Deviants: Divinity Laws, #2

By PJ King

The second book in the Divinity Laws trilogy

Clara Slade is at the start of a three-month prison sentence for breaking the Divinity Laws.

That's three months of 'rehabilitation'—designed to break her.

Three months of homesickness.

Three months of surviving day by day, keeping her head down and staying out of trouble…                                                                …except that—like a magnet—she seems to attract trouble: hostile inmates, ugly rumours and dangerous secrets…

And then there's the Blackmoor Rehabilitation for Offenders Centre; and the 'snap-back'; and passing the Exit Test…

Just to keep her promise.

Just to get home.

If she can….

• Language: English
• Publisher: PJ King
• Release date: Nov 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386688716

PJ King

PJ King is a hatcher of stories; nurturer of manuscripts; and parent to the fledging Divinity Laws series… ‘Fly my pretties! Fly!’ Also a fan of extended metaphors.

Book preview

With my sincerest thanks to:

Paul Clark @ PS21 - for generously using yet more of your design genius to create another fantastic cover.

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A.M. - for editing this book; putting up with my phrasal-fixations; and brightening up the manuscript with a rainbow of coloured pens.

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My family – who still continue to love and support me. Without you, these books would never get written.

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My Saviour – from whose love, nothing can separate me...

(Romans 8: 38-39)

Chapter One

They were watching her in much the same way cats watch a sparrow, which has fallen from a tree. Clara could feel eyes targeted on her as she moved along in the queue. They knew she was fresh meat—the yellow uniform was doing nothing to hide her. She wasn’t safe anymore, like she had been on the first-nighters’ floor.

Glancing up briefly, she caught a stare across the serving counter and hoped the tremble in her hand wasn’t visible as she took the bowl thrust to her. She slid her tray along and took the first glass of juice without really noticing what colour it was. Suddenly, she was at the end of the queue. Trying not to make eye-contact with anyone, Clara scanned for a space in the sea of fluorescent yellow.

Four rows away, she saw a dark head and hunched shoulders and moved quickly in that direction.  Her ankle felt the contact of a foot three seconds later, and she stumbled forward, catching the sniggers of amusement nearby. Somewhere in her head, she heard the roll of wheels on tarmac and braced herself for the impact; but it didn’t come. She caught her balance and stopped her tray from tipping the contents on to the floor. The yellow juice splashed over the edge of the glass but she managed to straighten and get to her intended seat without losing her breakfast.

The girl snapped her head up with a start as Clara slid into the seat opposite her. Clara was relieved to find she had correctly identified Bower, another vulnerable sparrow. She sent Bower’s startled face a reassuring smile and the girl relaxed a little. Bower was a small dark-haired girl, about the same age, with eyes so pale blue that the iris almost disappeared into the white. Her features were very fine, like those of a china doll, and she had a delicate speckling of freckles across her nose. She looked as if a slight brush of a hand would smash her to a thousand pieces.

Clara dipped her spoon into her porridge and pushed the sloppy grey substance around the bowl.

Still no appetite? Bower said softly, keeping her voice low so they wouldn’t be overheard.

Clara glanced up at the china eyes which were examining her carefully. She shook her head in reply.

I wish I was still on the first-nighters’ floor, Bower continued, her eyes momentarily leaving Clara’s to flit warily around them at the rest of the room. I hate being stared at.

The novelty will wear off, Clara said, keeping her voice quiet too, as a pair of sherbet lemon uniforms passed her elbow and she caught the hungry looks glanced their way.

Not us, Bower said flatly, when they had passed.  You’re one too, aren’t you? she added.

Clara flinched in surprise and felt a prick of panic in her chest. What? she asked carefully.

Bower subconsciously licked her bottom lip before her pretty pink mouth silently formed the word: deviant. Clara didn’t deny it.

You’re the one that ran, Bower said. I guessed it must be you. We’re not safe here.

Clara gave a wry look. We’re not safe anywhere, she said.

Bower’s pale eyes studied her face for a minute in silence. Then she stood up and grabbed her tray. Good luck, she said sincerely.

