No Going Back

break loose. Not only would he end up with those two nutters on his back, but he’d have to deal with Pete Baker too. And Ashley really wasn’t sure who was worse.

5
Clamping his hand over his nose and mouth, John-James Andrews, or Jay-Jay as he liked to be called, recoiled at the stench of ammonia from the puddles of piss that soaked the floor of the lift on the Griffin Estate. He decided to take the stairs instead.
Though in fairness, the stairwell wasn’t much better, he thought, taking the concrete steps two at a time. The acrid stench of piss was just as strong out here, if not worse. And spotting the trails of what looked like phlegm that had been gobbed all up the walls, Jay-Jay shook his head in disgust. The place was a shithole. And that was really saying something coming from him.
Having finished serving time at Her Majesty’s pleasure only ten days ago, on the notorious B-Wing at HMP Wandsworth, Jay-Jay had recently swapped the four monotonous, grey walls of his cell for something even worse – if that was at all possible.
Remembering the hole in the windowpane of his cell that he’d jammed an old pillowcase into, in a bid to keep out the cold, the irony wasn’t lost on him that prison had been like a palace in comparison to the damp, musty old sofa he was currently bedding down on, in a derelict squat he was sharing with a couple of druggie wasters.
At least inside he’d had a warm bed to sleep in and three semi-decent meals each day, as well as access to a gym and a TV. The only real downside was the place had been full of cunts. Hundreds of men locked away like lions prowling their steely barred cages. Full of of testosterone and attitude and looking for any easy target to take out their pent-up anger on. Wannabe gangsters and bad men. All trying to prove themselves to be top dog.
The violence was a much-needed release inside, helping to alleviate the never-ending boredom. Jay-Jay was no stranger to that, having spent his whole life fighting for survival. Because he’d had to. He’d had no other choice.
And that’s exactly what he’d been forced to do when Younus Abbas had stood over him, grinning like a lunatic, and slammed a cosh down over his head in front of everyone in the prison canteen: he’d been forced to fight to survive. The man had taken Jay-Jay’s rejection of his offer to join his religious cult and army of foot soldiers inside as a personal insult.
‘You think you’re better than us? You think you are special? Well I’m here to show you what happens when you think you’re too good for us,’ Younus had said as he continued to beat Jay-Jay with the leather-covered makeshift baton.
Jay-Jay had had no choice but to repeat a habit of a lifetime and fight back. Forced from a young age to live in the fucked-up care system, as a small child he’d been systemically verbally and physically abused by the very people who were supposed to be looking after him, only to be spat back out onto the rough London streets the minute he’d turned sixteen. He could more than handle himself if he needed to; he had nothing to prove to anyone in there, including himself.
Grabbing Younus by his throat, a sea of red mist clouding Jay-Jay’s vision, he’d squeezed the man’s windpipe, before he grabbed the weapon from him and beat Younus repeatedly with it, mashing his features to a pulp until an officer dragged him away.
Later, when a prison officer had entered his cell and Jay-Jay had been expecting some form of reprisal, instead he’d been handed a mobile phone. Sam Boland’s voice had been at the other end of it, and the man had made Jay-Jay an offer that he couldn’t refuse. Protection from Younus, following the vicious attack, in return for Jay-Jay’s services once he was released.
All Jay-Jay had wanted more than anything was to serve his time without any aggro and get back out. Because that was the thing with prison. Once the system managed to suck you in, it was hard to claw your way back out. But it was too late for that now. So, Jay-Jay had accepted the offer.
And now here he was. On his very first job working for the Boland brothers. Sam Boland had been true to his word. He’d offered him a decent wage and more opportunities after this, provided he did a good job. And the work was easy. All Jay-Jay had to do was throw his weight around a bit and dish out a few slaps if anyone tried it on with any funny business. If anything, he’d enjoy it.
Reaching the top landing of the flats, Jay-Jay eyed the sign listing the door numbers, making sure he was at the right place, grimacing as he stepped over what looked like a used condom discarded in the middle of the floor. He made his way down the balcony towards the targeted flat and glanced up and down the passage to make sure no one was watching him.
There was only silence now, apart from the downpour as the rain pelted past the balcony’s wall. The yellow glare of the odd streetlamp shone from below in the communal garden. The flats all sat in darkness, and Jay-Jay guessed most residents would be sleeping now. Reaching the door, he took his tools out from his pocket and got to work on picking the lock.
He held the PVC door carefully as the latch clicked open, to stop it from swinging inwards and banging off the hallway wall. Jay-Jay crept inside, scanning each room that he passed, making sure that it was empty. Until he reached the last room, right at the back of the flat. The bedroom, he guessed as he eyed the closed door and imagined Shelby Cooke asleep on the other side of it.
Oblivious