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against his bed. He emerged rubbing the sore spot while Brett turned round and looked at the stranger.
    A big Pacific Islander about one hundred-and-eighty centimetres tall with a shaved head grinned back at him. His thick bulky arms were covered in tattoos and his right ear was pierced with enough earrings to put any woman’s jewellery box to shame. His tank-top and shorts hugged his body to show off his muscles, and his face was as square and mean as a boxer’s. He was flanked by two lackeys — another Pacific Islander and a white guy with a mane of gold-red hair who looked like he’d spent most of his life in a gym — whether a normal one or a prison gym Brett didn’t want to ask.
    So this was the first shakedown to check out the new guy. See if he was a mummy’s boy.
    â€˜What’s your name, Pretty Boy?’
    Brett gritted his teeth. He was no pretty boy. ‘Who wants to know?’
    The two lackeys crowed. ‘I told you he’d have attitude,’ the redhead said.
    â€˜Don’t they all?’ the other answered.
    â€˜I’m Tyson,’ the leader said. ‘And these are my boys. We’re your welcoming party you could say.’
    The lackeys laughed.
    â€˜And you are?’
    â€˜Brett.’
    â€˜Brett, huh? Sounds pretty tough. You tough, Brett?’
    â€˜Look, what do you want?’ he sighed.
    â€˜Nothing. Like I said, we’re just the welcoming party. Except you’re not making us feel very welcome, Brett.’
    â€˜I apologise. I’ll bring cake next time.’
    Tyson stretched to his full height and lost his smile just as the redhead elbowed him in the ribs. The big inmate looked down the corridor, saw somethingthen pushed himself off the door frame. ‘Make sure you still have a mouth to eat it with then,’ he added before leaving with his thugs.
    â€˜Oh man,’ Frog said, panicking, when he and Brett were alone again. ‘I want a new roommate.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Because you’re dead.’
    Just then a bell rang.
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜Sorry, I’ve got to go.’
    â€˜Why? What’s going on?’ Brett asked, hearing the corridor echo with similar groans.
    â€˜Class.’
    â€˜Do you have to go to it?’
    â€˜Everybody does.’
    â€˜What if you don’t?’
    â€˜You get into trouble.’
    â€˜What kind of trouble?’
    â€˜Sam makes you do extra chores or you miss out on dinner.’
    That didn’t sound too tough. If he had to do chores he’d wag them too. Skipping dinner would be hard though. He loved eating. He’d have to raid the fridge when everyone was asleep instead. No problem.
    â€˜You coming?’ Frog asked.
    â€˜Yer, in a minute. I’ve got to go to the dunnies first.’
    Brett’s “detour” lasted, oh, a good twenty minutes. He drank greedily from the tap again then wiped the sweat from his neck. He chanced a smoke in one of the cubicles when he was alone, then another. Stubbing the last butt out, he slipped into the corridor and headed for the kitchen. He was hungry again. But if he was going to raid the food cupboards he had to pass the classrooms first. That wasn’t going to be easy.
    There were about forty kids attending class in all. They were split into four years, with roughly ten guys in each. The first year — consisting mainly of younger inmates — wrote notes as a teacher taught them basic maths; maths Brett’d learnt back in primary school. The second year — kids aged thirteen and fourteen — sat before a row of computers learning how to spell words like “hospital”, “camera” and “picnic”! The third year — guys Brett’s age — listened to Sam teach history. And the fourth year — kids normally in years eleven and twelve watched a video on health.
    Brett stopped at Sam’s history class. The door was open so he