Clara watched her walk away and then glanced down at her porridge. She wasn’t hungry, despite being unable to finish a meal for three days now. But she would have to start eating sometime; she had three months ahead of her. Eighty-seven days, exactly, to get through. Clara scooped a spoonful into her mouth and forced herself to swallow. So, Bower was a Deviant. Clara was surprised. She had expected to be the only one. At least she now knew one inmate who wouldn’t revile her. She couldn’t say the same for the other girls; they didn’t know what she was in for yet; but if Bower had worked it out that quickly then it probably wouldn’t be long before someone else did. She imagined prisons were a lot like schools: gossip travelled faster than fact, secrets were traded for security, and bad news hung around considerably longer than good news. 

Clara drained her glass and stood up, glancing round to check her surroundings before she moved. She caught a few faces sneering at her and braced herself to leave the canteen. The clock told her she had ten minutes before she had to report for her first session of the day. She was not looking forward to it; her rehabilitation was about to begin and Carver had warned her quite clearly about this process. They break you down, bit by bit, he had said. And rip it all out. Clara wondered which bit of her they would try to rip out first.

Clara reported at the door she had been shown the day before. There was a guard behind a bullet-proof screen who checked her identity and let her through into a long, narrow corridor, lit with blue-tinted lights. There was a door halfway down, on the right, with the sign: LT0. Lecture Theatre Zero. Clara tentatively pushed open the door and stepped inside. She found herself at the top of a small lecture hall, which sat no more than about sixty. To her left stood a guard, who gave her arrival no acknowledgement, as she shut the door behind her and made her way slowly down the steps.

There were already three other people in the theatre: two in sherbet lemon and the other a reedy, dark-suited man with a sallow face and fast-moving gaze. He glanced up immediately at her and gave a smile that was not really a smile.

Clara Slade? he said, and indicated the front row where the other two inmates were sitting.

So there were three of them. That was even more unexpected.

Clara looked over the other two uniformed occupants as she reached the front row. One was Bower, sitting back against her chair as if she was trying to put as much distance as possible between her and the reedy man. Her pale blue eyes were watching him warily as he set up the computer, as if he were a snake that might suddenly strike.

Clara hadn’t seen the other girl before now. She hadn’t been on the first-nighters’ floor which meant that her sentence had started earlier. She was sat with perfect posture: back straight, shoulders square, legs at a right angle to the floor and her palms resting on her thighs. Her glossy reddish-brown hair was tied back in a pony-tail and not a strand was out of place. Clara guessed she was an athlete. Her amber eyes flicked towards Clara as she slid into the row and Clara caught a not unfriendly look of recognition.

At that moment, the door opened again and the three of them looked round to see two more inmates coming down the stairs.

Will Solomon, the reedy man acknowledged, with his unreal smile, And Salvador Toledo.

Of course, Clara thought, why would all the deviants be girls? She knew there was a boys’ detention centre the other side of the exercise yard. If her sense of direction was correct, the corridor they were in now connected the two prisons and formed the east wall of the yard. So there were five deviants altogether. Either the Divinity Division was getting better at catching deviants or it had a deviant epidemic on its hands.

The two boys passed in front of the desk and seated themselves in the small section of seats in the left corner of the theatre. The reedy, sallow-faced man straightened abruptly and clapped his hands together with a loud snap that made Bower flinch in her seat.

Right, he said, Now we’re all here, let’s begin. He had a crisp, matter-of-fact but slightly hyper way of speaking that made Clara think of a scalpel. It was as if each word he uttered was a sharp, precisely-applied instrument, designed for jabbing into his listeners. Clara would have liked to tune out of his speech the moment he started with: My name is Doctor Powers. Welcome to Stage One of your rehabilitation. Rehabilitation begins with your mind and, here, your deviation will be corrected and you will be set on the path to recovery...

But it was impossible. His voice and those crisp words kept slicing into her thoughts and bringing her back to his lecture.

Your rehabilitation programme ends with an Exit Test, Powers continued. The tests are personalised for each of you according to the information provided by the Divinity Division and our evaluation of you during your term here. Failure to pass the Exit Test will result in an extended sentence of three to six months. He paused, as if savouring the next fact. You have three chances to pass the Exit Test. The third failure results in an indefinite sentence. He let his rapid gaze travel over them before he took a short breath. With that in mind, let’s fill in your Preliminary Assessment forms.

They were each given a twenty-page booklet and a pencil.

Answer carefully, Powers said meaningfully, and sat himself down on his chair to watch them begin.

Clara wrote her name on the front of the booklet and opened the first page to find the first question asking her to define the five Divinity Laws. Clara hesitated. Why would they ask deviants to do that? She could recite each law by heart; they had learned them by rote every other year at school since she could remember. Did they just want to check whether deviants even knew the laws they were breaking? Or was it a way to further consolidate their guilt? Clara’s instinct told her the best thing to do was to be as honest as possible. She skimmed quickly over the next few pages to see how the questions progressed.

Question 8: What is divinity or the divine?

Question 11: Describe the nature of the divinity/divine to which you currently subscribe.

Question 15: Outline your beliefs on the following: Life, Death, Good and Evil, Divine Power, Destiny...

Clara caught the nervous movement of the pencil in her hand as she tapped her middle finger against her thumb. She put the pencil down, squeezed her hand into a fist and picked the pencil up again.

She couldn’t answer all those questions. She’d only been a deviant for a short while; she didn’t know everything she believed yet. All she did know was that what she did believe she wouldn’t change her mind on, because it wasn’t in her mind. From her memory, Carver’s words arose, and with them the way he had laid three fingers on his chest: they can’t kill the eternal. It can’t die. Clara lay her own fingers on the desk in front of her in the same way, forefinger tucked under her thumb, and felt the nervous tension slide out of her. She inadvertently glanced across at the girl next to her, to catch her looking at her hand. The amber eyes briefly met hers and then went back to their paper, and Clara would have gone straight back to her own booklet but for a flicker of movement on the desk beside her. She glanced down to see her neighbour’s hand laid out flat, next to her own, forefinger curled under the thumb in a mimic of her own gesture.

Powers must have sensed something, as he suddenly stood up and walked forward. Clara lifted her hand from the desk and, turning back to the first page, began writing out the first Divinity Law. She was aware of Powers leaning forward slightly in front of them, as if to read their answers, but she kept her head down and focused on the questions. Evidently convinced that nothing untoward was going on, Powers moved off to where the boys were working before returning to his seat. Clara churned over the gesture she’d witnessed in the back of her mind and tried not to smile.

When Clara put down her pencil, she found she was only the second to finish. Powers was sat at his computer, tapping quietly away, while her classmates had their heads down over their papers. Only Will was sitting upright in his seat, eyes fixed, hands on his lap and a calculating look on his face. Clara followed the line of his gaze and found his concentration was fixed solely on the reddish-brown head next to her. Clara wondered if they knew each other. She gave Will a quick glance over, trying to figure out if she could read anything in his face. He was clearly older, almost too old to be in a juvenile detention centre, and he had an air of over-confidence and arrogance, which Clara guessed was a useful survival mechanism. He was tall, well-built and conventionally good-looking which might account for the bold, unabashed way in which he was staring. As if suddenly aware that he was under scrutiny, he switched his gaze and caught Clara’s eye. Clara thought she saw a guilty start register on his features before they smoothed into a smile and a wink. Definitely over-confident, Clara thought, and over-compensating for something.

Behind them there was a ‘click’ as the door opened. Clara glanced round to see a guard wheeling in a tea trolley.

Right, Powers said, standing up and checking his watch. Time for a break. He moved towards the stairs and gave them all one of his non-smiles. Twenty minutes.

He left the room and for a moment they all sat where they were, as if glued to their seats. And then Will moved, getting noisily to his feet and stretching. He lightly tapped the other boy on the shoulder.

C’mon, Sal. Let’s get you a strong coffee.

Sal silently stood up and followed his fellow inmate across the front row and up the steps.

What are the options? Will was saying as he reached the trolley. Espresso? Latte? Cappuccino? Double-dipped chocolate biscuits?

Clara made a move to stand up but was stopped by a voice next to her.

You’re the one that ran, aren’t you?

Clara swivelled tentatively towards her neighbour who was looking at her with still, tiger-orange eyes. How did everyone seem to know this?

Yes, she said simply.

Clara, right? the girl said, holding out a hand. I’m Stephanine. She shook Clara’s hand firmly.

Clara wasn’t sure that ‘pleased to meet you’ was an appropriate sentiment in this circumstance, so she settled for Hi and they both rose to get a drink from the tea-trolley.

Will was slurping a cup of coffee when they reached the back of the theatre. He made a face. Ugh. Delightful. It’s a good thing you don’t drink the stuff, Sal. This is poison.

The other boy, who could only have been about thirteen and had a quiet and slightly defensive sulk about his dark stare, said nothing, but watched them sullenly from his corner as he sipped a juice.

Will diverted his attention to Clara as he reached for the sugar. You’re the runner, he said flatly.

Clara watched as he leaned across Stephanine, brushing her casually to one side as he spooned two lumps of sugar into his drink. His gaze, which earlier had been so fixated on her, now skimmed away as if she didn’t exist.

Is it the sign on my forehead? Clara responded dryly.

You were on the news, Will told her. At least, a running deviant was on the news—and I’m guessing it was you. You look the sort. He indicated the yellow ghost of bruising on her cheek, and bit into a biscuit.

Clara shrugged, unsure what she should say to that. This wasn’t exactly the conversation she thought she would be having with other deviants. 

What went wrong? Bower asked her at her elbow. They caught you in the end—what happened?

Nothing, Clara replied quickly, taking a cup and hoping this signalled the end of the conversation. She didn’t want to remember that night. It already kept her awake, re-living it: the dark factory, the hum of the helicopter, leaving Flinn behind for what could be forever, and her lie to Hants. She didn’t know how they had found the factory empty or what happened to Flinn after that, or whether he had found her note. She didn’t want to think about it. It left an ache in the centre of her, thinking of that moment when she’d turned away from her old life, the moment she had lost everything and everyone she had ever cared about. Remembering opened up too many channels, too many questions, too many feelings that she didn’t want to confront yet.

Clara slid away to one side and tried to concentrate all her attention on alternately sipping the scolding hot tea and cooling it with her breath. She pushed Flinn out of her mind and forced into his place her new companions, watching them with a sense of confusion as they milled around the trolley. She didn’t feel any particular amity with them. She knew there were different types of deviation and, apart from Stephanine, there was nothing to suggest that any of the others had anything in common with her except the status accorded them by the Divinity Laws. In the few minutes she had known them, it would be too easy to label them with her first impression: the ego, the scowler, the china doll and the athlete. What did that make her? The runner, apparently. What an odd bunch they were. But that was why they were here—because they didn’t fit. And, remarkably, they were a bunch. Clara had never expected anything more than being the only deviant. Yet here were five of them.  She didn’t yet know what that meant, but it felt significant. She could have been the only one; she should have been the only one, but instead she had company. She would never have guessed that her blackwashing would actually bring her in contact with more deviants. For the first time, she had the opportunity to belong to a group without feeling a fraud, or being disowned. Technically, whatever their differences might be, that made the five of them an assembly.

*

Come on, Flinn Just for an hour. We haven’t seen you in nearly a fortnight... not since... Hampton.

Flinn listened to Ash’s gently-pleading voice on the other end of the line and flinched. He felt bad. He had neglected his friends and left Ash to deal with the aftermath on his own.

I’m sorry, Ash. I’ve been baby-sitting Rosie, he said truthfully.

I know, Ash returned dryly. Poor Rosie. I’m inclined to think she’s been baby-sitting you—you’re not hiding behind your sister, are you? We’ve missed you. Heck, screw everyone else! I’ve missed you!

Ash, I think we should break up...

Piss off, Ash snarled. Now, if you don’t get your ugly face over here right now, I’m going to come and get you. Don’t make me come and get you...

Fine, fine, Flinn sneered dismissively, As long as you promise to stop stalking me.

I swear, Ash said solemnly, I’ll never speak to you again. I will actively shun your company if you just get down here, right now.

Flinn hung up and glanced across at the door, where Rosie was lurking, holding his skateboard in her hands. He took the board and looked at it thoughtfully.

Will you still teach me? Rosie asked with her usual bluntness.

’Course, he replied, running his hand lightly over her fair hair. We’ll do the boardslide when I get back. He put his hand on her head and swivelled her round to face the hall. No going in my room while I’m out, he warned, guiding her down the stairs in front of him. Going out! he called as he opened the front door.

Finally! came drifting from the kitchen as he shut the door behind him.

It had only been just over a week, but Flinn could feel the change in the seasons already. The death of summer had already begun: the sun was a little less intense, the twilight was creeping in earlier every evening, and the green of the trees and hedges had started to yellow. The village was relatively quiet as he headed to the park and Flinn couldn’t help feeling a little disorientated by the open space. He tried to ignore his nervousness as he crossed the recreation ground to where the halfpipe sat on the edge of the tarmac. He hadn’t seen anyone since Hampton, and he didn’t know how they’d taken everything when it had come out.  Only Ash had been in contact; but that was different, as only Ash shared his secret: they’d willingly helped a deviant to escape the Divinity Division. Or at least, they had tried.  They’d pretended that they hadn’t known what Clara really was and the Boarders had accepted Ash’s word as the truth. But even Ash didn’t know that Flinn knew more about Clara’s deviancy than he let on: that he’d been curious enough to ask her about it; and that he was still curious.

Flinn had done his fair share of lying recently. He had lied through his back teeth to the Divinity Agent, who, in the end, had no evidence to charge him with breaking any Divinity Laws. He’d got off with a warning, and that had been the end of the matter. His family had naturally assumed this was evidence that he was innocent of any deliberate involvement and it was easy to let them believe that. But Flinn wasn’t sure he could keep up the deception with the Boarders. They had been there for some of it; they knew Clara—some of them had even been picked up by the police and questioned about her. Flinn had spent most of his time for the past five years with this group. If they mentioned Clara, he wasn’t sure how well he could lie to them.

He tried not to remember that night in the factory: watching her walk out into the hostile beams and into the handcuffs. Flinn had fought every instinct of his to hide in the dark and watch. Slinking out the door, into the shadows, and disappearing in to the night had been purely a pragmatic act. There was no point getting arrested for aiding a deviant; it wouldn’t have helped Clara and it would have hurt his family. More than that though, it would have blacklisted him as a deviant sympathiser and, when Clara got out, he would never be allowed to see her. He would never admit it to anyone else, but it was this hope that he clung to: she promised she would come back, and he was going to hold her to that. Somehow, she would be back. She had promised.

He swore under his breath as he neared the rail that separated the grass from the park. He had to get Clara out of his mind. The trouble was, everything reminded him of her—the halfpipe, especially. It was mocking him as he approached it, provoking unwanted memories. He blinked hard to erase the image of Clara, standing in the centre, staring at the graffiti on the wall. How had he not put two and two together earlier?

C’mon, Flinn, he muttered under his breath, Get a grip.

He had to banish her. For the next three months, Clara had to be cut from his mind. She was going to ruin everything otherwise. One casual remark and she’d sown an idea that had unexpectedly rooted in his brain and wouldn’t die. It was an idea that was far too dangerous to listen to and he had to crush it. And that meant crushing out Clara. That was not going to be easy—but he was going to try.

He reached the rail and stepped over on to the tarmac, with whistles and jeers of greeting from the Boarders.

Look what the cat’s finally dragged in, Ash commented, pushing through the group and folding his arms as Flinn leapt on to the halfpipe.

You got shorter? Flinn responded.

Ah, that’s what I’ve missed, Ash said, slapping him on the shoulder.

Flinn allowed Ash to drag him into the centre of the pipe, whilst the others patted him on the shoulders. Flinn couldn’t help but glance towards the right-hand wall. He didn’t really expect to see the word ‘DIVINE’ still painted there, but he felt surprise to find it entirely clean; even the word ‘DEVE’ had been removed.

We’ve had quite enough of that trouble, Marty said at his side, having caught his glance. I guess the Double D gave you a hard time?

Next to him, Flinn could feel Ash’s glare. He shrugged. I guess, he replied.

It was thumbscrews and the rack, right? Ash joked, with just a hint of threat in Marty’s direction. Anyway, since when did we become gossips? If you’re not here to skate, get off the halfpipe. He issued the last order to the group in general and there was a buzz of agreement and then the accompanying roll of wheels on concrete.

