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but somehow I didn’t think the prison authorities were interested in the latest fashion. After that, a second guard appeared. There was a chain looping down the side of his trousers all the way to his knee.
    “This way, 95446,” he said.
    95446—that was the number stenciled on the front of my new jacket. That was me.
    I was taken down a corridor lined with doors—all locked. The last door was mine. The guard took out a key and opened it.
    “In,” he said. He wasn’t the talkative sort.
    The cell was about six by twelve feet—bare bricks, a tiny window, two chairs, a table, a washbasin, a bucket, and a pair of bunk beds. A figure rolled off the lower bunk and gave me a crooked smile.
    “Welcome to Strangeday Hall, kid,” he said. “I’m Johnny Powers.”

JOHNNY POWERS
    “Welcome to Strangeday Hall. I’m Johnny Powers.”
    The words hadn’t been spoken in a friendly way. The voice was cold, mocking—with a twist of Irish in the accent. My cell mate perched on the edge of the bunk, chewing a stick of licorice. I looked at him and my mouth went dry. I’d seen some nasties in my time, but this guy was something else again.
    He was about the same height as me although he was two years older, thickset and fleshy. He had small, ugly eyes, a small, upturned nose, and a narrow mouth set in a permanent sneer. He wore his hair greased back, the hairline snaking across his brow. His skin was pale and lifeless. Maybe he’d spent too much time out of the sun. Or maybe he was already dead but people had been too afraid to mention it to him.
    That was the most frightening thing about him—his agelessness. I knew he was fifteen, but he had the face of a baby. Chubby cheeks and perfect teeth. His eyelashes could have been painted on with a brush. Yet when he smiled (he was smiling at me now) there was suddenly an old man sitting there, an old man who liked killing people. I wondered how many people had left this world with that smile fading in their eyes.
    This was Johnny Powers. Public Enemy Number One. He had hitchhiked his way out of somebody’s nightmare.
    “Hi,” I said. “I’m Nick Diamond.”
    “Diamond—huh?” He took a bite out of the licorice. “What are you in for?”
    “A jewel robbery,” I said. I was in no mood to explain. “The Woburn Carbuncles.”
    “Is that so?” His eyes twinkled and he looked genuinely pleased. “Now ya mention it, I remember reading something about it.” The face hardened. “But just don’t get any bright ideas while you’re here, kid. I’m number one in this joint. Ya do things my way. Or ya never do nothing again.”
    “Sure. Absolutely.”
    Well, what else could I say to him? Johnny Powers was obviously so far around the bend that he was coming back around the other side.
    I threw my few possessions onto the top bunk.
    “What happened to your last cell mate?” I asked.
    Powers smiled his crooked smile. “He and I didn’t get along so good,” he said. “So one night he jumped out of the window.”
    I glanced at the window. “But it’s barred,” I said.
    “Yeah. He jumped out one piece at a time.” Powers screwed the licorice into his mouth. “Maybe I gave him a little help. Know what I mean?” He giggled. “Ya need any help, just ask.”
    “I’ll let you know,” I said.
    A bell rang then and the cell door opened. I looked at my watch, remembered it wasn’t there, and followed Powers out. There were kids streaming out of the cells on both sides of the corridor and above me, too. They were all in identical uniforms, the same uniform that I was wearing. None of them were over sixteen. None of them were smiling. There must have been three hundred of them. Three hundred of us. I kept on having to remind myself that I was one of them . . . would be for the next year and a half.
    We marched through a door and into a large hall with long tables set in two rows and a balcony at one end where an armed guard stood watching us. A notice hung on one wall: