Something Quite Beautiful: Seven short stories

By Amanda Prowse

An unforgettable short story, from the million-copy bestseller Amanda Prowse.
Amanda Prowse is the author of The Coordinates Of Loss and the no.1 bestsellers Perfect Daughter, My Husband's Wife and What Have I Done?

Can you ever escape your fate?

Somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, three boys await their fate. They have been sentenced to twenty years in Glenculloch, a remote prison for the most hopeless of criminals. The rumours say that it is run by a woman who thinks she's God. A woman who decides what is ugly, and what is beautiful. A woman who decides who lives, and who dies...

Reviews for Amanda Prowse:

'Prowse handles her explosive subject with delicate skill... Deeply moving and inspiring' DAILY MAIL.

'Powerful and emotional family drama that packs a real punch' HEAT.

'A gut wrenching and absolutely brilliant read' IRISH SUN.

'Captivating, heartbreaking, superbly written' CLOSER.

'Very uplifting and positive, but you may still need a box (or two) of tissues' HELLO.

'An emotional, unputdownable read' RED.

'Prowse writes gritty, contemporary stories but always with an uplifting message of hope' SUNDAY INDEPENDENT.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Oct 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781781856956

Amanda Prowse

Amanda Prowse likens her own life story to those she writes about in her books. After self-publishing her debut novel Poppy Day in 2011, she has gone on to author twenty-five novels, including the number 1 bestsellers, Perfect Daughter and What Have I Done, six novellas and a memoir. Her books have been translated into a dozen languages and she regularly tops book charts all over the world. Remaining true to her ethos, Amanda writes stories of ordinary women and their families who find their strength, courage and love tested in ways they never imagined. The most prolific female contemporary fiction writer in the UK, with a legion of loyal readers, she goes from strength to strength. Being crowned 'queen of domestic drama' by the Daily Mail was one of her finest moments. Amanda is a regular contributor on TV and radio but her first love is, and will always be, writing. You can find her online at www.amandaprowse.com, on Twitter or Instagram @MrsAmandaProwse, and on Facebook at: www.facebook.com/amandaprowsenogreaterlove

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1

The small, square blacked-out windows on either side of the wagon were set too high to offer a view. A minor irritation for many, but for the three prisoners ensconced inside, it was the start of their punishment. They sat in individual cages in the back of the truck, separated by half a metre.

The diminutive Warren Binns was quiet, thoughtful, as he tried to calculate if they would pass his native Sheffield on their way North. He took a deep breath, trying to breathe in a clue as to his whereabouts, hoping for a whiff of something familiar, something that meant home. There was nothing but the stench of sweat that emanated from all occupants of the van. It was cold outside, but with the heating on full blast, they were uncomfortably hot inside this airless metal box. The enclosed space reeked of misery and desperation.

Warren closed his eyes and pictured the terraced house in Weavers Row. He wondered if he would ever get the chance to unlock the front door again, now that the key nestled somewhere among his bagged and tagged belongings, attached to the key ring his mum had bought him; a picture of a large trophy inscribed with the words Number One Son. A little sliver of cut and shaped brass that meant so much more than the sum of its parts. Warren clung to the knowledge that, somewhere, he belonged and was loved. Weavers Row was the one place on the earth that he could reach into the fridge or run a bath without consideration or needing permission. He not only missed the occupants of Weavers Row, but also the little life that he had led inside his childhood home. He longed to walk through the green front door after a day at college or a shift at the quarry and make a brew in the tiny kitchen, before collapsing in the lounge and warming his feet in front of the three-bar electric fire. Stretching out in the sturdy framed chair, on the sagging cushions that used to belong to his grandad and had the perfect dimensions for an afternoon snooze. He pictured the swirly patterned carpet that had worn to nothing where it was most trodden, and the crowded cupboard under the stairs, which smelled of olden days and memories. He had hidden in it as a child, playing among the meters and the old Quality Street tins full of delicate, glass Christmas decorations and tinsel in gaudy shades. In later years he hung his leather biker jacket here—on a hook next to the hoover—and stowed his toolbox on the floor, his mum’s shopping trolley stacked on top of it. What would happen to his stuff, now that they knew he wasn’t coming home, would they throw it away? He shook his head; it didn’t really matter, not in the grand scheme of things.

Warren pulled at the bar that was joined by chain to the loops around his ankle and succeeded in pulling his manacled hands to within four inches of his face. He laughed; the itch on his nose would have to stay put. His feet, similarly anchored inside their rubber sandals were hot and itchy against the vinyl matting.

‘What’s so funny, Bud?’

Warren stared straight ahead, ignoring the posh, chinless twat sat to his right. He wasn’t anyone’s bud. The guy didn’t take the hint.

‘Oh, I see the strong silent type. It’s all good. I’m Henry, in case anyone is interested.’

‘No one is interested, so shut the fuck up!’ A burly skinhead growled in a cockney accent from behind Henry’s head.

‘That’s good advice from your friend.’ The portly, sweating security guard perched on the narrow bench between the cages looked Henry in the eye.

‘He ain’t my fucking friend!’ It was torturous enough to be so physically confined, knees pressed against the metal screen in front of him, shoulders horribly compressed inside the box, without being lumped together with a long-haired dickhead who sounded like he had swallowed a silver spoon.