Flinn tried to ignore Marty as his narrow-eyed stare followed him off the pipe and on to the tarmac. He dropped his board automatically on to the playground and casually stepped on to the deck, allowing a single push to take him across the park. He tried to focus on the feel of the board under his feet and on leaning slightly to one side in order to curve round before reaching the wall. He concentrated on building his speed once he’d completed the turn and throwing in a pop-shove-it, keeping his knees soft as he landed. He thought about how he was going to teach Rosie the boardslide, about the start of his apprenticeship in two days’ time, and whether he would still have enough time to skate.

He didn’t think about her grey eyes looking wryly up at him from the tarmac, or the way she brushed off her jeans as she got to her feet, or that sideways turn of her head when she was watching him explain a trick she thought was impossible to copy. He didn’t think about the dash across the busy skate-park; or standing in the dark doorway of the factory; or the whispered goodbye. Or those words and that idea—so casually thrown out into the space between them, unaware of where they would land and the root they would take: You have to be looking for something to find it.

But what was he looking for? How did he look for it? And was he really prepared for what he might find in the end?

*

New dishwasher, was how the guard introduced her. The rest of the kitchen crew turned to give her a brief appraisal with hard gazes and she saw a few satisfied smiles, which left her feeling rather vulnerable. One of the older girls came forward and took her by the elbow.

Don’t worry, Briggsy, the girl said, flashing the guard a sweet-toothed smile, We’ll take care of the new girl. Her eyes flickered down to Clara with a glint of anticipation.

That’s what I’m worried about, Marcie, Briggs returned dryly. She pointed upwards to the corner of the room where a camera blinked steadily. Be a good girl now.

I’m always a good girl, Briggsy, Marcie continued lightly. Clara could feel Marcie’s fingers digging into the flesh around her elbow, causing pins and needles to start in her fingertips.

Briggs frowned and glanced at Clara almost apologetically. Shift finishes at half one, she said and then left.

Without loosening her grip, Marcie steered Clara over to the washing-up area. Here you are, dish-girl, she said in that same sweet tone, I assume I don’t have to explain to you how this works.

Clara looked up at her and grit her teeth against the pincer round her elbow. Marcie was a pretty girl, about seventeen, with a pouting mouth, high, dimpled cheeks and long, dark lashes. She reminded Clara of a fairy queen, but she had a grip like a vice and she wasn’t letting go.

Gloves, washing sink, rinsing sink, draining board, Marcie directed. She pushed Clara round so her thighs were pressed against the edge of the sink. Marcie leant forward so her mouth hovered over Clara’s ear. I think we’re going to have fun playing with you, she said in a barely audible whisper.

Finally, the vice released and Clara swallowed a hiss of discomfort.

The water gets very hot, Marcie added loudly, as a parting remark, Careful you don’t scald yourself...

Clara watched her move back towards the cooker and then picked up the yellow rubber gloves and slipped them on. Marcie was right, the water was boiling hot and steam rose off the surface and over her head. The sinks were industrial size and deep, so that she had to lean forward, almost at a right angle, to scoop up the cutlery from the bottom. After the ache started in the middle of her spine, she worked out that standing with her legs apart was the only way to lower her body and ease the pressure on her muscles. She remained at her post for the whole two hours, focused entirely on her task: scrubbing, rinsing, draining and stacking; draining the dirty water, scooping the debris out of the plug filter and starting again with a clean sink-full of steaming, boiling water. The pile of dirty pans and dishes was kept topped up by half-noticed figures. Despite Marcie’s tease, no one bothered her.

Eventually, the last item was dried and put away and she’d wiped down the sinks and draining board with disinfectant until she could see the distorted image of her own red and damp face in the stainless steel surface. Most of the kitchen crew had gone by the time she pulled off her gloves and flexed her swollen fingers.

One of the remaining girls gave her a nod of recognition and collected up the used cloths and towels. Not bad, dish-girl, she said as she dropped them into the bins by the door. That’s yours. She pointed to a tray left on top of the nearest trolley.

Clara realised this must be her lunch and that, once again, she wasn’t hungry—just incredibly thirsty; and hot. She could feel the t-shirt under her jacket sticking to her front and back and beads of sweat rolling down her neck.

