Bob Westwood woke from his restless sleep with a start, and the image of his boot crumpling the face of someone he vaguely knew. Dreams were frustrating - wild images one minute, intangible memories the next, irritatingly out of reach. But he knew what he had seen a few moments before, a face he recognised. The last time he had seen it was ten years earlier. He was flat on his back, as Mark Johnson laid into him - punches, kicks and finally a knife at his throat. It hadn't been this serious before, and Johnson was more into threats than murder, but it was bad enough.

It had been going on for months; Bob's hair, his glasses, even his nose - all a rich vein of material for the bully's ready wit. Bob had hit back occasionally - but not hard enough to do any real damage, and the beating he got in return more than made up for his token resistance.

It was time to take some proper action. Outside the school gates, he had tripped the unsuspecting Johnson, and laid into him as he hit the floor, swinging a boot into his face repeatedly as the adrenalin started to flow. Two years of violence from the now prone bully had produced a reservoir of fury that was slow to drain. The dazed Johnson struggled to his feet, before Bob finished him with a kick to the ribs. When it hit home, the satisfying crunch told him that his one-time tormentor would be visiting the fracture clinic at the very least.

Bob was exhausted - his anger dispelled, his opponent unconscious on the pavement. A crowd of incredulous fourth and fifth years gathered round for a view of their playground nemesis - now a bruised, bleeding figure struggling for breath. Two teachers appeared, attracted by the commotion, and took Bob into the staffroom. These were the same people who had made him shake Johnson's hand after the bully - grinning as he gripped Bob's fingers - had pushed him down the stairs of the science block.

"Why did you do that?" "He attacked me again today sir. Banged my head against the wall" Bob replied. "I'd had enough, so I hit him back." "You do know we'll have to call the Police. And your parents." "Yes, sir". Bob thought about, but didn't mention, the times he had been on the receiving end, when nothing had been done.

The ambulance turned up shortly afterwards and took the bruised Johnson to the local casualty for a check-up. He had come round before the medics arrived, but was groggy from the unaccustomed beating. Meanwhile, the police, and Bob's parents, arrived at the school within minutes. His dad was sympathetic: "It's no more than he's done to you in the past. You put with him for too long. I'm glad you took my advice at last."

The 'advice' was to stand up for himself, hit back, 'give him something to remember you by.' All that stuff. Easier said than done. But finally, he had done it, and had ended up in a police station for his trouble. The bored-looking desk Sargeant showed Bob into the interview room along with his parents, and Sargeant Clifford, the interviewing officer.

Clifford introduced himself, then came to the point. "The boy you attacked is in intensive care. In a coma. He has a blood clot on his brain. You'd better tell me what happened today." "Well", said Bob, pausing for breath, "he pinned me against the wall this morning, and gave me this", and lifted his shirt to reveal a purple bruise on his ribs. "There's another one, lower down" Bob added. "You don't have to show me," said Clifford,. "the medical officer can check it out later".

"I wanted to kill him", said Bob. "Still do.'" The door opened. The desk Sargeant leaned in and whispered something to Clifford."Well Bob, good news. Mark Johnson has stabilised. You didn't really want to be charged with murder, did you? I'll get the solicitor. You're going to need him."

Marcus Jones, the duty solicitor, had one of those lived-in faces, his baggy eyes witness to too many teenage miscreants. One more would barely make a difference. "OK Bob," he said, "what have you done to end up in here?" Bob told his story again. He'd had enough. The school had done nothing to stop the violence. He'd been threatened, kicked, punched, pushed down stairs. Money had been stolen. Johnson had followed him home on one occasion. The solicitor listened with increasing concern, incredulous that things had got this far.

"It'll be GBH at least, possibly attempted murder. It's your first offence but they might still go for custody. And please, no more careless admissions of guilt. Saying 'I wanted to kill him', doesn't help your case. You'll be remanded in custody until the committal. I'll let you know where you're going as soon as they tell me." Then the medic checked him out and confirmed his injuries, and Bob settled down for the night in a spartan holding cell; the bunk beds and window bars a stark reminder of his new status.

Bob was sent to Chelmsford YOI, fittingly for an Arsenal fan - Tony Adams and Ian Wright, thanks to sundry traffic offences, had ended up in the adult jail next door. Chelmsford held 700 boys about his age,most of them on a foundation course in petty crime. His stay was short. Four days later, he was standing before a magistrate in Snaresbrook Youth Court. His parents sat two rows back, while his barrister, Stephen Collins, argued for his release. No such luck.

