The Lost Boy - Chapter 3 – part two - Caught, Court and Caged

I don’t remember the journey to the cells.
I don’t remember the interview.
But I do remember being told I was being held overnight — that I’d be seen in court the next day.

Even then, I didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation. I still thought maybe I’d walk out, maybe get a slap on the wrist. But the next thing I remember... was court.

I was stood there, in front of the judge, thinking: How the fuck did this happen?
I must’ve had a solicitor. I must’ve had a social worker there too — I was only fifteen. But I don’t remember them. None of them stand out.

What I do remember — word for word — is what the judge said:

“You are a danger to yourself and a danger to society right now.
You have no fixed abode —”

(Abode? What the fuck does that even mean?)

“—and therefore I have no choice but to remand you in custody.
You’ll be held at Glen Parva Young Offenders Institute until your next hearing.”

That was it.
I knew now.
I was being locked up — for at least four weeks until my next court date.

They led me back down to the holding cells beneath the court. I was given food and water and left to wait for transport. I’m not sure how long I waited — maybe hours, maybe forever. But I remember when they came for me.

I hadn’t quite lost my sense of humour.

The two security officers cuffed me and began escorting me out to the van. Just as we stepped outside the courthouse, I faked a sudden lunge — like I was going to make a run for it. They jumped out of their skin. One of them swore. The other one nearly laughed.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Even now, it still tickles me.

But the laughing stopped the moment I was locked in that sweatbox — a little cubicle in the back of the prison van, barely big enough to move. No door handle. No way out. Just one little window, just big enough to see the world slipping away behind me.
And that’s when the fear crept in.
That’s when the anxiety really set in.

It was a long, long drive to Glen Parva.

Most of my memories from Glen Parva come in snippets — just flashes —
but there are a few moments I remember with absolute clarity.

I can recall the cells.
The shared metal toilet in the corner.
The barred windows that looked out onto another wing to the left.
Shouts and banter between lads, one cell to the next, echoing across the yard.
I remember the smell of freshly cut grass drifting through the welded metal bars that reminded me, even in that moment of calm,
I wasn’t free.
It was warm — must’ve been July.

Once again, I decided to keep my head down.
And for a couple of weeks, I did.

At that age, education was mandatory. The classrooms were housed on the wing itself — second floor I think, I can’t quite remember. I was placed in maths. My cellmate was in there too.
He’d been running his mouth, telling people I was a fraggle — someone who sings or performs for others aka a victim of bullying! - and that he had me “singing out the window.”
He hadn’t.
I’m not saying I wasn’t scared in there — of course I was. But I’d have taken a kicking before singing for someone.

We sat in class. He antagonised. I ignored.
My face burned. Anger welled up inside.
The lesson ended. We had English next — same classroom.

This time, his co-D was there.
That’s what we called co-accused — someone he got locked up with.

Now it was two of them. The big fat one laughing. Egging him on.
Then my cellmate swore on his gran’s life that I’d sung for him.

That was it.
I couldn’t let that slide.

“Fuck you — your nan’s dead, you cunt.”

He lost it. Picked up his chair and launched it at me.
Before anything else could happen, I grabbed the chair by its legs and cracked it over him. Once. Twice.
Then the chair was gone.
And we were fighting.

Him in front of me.
His fat mate behind, punching me in the back of the head.
They were trying to drop me, but I wasn’t going down.
And I gave better than I got.

The teacher must’ve hit the emergency bar — it wrapped around the classroom about a metre off the floor.
A warning to the whole wing.
Seconds later, the screws came rushing in.

I knew what was coming.

I remember being dragged out the room and thrown down a set of stairs.
Then twisted up like a fucking pretzel — arms cranked so far up my back I thought they’d snap.
The pain was unreal.

I knew what the punishment was.
Two weeks on basic.

I only had three weeks left before court. If I wasn’t released, I’d be moved.
But still — I felt such injustice.
Ironic, maybe, considering where I was.

I hadn’t done anything wrong in my eyes.
I’d just stuck up for and defended myself.

Basic didn’t bother me too much though.
It just meant I had to sit and eat in my cell for two weeks.
I didn’t have any luxuries to take away.

I do remember coming off basic.

By that point, things had settled. I got pulled in to help paint some of the cells — they said Unit 15 was going to be shut down as a juvenile wing. No one that young would be housed there anymore.
Something to do with the suicide rate, I think — though I’m not sure.

For the last week before court, I had a TV in my cell.
That felt like luxury.

And I remember this one Kosovan lad — in for attempted murder.
I liked him. He looked out for me. Taught me some basic Kosovan through the pipes.
We’d talk through the heating system — one of those old setups where the pipes ran between the walls. He’d pass me the occasional smoke, slid through the small gap around the heated pipe, wrapped in paper or part of a leaflet.

