Well, I've really done it this time. For ages I've been getting away with all those little illegal acts that everyone commits from time to time. The worst I'd ever suffered was a caution/slap on the wrist. Until now, that is. And all because I'd lost my temper. I was out and about, minding my own business when a prick starts to follow me (understandably, this is a slightly biased account), finding my not quite the norm style of dress amusing; in short, I'm a bit Gothic. I ignored the first few heckles, then stopped and turned. Unfortunately for him, he didn't. He walked right up to me, still chattering pointlessly.
I had ceased to listen to him, deciding instead that the quickest way to end it was to scare him. If he wanted to call me a freak, then fine. I would show him just how freaky I could be. And duly punched his face. He stumbled back blood flowing freely from his mouth, and I launched myself after him, knocking him to the ground. Before he could recover I had pulled out the adorable little switchblade I like to carry and held it next to his throat.
But there are always do-gooders aren't there? Do-gooders who in this case were convinced I was about to fillet the little idiot and did their marvellous public act of restraining me and calling the fuzz. So now I'm sat in the police cell for a little off the record interview with a policeman and my solicitor. As the officer catalogues all my little transgressions of the past year I feel the unpleasant swirling feeling in my stomach that this has escalated out of control.
The trouble is, my solicitor explains condescendingly, that this is not the first violent incident on my record. It is most likely, I am told, that the powers that be will want to lock me up on the strength of this one, convinced that I'm a danger to society. And I probably am. The officer interjects at this point, and starts to talk about a rehabilitation programme that they're currently testing. He goes on to say, basically, that if I agree to be a guinea pig, then I'll stay out of jail.
I push the Clockwork Orange images out of my head. Stay out of jail. Sounds good to me. Everyone knows that rehabilitation programmes don't work, and if they do, it's only in the short term anyway. I bite the bullet and nod my head in agreement. Ok, I'll do it. The policeman looks pleased, my solicitor positively ecstatic. He obviously didn't relish the idea of having to represent me if this one went to court. And so they let me go, saying that they'll be in touch, and for God's sake to keep out of trouble until I hear from them. I smile and nod, and walk out of the station like the model citizen, laughing inside. I've fooled them all again. They'll figure it out one day.
A few days later I get the letter, and the day after that I'm picked up (in a marked car, they could have sent one of the posh undercover cars couldn't they?) and driven off to the centre. The centre. Ironic really, considering that what it really appears to be is a disused military base in the middle of nowhere. My new companions and I are herded like cattle into a darkened room where we sit through a wonderful PowerPoint presentation to explain to us why we're here. (As if we don't already know). Next, they pass some booklets and pencils (rather blunt ones I note) around and tell us to answer the questions within.
Apparently it's a small test to determine which rehab group we should be placed in; which one is most suited to our needs. Okay then. I breeze through the test, finishing a good twenty minutes before anyone else in the room. I then sit and stare out of the window, daydreaming. When everyone's finished, we are herded out again, and given our issue clothing. Training shoes, combat trousers (snigger) and white t-shirts. The difference between me and everyone else? I make the clothes look good.
By the time we've all changed, a tannoy announces that the tests have been marked, and that we should proceed back to the room to be sorted into our groups. I grab a seat at the back, wanting to be able to get a good look at everyone else. Names are read out, and groups of about six to eight people are led out of the room. Eventually there's only me left, and I smile to myself at the presence of the obligatory establishment cock up.
A man had walked into the room as the last group were leaving, and now he's sat in the corner at the front. He's one of the rehab officers, I can tell from the way he's dressed. He gets up and speaks quietly with the officer who was reading out the names, who then nods and leaves. The man turns and walks towards me.
"And then there was one. You scored highly on that test young lady. Too high for us to put you in a group."
"Does that mean I get to leave then?" I feel decidedly smug.
"Oh no. That means you get me."
This guy's going to be a pushover, I decide. Quite softly spoken, it would seem, and with a rather nice voice. Northern, but not harsh like you'd expect; honey coated, with a breezy confidence. Probably falls apart when it comes to women though - I'll soon have him stuttering like a schoolboy. "Well, you already know my name, what's yours?"
"James. But you can call me sir. It'll be easier to remember when you're begging me to let you die. Now get outside."
Perhaps not such a pushover. Having little choice, I stand up and allow my new rehab officer to direct me outside. The cogs are turning though. If this Tin-Tin look-alike thinks he can push me around, he'd better think again, because there's no way I'm going down without a fight. No matter how desirable he seems... - wait, where did that come from..?
Outside there's no one around, and it looks like even the weather decided to take some time off. It's all completely neutral. There's nothing around to catch my eye, nothing to distract me - it's the perfect venue for a place like this; all I can do is focus on the task at hand. I stand on the concrete with the building behind me, and my new arch-enemy in front of me who's looking me over with evil intent. I suddenly notice that he's holding one of those telescopic baton things that the police have, and from the way he's swinging it around it looks like he's familiar with using it.
"Well, I'm told that you're pretty intelligent. I wonder if all that reading leaves you any time for exercise. Let's start with something easy. I want twenty five sit ups." Now, I know I shouldn't answer back. I should just keep quiet, do as I'm told, and then I can go home and pick up where I left off. Sadly, my sarcastic side wins through.
"Well what you want and what you're gonna get might not tally."
He walks round behind me and for a minute I think I've got away with my (very witty) comment. And then he kicks my legs out from under me, literally. With a deadly accurate aim, his foot lands across my legs, right behind my knees, and knocks me to the floor.
"Twenty five sit ups" he says again.
A little taken aback by this demonstration of power, I shift into position. As soon as I'm there, he stands on my toes (totally unnecessary), folds his arms and looks down at me. "We haven't got all day young lady."
Knowing that I'm beaten, at least for now, I start giving soldier-boy his sit-ups. The first fifteen are fairly easy, and I think I surprise him, but ok I admit it, I struggle for the rest, especially the last five. I finish, and lay flat again with my eyes closed.
"And now I'll have another ten for the smart remark."