Bob was committed for trial at Chelmsford Crown Court a bland '80s building, with the lion and unicorn a reminder of its function.. His trial was pretty small scale, but was bad enough to scare someone with no previous. He looked across at the jurors and tried to second-guess them. Was the red-faced gent in the blazer a hang-em and flog-em? And was the short-haired young woman in the business suit a social-worker type ready to understand his actions? Bob glanced at the judge, one Philip Samuels, whose wig and ruddy complexion gave him the appearance of some Dickensian protagonist; not a good sign..

The public gallery gradually filled with his friends and relatives, and those of Mark Johnson. Johnson himself, his bruises now barely visible, sat next to his parents and waited for his turn in the witness box. Mark Johnson's father, Keith, unknown to all but a few in the courtroom, was secretary of the same masonic lodge that numbered Judge Samuels and Kevin Mitchell, Bob's headmaster, as members. In other words, the verdict was in before the trial had begun. Bob sat in the dock, a scary, lonely place. He felt helpless, despite his barrister and relatives across the room. The charge was GBH with threats to kill. They had taken note of his careless remark to DC Clifford. Just what he needed.

"Call the first witness, Kevin Mitchell". It was Bob's headmaster, though Bob was unaccustomed to hearing his full name. Mitchell was questioned on the sequence of events that led to Johnson's injuries. Yes, he did know that bullying was going on, and yes, he had applied the school's anti-bullying policy. To the letter. The boys had been brought together, had shaken hands and agreed to leave it at that. As far as he was concerned that was it. Had Bob been injured? Not as far as he knew. Bob had told him nothing, shown him no evidence of cuts and bruises. "It would be in here if he had." Mitchell held up the school's incident log, with a blank page for July 15th - the day Bob was assaulted.

Bob looked at his barrister. He had reported it. He had seen Mitchell write the details down, and sign the page. And hadn't the police medic confirmed the extent of his bruising? Wasn't that recorded anywhere?

It was his word against Mitchell's. "I spoke to Mr Mitchell that day. I saw him write down what I said, word for word. I don't know why it's not there now." "Maybe because it wasn't there to begin with," said the prosecutor. "Why should we believe your story against that of your headmaster." "The notes must have been changed," said Bob, with increasing desperation. The ten minutes in the witness box were a nightmare of half-remembered incidents and words twisted hopelessly out of shape by the skilled barrister.

Bob's father was next, and gave an angry account of the Johnson's serial assaults against his son over the previous two years. "I know what happened, what Bob went through, and why he hit back. He was provoked time and again, and hadn't reacted til now. Everyone's got their breaking point;" his voice shaking as he recalled the series of events. But it was no good. The guilty verdict was was a first offence, but the seriousness of the charge meant a spell behind bars; three years, with twelve months suspended, back in Chelmsford.

His earlier time there had done Bob a favour. The place held no horrors and he settled in quickly. His cell mate was a 17 year old trainee villain called Jimmy Gordon, from Wolverhampton. Jimmy's story was familiar; unstable home life, out with the wrong crowd, drugs, theft, arrest, prison. He was already immersed in the life; three years on from the burglary that had first troubled the police.

"It was a magazine in Menzies", grinned Jimmy. "Top shelf. Trouble is, it got me noticed. I got chased out of the shop. They caught me up and called the police." A trip to the juvenile court followed, as did expulsion from school and a short stay at Werrington YOI after another theft, this time from Marks and Spencers in Wolverhampton. "Of course, you can get caught, but it's worth it; the thrill, the buzz I get from it."

"But you're not very good, are you?" said Bob. "You're back inside again. Shouldn't a good thief avoid the police? "Yeah, but they never locked me up for long. Two days, max. Quick bollocking from the duty sargeant and out again. I'm in a bit longer this time. The judge was getting fed up seeing me. and gave me two years. Said it would be five next time. So I've got to behave myself". "Or not get caught", said Bob. "I'm not getting caught again". "So you're doing this again?" "Not sure. But you never know. You talk about buzz? Mine was beating up a guy who'd given me grief for years. It was worth the sentence just to put him in an ambulance. He got everything he deserved. I'd do the same again if I had to." Bob replayed the words in his head; 'talk about buzz.........worth the sentence', He sounded like an old lag already, well into his apprenticeship after just one offence. "I got a Detention and Training Order" said Bob. "Six months, so I'll be out in four, then I've got to behave myself." "I got the same order," said Jimmy, "but they gave me eight months because it wasn't a first offence."

From first impressions, Jimmy was a good lad with a quick wit and lots to say about life on the inside. "I know some of the characters in here. Okay most of them. I'll point out the ones that aren't. Best not to talk to them, or make eye contact come to that. Stick with me. I'll look after you;" Though he barely knew Jimmy, Bob was reassured that so early in his sentence, there was someone who would watch his back.

Bob woke suddenly the next morning as the clang of cell doors roused him at 6am. He washed and shaved, and put on his new prison issue overalls. In the corridor he met Jimmy and they wandered down to the for bacon and eggs; the bacon crispy and the eggs burnt round the edges, but it was better than nothing. Jimmy sat opposite, next to a lean figure with black hair, and the edginess characteristic of a committed pothead.

"Meet Kevin Griffiths', said Jimmy. "We went to school together."

"Bet the careers teacher didn't have this in mind when he met you two," grinned Bob.

"No, not exactly. Petty theft and pot weren't on the timetable, even in Blakenhall.

"I stole to feed the habit", said Kevin, but got caught in a paper shop. We went in together, and Jimmy started talking to the owner. I stole from the till when the owner's back was turned, and we left. Shame about the CCTV." It was a second offence and Griffiths was given six months. He and Jimmy had stuck together since. "There've been a few problems,", said Griffiths, but Jimmy sorted them out."

Bob began to see Jimmy as an ally. In a hostile place, Jimmy Gordon would fight his corner, literally if necessary. Already an archetypal criminal - a sort of trainee Norman Stanley Fletcher, Jimmy cared little about short spells in solitary. He had bigger plans; his sights set on the risk and buzz of theft - petty and otherwise. Also in Chelmsford was one Mark Johnson, thanks to an assault and robbery in Witham town centre.

Bob and Jimmy started to meet more often, discussing plans for life post-Chelmsford, most concerning theft of various types. Plans shifted from high-risk shoplifiting to high reward bank jobs; activities out of reach to young, criminals. Out of reach that is, without serious help. "I, er, know someone on the outside," said Jimmy. "A guy I met before I was locked up. His name's George Marley. If you fancy trying your luck once you're out, look him up. I'll give you the details."

Marley it turned out, was an experienced and ambitious thief, whose initial forays into burglary had developed quickly into robbery and violence, against shop staff, train guards and others who crossed him. But to Bob, he sounded just the sort of person he might need on the outside; an enforcer with access to the criminal network, to protect him while he found his feet,

A plan was forming in Bob's head as the chat continued in the exercise yard and the pool room afterwards. Bob was due for release in three months, Jimmy in four, and bail hostels had been lined up for the pair "They're sending me to Braintree," said Jimmy, "a bail hostel on the edge of town. What about you?". "Witham," said Bob. "So it's not far from my folks, or you. We'd be neighbours, almost."

But Bob and Jimmy's friendship in Chelmsford had not gone unnoticed, and they were released with instructions not to contact each other, Any breach would see them back in jail. As promised, on his release Jimmy contacted Marley, who ran details of potential jobs between the former inmates. "You're both beginners," he said, "so it's basic stuff to begin with, as lookouts on jobs. You can sell some drugs for me as well, and make some cash yourselves. Oh, and have a chat with any younger guys you know who'd be interested, so we can build up the numbers."

Their first job was robbing a late night grocers in Braintree. "It'll be easy," said Marley. "There's no-one around at that time." He showed Bob a bladed knife with a blue handle. "Besides, one look at this and they'll hand over whatever they've got'"

Bob was nervous. He was on his own as Jimmy had thought twice about the job: "I've only been out five minutes, George," he said. "I don't want to go back inside." "Don't worry", said Marley. "All you need to do stand across the street, and text me if anyone comes. I'll give you my number.

Bob stood and waited. He heard raised voices, then a scream, as George Marley staggered from the shop with the blue-handled knife jutting from his thigh, and blood dripping on to the pavement. As Marley collapsed outside the shop, Bob fled down a side street and ran until he couldn't draw breath. Thoughts went through his head. Why had he got involved? How could he be so stupid? And could the police trace him from Marley's mobile phone?

He soon heard sirens. Police and ambulance were on their way. Outside the grocers, the shop keeper, visibly shaken, sat on a bench drinking a mug of tea while a PC interviewed him, and the ambulance took George Marley to Broomfield Hospital. "There was just one lad who came inside, with the knife," the shopkeeper said. "I knocked it out of his hand and used it on him. And after I followed him out, I thought I saw someone running away down Wells Street....jeans, black hair. Can't remember much else;"

That's OK, sir. I'm sure CCTV will have picked it up." So it had, and the blurry image of Bob Westwood fleeing the scene was being examined by police. Bob was walking slowly now, away from the city centre. He reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out his burner phone and threw the SIM card in the nearest bin. In the ambulance, Marley was moaning in pain as a paramedic, trying to stem the bleeding, radioed ahead; "I have an 18 year old IC1 male with a knife wound. Femoral artery. Will need transfusion."