Strange how a prison wall can separate you from the world —
but not from kindness.

After a few weeks, I went back to court.
This time, I wasn’t walking free.

I was sentenced to a six-month Detention and Training Order.
I didn’t know why they called it that.
All I knew was that it meant three more months inside.
No more, no less.

And weirdly — that brought relief.
After sitting on remand, wondering what would happen… not knowing how long you’ll be locked up —
that’s torture.
Worse than being locked up, even.

But still — three months felt like a lifetime away.

I was moved again.
Same name. Same number.
Duffey. DM7560 9.

Different prison: Huntercombe.

And it felt different.

I had my own cell.
It was better structured.
There were reward systems — clean cells meant jobs, and jobs meant extra spends.
Canteen day was king. We could buy little luxuries. I wasn’t old enough to smoke, so I’d order what someone else wanted and trade it for tobacco.

I remember getting muesli and UHT milk.
That was my little treat to myself.
We all had our thing.

But my favourite part of the day?
When they brought round the hot water — for tea or coffee.
We had a stash of tea bags and coffee sachets in our cells, and I’d have a roll-up ready.
That cup of tea… and that first drag of a fag…

That was the fucking highlight of my life at that point.

I had a couple of scraps while I was in there — nothing major.

A fight would kick off, the screws would come rushing in, I’d be dragged off to the block or banged up in my cell. Punishment. Then back to “normal.”
That was just the rhythm of things.

We had association and mealtimes same as in Parva. But here, every now and then, we’d get to watcha movie on a projector and screen.

There’s one I remember — I can’t tell you why it stuck with me, but it did.
A movie about clever sharks.
Deep Blue Sea — that was it!
Some sat watching genetically modified sharks outsmarting humans, whilst other played pool or just dossed about.
It was ridiculous. And brilliant.

And for a moment, we weren’t inmates.
We were just lads watching a movie.

There were still moments of violence, though.
I remember one lad filling a cup with hot water and sugar — ready to go get a bully back who’d just beaten him in the showers.
I don’t remember exactly how, but I had something to do with stopping him.

It wasn’t about saving the bully.
It was about saving association.

Everyone knew — if that happened, we were all getting locked down.
And association was already becoming less than daily.
The prison had staffing issues, and when there weren’t enough screws on shift, we’d be banged up.
Sometimes the only time out of your cell was for a quick shower and to collect a tray of food — one or two at a time, back to your cell to eat alone.

At times it was 23-hour lockup.
Just long enough to shit, shower, and survive.

And I remember being suicidal in there.

I was alone.
I knew no one.
And I felt it.

I acted out a couple of times.
Smashed my cell up — kicked the sink off the wall, the toilet from the floor.
The whole cell was in tatters. The toilet and sink were ceramic — heavy, sharp when broken.

I tried to cut myself with the bits.
Then I’d try to hide what I’d done.

They’d move me into segregation for a while after each incident.
Which helped me hide it even easier.

At one point, I remember targeting another lad.

He was a proper scared boy — you could see it on him.
And I don’t even know why I did it.
Power. Control.
Just because I felt like being a prick.

I started calling him out through the window —
the start of trying to bully someone.

But it didn’t last.

One of the older lads — he had a bit of freedom around the place, the kind of respect you earn for good behaviour —
he just shouted over to me:

“Duffey, shut the fuck up! That isn’t you!”

I didn’t know what he meant.
But I do now.

I wasn’t a bully.
Not because I was nice.
But because I wasn’t hard, and I had nothing to back it up.
It didn’t suit me.
It wasn’t me.

I can’t finish this part without mentioning the visits.

Not for pity — but for the truth of what it was like.
In all the time I was inside, I had maybe two visits. Three at most.
While others had family coming in weekly or fortnightly, I sat with nothing.

No one.
And that alienation…
It was unbearable.

Watching other lads walk off to the visits room with a spring in their step — knowing someone cared, knowing they mattered to someone — while I sat behind, pretending I didn’t care,
that did something to me.

That isolation. That feeling of being forgotten.
That’s what fuelled the frustration.
That’s what led to the smashing, the hurting, the hiding.

Not because I wanted attention.
Because I felt like I didn’t matter to anyone.

I was just a boy.
And in honesty — I was scared.
Alone.
And sometimes… I just wanted out.

And eventually — that day came.

The day I got out.

I can still remember the happiness. The relief. The way my chest felt lighter just thinking about it.
I’d been counting the days down religiously.

I had this little diary — not really a diary, more like a cheap date planner. Each page had a tiny space beneath the date, just enough to scribble something. I went through the whole thing and wrote how many days I had left under each one.
That countdown meant everything.

I got out in November, just before my 16th!

And finally —
the final day came.
And not a moment too soon.

and that leads onto part 3 - freedom