She grabbed her tray and headed out of the swing doors. The cool of the corridor was intensely satisfying and it was a relief to get to her cell, kick off her trainers and stretch out on her back, on the bed. She sniffed her shoulder and winced with disgust. Her clothes stank of stale grease and fat; her hair stuck to her forehead; and she had an urge to stand under a cold shower and scrub every inch of her skin, which had been like a sponge to the fatty humidity of the kitchen.

Once she reached her normal temperature, Clara rolled slowly off the bed, washed her face and drank three glasses of water, one after the other. As she finished the last one, she glanced round to see Briggs standing outside her open cell door.

You survived, the guard said.

Clara hadn’t worked out yet how to talk to the guards, so she just nodded.

Exercise in twenty minutes, Briggs said. Registration in the yard—don’t be late. She hesitated. This is Marcie’s floor, she added. She thinks she’s the queen bee. Try and stay clear of her.

Clara nodded and resisted a sigh of resignation as the guard walked away. There was always one. You could avoid Marcie’s sort all you wanted, but if they decided you were going to be their next source of entertainment, there wasn’t much you could do. Marcie had already made that much clear herself, and if she ever found out that Clara was a deviant, she might make survival in this place very difficult. Clara was just glad that, for now, no one else seemed to have realised what she was.

Once she’d changed into her kit, Clara headed down to the courtyard. About fifty girls were lining up along one wall and Clara slipped quietly on to the end. She glanced curiously around her as Coach Karaki bellowed her way up the line, calling surnames and numbers from her CLIPboard—her tiny frame quivering from the strength of her voice as it reverberated out of her. Standing in the courtyard was like being trapped in the bottom of a concrete pit. The ground was concrete, with a variety of different courts painted in faded yellow, pink-red and white lines. The four walls, one of which was the back of the girls’ detention centre and another the back of the boys’ detention centre, were brick, but painted grey up to about eight feet. Above the grey, the paint was glossy black, and a sign stated that anti-climbing paint was in use. Anyone who managed to get eight feet up the wall would discover what it was like for a spider trying to climb up the sides of a bath. Despite the size of the courtyard, it still induced a sense of claustrophobia. Even the cloudless blue sky felt like a seal above them.

Right, ladies! Karaki’s voice bounced off the walls at them, Let’s start with a slow jog—three laps round the yard. Off you go...

A moan rippled through the line, but it began moving, like a sly snake, slithering along one wall and then veering smoothly at the corner, down the next side of the courtyard. From the back of the line, Clara could see the first half as it made each right-angled turn and she quickly picked out Stephanine’s upright figure, leading the head of the serpentine pack, with a smooth, steady stride.

Pick it up, ladies! Karaki bellowed as they ended the third lap, Three more laps— get a sprint on!

Clara watched as the line in front of her began to string out as each inmate picked up the pace.

Come on! the coach jeered at them, Faster, girls! Don’t let the girl in front of you hold you up...

Slow and steady, Clara told herself, keeping her eyes on the line in front of her. Slow and steady and you might just finish this. She watched as the line began breaking up and individuals, here and there, broke formation and overtook those in front of them. She recognised Marcie, racing up from the middle and heading straight to the front where Stephanine still held the lead; apart from the slight increase in her stride and the rhythmic swish of her arms, she looked as if she was barely exerting herself. Marcie managed to get up on Stephanine’s heels and then hung there, like her shadow. Clara couldn’t tell whether this was deliberate or if she just didn’t quite have the momentum to get past her.

Clara was struggling enough to keep up her own pace as they neared the end of the second lap. She’d overtaken a few girls but she was still very much towards the back, and the burn was starting in her lungs. Just breathe. All she had to do was remember to breathe.

As she came to the third lap, Clara could see Stephanine and Marcie already halfway round, a good ten metres out in front of everyone else. And they weren’t slowing. They were getting faster, Marcie still at Stephanine’s elbow as they reached their last length. Clara saw Stephanine wobble for a moment and glance over her shoulder. A second later, there was a second wobble and, this time, Clara saw Marcie’s foot deliberately scrape down on the back of Stephanine’s heel. Stephanine’s response was to give an extra kick of speed and put a few feet between them. Marcie responded by immediately pursuing her, getting alongside her this time and angling an elbow at her as they finished the lap, neck and neck. For a moment, Clara could see them both bent over, catching their breath; and then the rest of the line blocked her view as each girl dragged herself over