Bob was alone, in the dark, miles from home. There was a 10pm curfew on his hostel and he had a decision to make. There were cameras everywhere. Get a bus home and one would surely snap him. George Marley was probably in hospital talking to the police Bob knew he was in trouble and didn't want to make it worse. He handed himself in.

A prison van collected him for the trip back to Chelmsford. The following morning Bob was in the Governor's office. "I'm disappointed in you, Westwood. I thought you were smart enough not to be drawn into this sort of thing. Obviously I was wrong. You will be serving an extra six months on your sentence. I hope you get the message. By the way, they managed to save George Marley. which is just as well. It wouldn't have happened if you'd stuck to your licence'. Do not do this again. Understood?" "Yes, sir." said Bob, with feigned humility.

Bob gave himself a week to settle in again, and then sought out Mark Johnson, who he knew was a target for the B wing bullies;

"Hi Mark, how's things?"

"Who wants to know?"

"You know me Mark. I just wanted to catch up."

"Well I don't," snapped Johnson, who had a bruise under his left eye.

"You been in the wars?", said Bob

"Piss off". "Don't be like that Mark. I'll sort them out if you like. Just give me the names."

"I'm not interested. Anyway, they'll put me in hospital next time."

"No they won't," said Bob. "Not after I've seen to them."

Bob soon got the name of the perpetrator, and the fight - it was more of a beating - took place in a corridor outside the woodwork room. Kevin Small, on the receiving end, finished with a black eye and swollen lip, with the promise of more if he went after Johnson again, or let on to the guards. "I fell down the stairs," was Small's stock reply to anyone who queried his condition. The excuse didn't wash, but it kept the peace.

The next day, Bob and Mark compared notes; "Thanks," said Mark. "That'll keep him off my back for a while."

"It can be for longer if you like," said Bob.

"How?"

"You have a few cigarettes, don't you? Give me one a day to keep an eye on him." The deal was agreed and Mark Johnson breathed easier.

Two weeks later, Bob caught up with him in the exercise yard; "Hello Mark. Still in one piece, eh? How's the drug dealing going?"

"Pardon?" "That stash of heroin you're keeping in your coat."

"What heroin?"

"Oh, come on, Mark. Secrets are hard to keep in this place, particularly if someone lets on"

"It's in my bomber jacket, in the extra pocket I stitched into it."

"Give me £5 a week and I'll keep quiet."

"That's half my allowance," said Mark, agreeing reluctantly to the new deal.

"Good lad", said Bob. "Keep up the payments, or it might get leaked."

From that moment, Mark Johnson answered to Bob Westwood. Became his dogsbody. Petty theft, drug dealing, small scale extortion; Westwood had him on a leash. And with every crime, the stakes got higher; credit to be cashed in should Johnson step out of line.

Plans were made for life outside Chelmsford. They would meet up soon, with Romford dog track the preferred venue. The two were released within a fortnight of each other, Bob to Chelmsford, Mark Johnson to his family in Braintree. After their licences had expired, Bob and Mark met up to compare notes, with Romford the ideal meeting place - near home, crowded and easy to blend in. Bob got chatting to an on-track bookmaker, and found a job as a racetrack gofer. Mark, to his own surprise, and showing persuasive powers he didn't know he had, talked himself into a similar position with a rival operator.

By this time, Johnson's heroin business had expanded, with the proceeds placed in the bookmaker's till and the profits into a second bank account with a false name. The next move was the race tracks, at Great Leighs, the Braintree circuit. Setting himself up as an on-site bookmaker, Johnson laundered his drug proceeds on racedays, building his business, while Bob Westwood siphoned off the profits.

Johnson gradually bought up his rivals, and 18 months in, was the biggest operator in Braintree. Bob Westwood meanwhile - with his dogsbody days a distant memory - kept a close watch; 'advising' his protege, and suggesting hiding places for the cash. It helped that he had linked up with some operators on the outside; characters who looked beyond racetracks for their financial fix. One such was Steve Fullers, a senior bank cashier in the town, whose MO dovetailed nicely with Westwood's. After they were introduced at Braintree, Fuller took Bob for a drink and explained his plans; Dutch heroin would be delivered to Harwich and Fuller would use his banking contacts to find a safe place to hide it. From there it would be laundered through property and shares.