The guard pointed at the skinhead, noting his tattooed neck and misshapen nose. ‘Name?’

‘Keegan Lomax.’ The guard nodded as if cataloguing him. One to watch.

Henry was not going to shut up any time soon. ‘Keegan, as in Kevin? I’ve never been a football fan, more of a cricket man, but wasn’t he a footballer? God I hope he is or I’m making a complete tit of myself. It could have been worse, you might have been called Beckham or Redknapp, they’re footballers aren’t they? And I’m sorry to say boys that this is where my footy knowledge ends. Although if I did have to support a team, it would probably be Barcelona, it’s one of my favourite cities in the whole world. I think there is nothing better than a stroll down las Ramblas, a cold beer and a plate of tapas in the sun, bliss!’

‘What bit of shut the fuck up did you not get?’ Keegan spoke through gritted teeth as he stamped his shackled feet.

‘Alright. Let’s calm it down a bit, gentlemen.’ The guard raised and lowered his palms as though placating an animal.

Warren smiled wryly to himself. He wasn’t sure where he was heading, but it would be an interesting journey if nothing else. He was glad of Henry’s diversion. Amy’s tear stained face sat behind his eyelids with every blink, the way her mouth had crumpled as she tried to speak, her large eyes brimming. She looked like she was drowning with the effort of trying to contain all that she wanted to say, aware that the clock was ticking, unaware of how long they had to say goodbye, minutes? Seconds? When... when will I see you again, War? Where are you going now and how soon until you come home, and... and how will I know when you are coming back, how will you let me know? She had smiled, trying to be brave as her chest heaved in an effort to stem the sobs. Her small hands fidgeted with a rose-printed hanky that she twisted and untwisted around her fingers. It was this memory that would jar Warren from sleep in the middle of the night and greet him upon waking each morning. He had not been able to answer her, could not find one single word of solace or comfort. He had tried, but the barriers he had constructed around his heart and mouth in the preceding months were so strong that it was impossible to break them down. Even at that moment, when a peg on which to hang hope would have made the impending years so much easier, he found it impossible to utter a single word of optimism or love. Instead he had nodded. It was probably for the best, better for her that she didn’t wake each day with a lift in her heart that today might be the day that he came home. Better for everybody.

‘How much further is it? I’m getting terribly bored.’ It was as if Henry was immune to the reaction he provoked.

‘A good few hours yet.’ The guard kept his answer short and vague.

‘Well in that case, can I interest anyone in a game of I Spy?’ Henry wasn’t giving up.

‘Fucking perfect.’ Keegan banged his shaved head on the cage in front of him.

‘All okay back there?’ The driver slid back a small Plexiglas panel to speak to his colleague.

‘Fine mate, we’re just debating football and wondering how far it is to Glenculloch.’ There was the faintest smirk about his face.

Warren stiffened and turned his head to look at Keegan, whose eyes were wide. It was the first mention of where they were heading. Warren had heard bad things about this place and judging from Keegan’s expression he guessed it was the same for him. He tried to recall what he’d heard while he was on remand. Even Carl, a serial offender who had seen it all, had turned serious when he explained the rumours surrounding Glenculloch. ‘It’s an old MoD site, submarines or something nuclear. It’s at the bottom of a mountain on Rannoch Moor. They say it’s run by a woman who thinks she’s God. Everything that happens there is in her hands—reform you, kill you, whichever. It’s off the radar for obvious reasons—officially, it doesn’t even exist. I know a screw that went up there and I’m telling you it’s in the middle of shitting nowhere. And I mean shitting nowhere!’

300 miles away, at the bottom of a mountain on Rannoch Moor, Matthew Shackleton stood behind his desk and pulled his navy v-necked sweater over his starched, white, button-down shirt. He was a bit chilly, and hated to start his working day without making himself as comfortable as possible. He wore the same thing every day: one of six identical jerseys—three in blue and three in green—along with a pair of expensive chinos that hugged his long legs, and leather deck shoes that would have been more appropriate strolling along a dock. He patted the parting of his hair to ensure it was straight, and surreptitiously used his fingertips to check on the thinning spot that had appeared on his crown. He knew it was to be expected—at the wrong side of fifty he had anticipated a little wear and tear—but it was still a grim daily reminder that he was on the descent. He buffed his round tortoiseshell spectacles with the soft cloth from inside his glasses case. Pushing them on, he began to sort through the mail.

This was Matthew’s third career. When, after serving as an army Captain and later as a warden at Belmarsh prison, a friend had suggested semi-retirement in an administrative role in the wilds of Scotland, it had sounded like an adventure. But had he known what life at Glenculloch was going to be like, he might have thought twice. He remembered the day he arrived four years earlier, and how, as the car approached, he leant forward in his seat, narrowing his eyes to better study the vast metal and concrete box that loomed before him. It resembled a giant slanting triangle; modernist, smooth-surfaced and most incongruent to the Scottish wilderness. It could almost have been dropped there by an alien hand.

‘I can’t see any windows.’

His driver, one of the guards with whom he had made awkward small talk since being collected from Edinburgh Airport, shook his head. ‘No, you won’t, there aren’t any. Sunlight is a privilege that needs to be earned.’ He chewed his gum, open-mouthed, and sniggered.