezed.

Ollie slipped off the edge of the bed just as a shadow pressed against the curtain separating them. Whoever was stood there was a big man, wide and tall; his panted breath dampened a patch on the curtain.

“I…I didn’t mean to wake you.”

The curtain was yanked open, startling Ollie back.

Ollie had never seen the man before. He was intimidatingly large with a slack jaw, and clouded eyes. He was completely naked. Seeing naked men on a daily basis was something Ollie had adjusted to, but he didn’t know this man, and this man, he was hard .

Blatantly hard.

Unashamedly hard.

Bruises covered the man’s arms and torso. One of his eyes was swollen shut, but his other was wide, bloodshot and crazed.

A cannula bled at his inner elbow.

“Sorry,” Ollie mumbled. “I…I…”

“How sorry?” the inmate asked.

“ Really sorry.”

“This sorry?” The inmate pointed at his cock. “Get on your knees.”

“No.”

Ollie had been unable to keep the revulsion from his voice.

“What do you fucking mean no!” The man tugged the curtain, pulling it off its rail.

“I don’t want to get on my knees for you.”

“What you want has nothing to do with it!”

Ollie spun around, clawing at the gate back to the wing. Before he’d had a chance to yell for help, a callused hand pressed over his mouth, keeping his squeal of terror locked inside. He was dragged backwards, not to the bed he’d sat on while Pichard examined him, but the inmate’s bed, covered in stains and reeking of body odour.

Ollie was shoved against it and fell to his knees. Before he could call out, a brutal slap sent him to the floor. His teeth caught the inside of his cheek, and blood coated his tongue. When he righted himself, he was slapped again, falling onto his other side.

His eyes stung, his nose ran, and it was his father’s voice he heard in his head, telling him to shut up. Shut up, or he’d keep hitting Ollie. Shut up, or he’d start on Leo too.

Shut up, that’s all he had to do for it to be over quickly.

He was suddenly eleven years old, scared out of his mind when he realised what was about to happen.

Ollie didn’t try to call for help again.

He didn’t try to get away either.

He was there again, back with his father.

“That’s better,” the inmate told him, stroking his hair. “This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to suck my cock for a bit, and when I’m bored of that, I’m going to bend you over my bed and rail you from behind. Got it?”

“Yes,” Ollie said immediately.

He knew what happened when he refused to answer his father.

He got hit again, harder.

His voice shook, and his stomach cramped, but he knew he had to hold it in. His father always punished him more when he spluttered up bile during a beating. Ollie swallowed the sick creeping up his throat.

“Good.”

Ollie shut his eyes.

“No.”

He snapped them open again when the inmate pinched his cheek hard enough to bruise.

“I want those big brown eyes on me while I make you choke. No looking away, understand?”

“I understand.”

“Why the fuck can’t you be on B-wing?” The inmate pulled Ollie’s hair. “We could do this every day. Wouldn’t you love that?”

A tear rushed over Ollie’s stinging cheek. He’d learned something else from his father too, only answer questions in the way his tormentor wanted them to be answered.

Lie to spare yourself the worst of the pain.

He’d given the advice to Leo too, never thinking he’d need it, but just in case.

“Yes.” Ollie trembled. “I’d love that.”

The inmate groaned. Taking his cock in hand, he smeared it against Ollie’s cheek, but Ollie turned his head, keeping it from touching his lips.

“Hey!” the inmate snapped, tightening his hold on Ollie’s hair. “Suck it, you little slut—”

“What the hell are you doing?” Pichard’s furious bark brought proceedings to a stop.

“What does it look like?” the inmate asked over his shoulder, nonchalant.

Pichard rushed forward, shoving him aside.

“Assistance,” he yelled. His loud voice carried; it spoke of authority and anger. “I need some assistance!”

“He offered,” the inmate protested. “He wanted to. If anyone should be thrown in Seg, it’s him for teasing me like that.”

“Teasing you?” Pichard hissed. He stood in front of Ollie, hiding him. “He’s petrified!”

Ollie curled over until his forehead rested against the back of Pichard’s knee. Pichard didn’t move, and he didn’t seem to mind Ollie hyperventilating down his legs.

Locks and gates clunked, the inmate screamed out protests as he was dragged away, and then the safety Pichard had provided Ollie with vanished. He stepped away, and Ollie bit his tongue not to call out for him to stay.

But Pichard had only stepped forward so he could turn and crouch down in front of Ollie.

“That fucking animal.”

He inspected Ollie’s face for a second time, and this time, his cold hands were heaven on Ollie’s raw cheeks.

“I’m so sorry, Ollie. Keith was asleep. I didn’t know… I didn’t think he’d…”

“He didn’t,” Ollie said. “He was going to, but you came back.”

“I would’ve been a lot quicker if I’d had known.” He took hold of Ollie’s elbows. “Do you think you can stand?”

Ollie nodded and allowed Pichard to help him up.

“I want to go back to my wing.”

“I think you should stay—”

“Please,” Ollie’s voice came out desperate. “I just want to go back.”

“Okay,” Pichard whispered. He reached into his scrubs and pulled out a blister pack of ibuprofen. “One every four hours, no more than four in twenty-four hours.”

Ollie nodded numbly.

Seinfeld arrived to escort him back to the wing, cursing at the sight of Ollie’s red face.

“You’re supposed to fix them up, Pichard, not make them worse.”

“There was an unfortunate incident,” Pichard replied. “If you’d stayed like you’re supposed to, it wouldn’t have happened.”

Ollie blocked their argument out, floating down the corridor in a dream-like state. Seinfeld joined him at the gate, still cursing and spitting Pichard’s name.

Ollie didn’t say anything on the walk back.

The wing had been locked up for the night, which was a blessing. He didn’t want everyone asking what had happened. There was only one man he wanted, and he was inside their cell waiting for him.

“Here we are,” Seinfeld muttered, unlocking the door.

Teddy shot to his feet as Ollie stumbled inside.

Seinfeld slammed the door shut, startling Ollie forward a step.

Teddy caught him, giving him a tight hug before leaning him back to look at his face. He shook his head, lips twitching with his desire to say something, but his expression said everything.

It was horror, and distress, and panic.

“Could’ve been worse,” Ollie told him before breaking down in tears.

Teddy held him close, stroking warm hands up and down Ollie’s back and blowing into Ollie’s ear in an attempt to soothe him.

Ollie let himself be guided over to the bed.

Teddy lay down first, then pulled Ollie on top of him, still clinging on and stroking him.

Ollie told him what had happened, and Teddy didn’t let go. His grip got harder, then softer, harder again, and he pawed at the back of Ollie’s T-shirt like something might try to rip him away.

“I’m okay now, though,” Ollie murmured, relaxing onto Teddy’s chest. “You’ve got me.”

Teddy pressed a kiss to the top of Ollie’s head, and Ollie closed his eyes.

He didn’t need to see Teddy’s face to know what he was saying.

I have.