Any second thoughts Bob Westwood might have had in Braintree, were quashed in Harwich with the first delivery of drugs; ten kilos of heroin, hidden in suitcases on a passenger ferry. Ten kilos; nearly £250,000 worth. More than he had earned in a lifetime. He decided to call in a favour.

"Hello Mark," he said. "It's Bob Westwood'"

"Oh, you," came the reply.

"I thought I'd catch up with you. Long time and all that....."

"What do you want?

"Let's meet for a beer."

"Okay," said Johnson, "but you're buying."

Johnson and Westwood met in a Witham coffee house. "Steve Fullers should be here in a minute," said Bob. "He'll help us get rid of the stuff." They waited twenty minutes and Fullers arrived, bought a coffee and sat down; "I hear you have.....something."

"Yes," said Bob, "but it's best discussed elsewhere." They drained the drinks, and jumped into Fullers' Range Rover. He drove them to a country lane outside Coggeshall, and pulled up.

"OK, let's see it," Westwood said.

Fullers took out the suitcase, and opened it. "Here you are," he said, displaying the dozen packages of powder. Hand the money over and it's yours." Mark Westwood passed him an envelope stuffed with £250,000 in £20 notes, which Fullers counted and put in his briefcase. Seconds later, Westwood pulled a gun from his inside pocket. The sound of a muffled shot escaped into the evening air. Fullers' body was pushed into a drainage ditch and the car sped away. Mark Johnson was shaken; his eyes wide as he pleaded with his accomplice; "What the fuck are we going to do now......?"

it was a fair question, and Bob Westwood realised that a moment of madness had brought him full circle. Except this time, there was no going back. Not to Chelmsford, and certainly not to Witham, where police would be waiting. The truth was, he had no idea what to do next. He scrolled through the contacts on his phone, til he found Jimmy Gordon, and called the number.

"Hi Jimmy, it's Bob."

"Bob?"

"Westwood, we know each other from Chelmsford YOI"

"Oh yeah.....Bob. I remember you. How's things?"

"Not great. actually. I've got a bit of a problem."

He explained the situation. "Was wondering if you knew anyone who could put us up for a while? There's a few quid in it for you"

"I've only been out six months, and I'm still on probation, so I can't take the cash," said Jimmy, "but I'll see what I can do." Twenty minutes later, a text arrived, with details of a contact in Harlow, and instructions to delete the message after reading. Bob complied, and phoned the number.

"Who's this?" said the Voice. "I'm Bob Westwood. Jimmy Gordon gave me your number. Said you might be able to help with digs somewhere....." "Oh, he did, did he?" the Voice said.

"Yes, for me and my mate." There was a pause.

"Meet me at Harlow station in an hour."

"Okay, Mark, we're off," said Westwood."Harlow station, please." he said to the cab driver. The radio in the cab was on; "The body of Steve Fullers, 25 has been found on a narrow lane, two miles from Coggeshall. He had been shot through the head. Police are looking for two men in their twenties, who a witness saw speeding away in a white Nissan Micra." Bob and Mark looked at each other.

The Voice met them at the station. "Johnson and Westwood?" he growled. "Yes," said Bob. "Get a cab to this address." Bob was handed a scrawled note with details of a B&B in Sawbridgeworth, five miles away. An hour later, they arrived. "Pay them in cash and give a false name," Bob said.

Making their way upstairs, Westwood and Johnson could hear the television from the downstairs lounge. The shooting was the main story on ITV Anglia; "The two suspects, both in their early twenties are sought in connection with the murder of Steve Fullers, a drug dealer from Coggeshall........"

They decided to check out first thing the following morning, but had barely opened the front door, when "armed police, hands above your head!" was bellowed from barely a foot away. Bob Westwood raised his hands. Terrified, Mark Johnson ran from the doorway and a shot was fired.

Johnson screamed and clutched the back of his right leg before collapsing. Two black-clad officers approached Westwood, and marched him into the police van, as he heard the siren of an ambulance.

Michael stopped typing and took a sip from the cold coffee on his desk. While his protagonist didn't fancy the idea of 25 years inside, the thought of a wounded Mark Johnson, snivelling in a hospital bed, quite appealed to the author. Now it was Michael's job to dish out the punishment, something he had always wanted to do to his old foe. He sat back in the chair. In the corridor, a warder was finishing his shift. 'Lights Out' echoed down the the hallway and a key turned in the cell door.