Best Of

---
The cell is cold. Hard. White walls that hum under fluorescent lights. Jacob sits on the narrow bench, knees pulled up, hoodie still on, staring at the floor. Sleep didn’t come easy. Not with the memories of last night, not with the weight of what he’s done, not with the knowledge that his dad’s going to find out.

The door clicks open. A uniformed officer gestures him into the interview room. The room smells faintly of disinfectant, the table scratched and hard, two chairs on either side. Jacob takes the seat, hands folded in his lap, throat tight.

A female officer sits across from him, a folder open in front of her. She looks calm. Professional. Not angry, not patronising - just waiting.

“Good morning, Jacob,” she says. “Do you understand why you’re here?”

He swallows. “Yeah.”

“You’re here regarding the burglary at Louise Smith’s house last night. Anything you say may be used in evidence. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention something you later rely on in court. Do you understand?”

Jacob nods slowly, eyes fixed on the table. His hands are shaking slightly.

“I… I want a solicitor,” he blurts out before she can say anything else.

The officer nods. “That’s your right. No questions will be asked until your solicitor is present.”

Relief and panic hit at the same time. Relief because he doesn’t have to talk to anyone yet. Panic because he knows the solicitor will see the evidence. Will see the knife. Will see the bag. Will see that he actually went through with it.

The officer leans back, giving him space. “We’ll arrange that for you, Jacob. You’ll wait here until they arrive. Everything will be explained to you.”

Jacob nods again, but he can’t stop fidgeting. Knees bouncing, fingers tapping the table. His mind is racing:

This is it. This is real. I’m not getting out of this one. The police… the court… Dad… How did it get this far?

He keeps staring at the table. Anything else feels too heavy to look at. The folder, the officer, the door.

All he can do is wait.

And hope.
---
The solicitor arrives quietly, a small, calm woman in a navy suit. She doesn’t slam doors or shout. She doesn’t glare. She sits down opposite Jacob, a folder in her hands, and smiles — but not in a way that makes him feel cornered.

“Hello, Jacob. I’m Sarah Hughes. I’ll be your solicitor,” she says softly. “How are you feeling?”

Jacob shrugs, looking at the floor. “I’m fine,” he mutters, though his voice cracks slightly.

“Good,” she says carefully, “but it’s okay if you’re not. I’m here to help. Nothing you say to me will be used against you. Do you understand that?”

Jacob’s hands tighten in his lap. He glances up at her, eyes suspicious. “So… I don’t have to tell you stuff?”

“No,” she reassures him. “We only talk about what you want me to. I’ll explain what’s happening, and I’ll make sure your rights are protected.”

He fidgets, hoodie pulled tighter around his shoulders, trying to shrink into the chair. Every nerve in his body is tense. He hates this - hates that he’s here, hates that she’s looking at him like she might understand.

“Right… so… what’s gonna happen?” he asks finally, voice low.

She leans forward slightly. “First, we’ll go over what the police have said and what they think happened. Then we’ll talk about your options. You don’t have to answer their questions until I’m there. And if you don’t want to answer, that’s your choice.”

Jacob swallows hard. The weight of last night presses down on him again — the knife, the bag, Louise’s terrified face. He shifts in his seat. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean… I just…”

The words stumble and fall apart. She doesn’t interrupt. She waits. Patient. Calm. Solid.

“You’re scared,” she says gently. “That’s okay. We’re going to make sure you don’t have to face this alone. Whatever happens, I’m on your side.”

Jacob looks at her. For a moment, he almost wants to believe her. Almost wants to cry. Almost wants to say everything he’s been bottling up - the shouting at home, the fear, the mess he’s made of everything.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he nods, jaw tight. “Alright,” he says, voice rough. “Let’s… let’s just… do it.”

And just like that, for the first time since last night, he’s not running. Not yet.
---
The door opens, and Jacob follows Sarah Hughes into the interview room. He sits on the same hard chair as yesterday, hoodie still pulled tight around him, shoulders hunched. The police officer is waiting, notebook open, pen poised.

“Jacob Thornwick?” the officer says, voice neutral. “I just need to ask you a few questions about the burglary at Louise Smith’s house last night. Your solicitor is here, of course.”

Sarah gives him a reassuring nod. “Remember, you can choose not to answer anything, Jacob. It’s your right.”

Jacob swallows. The words are heavy in his chest. He fidgets, looking down at the table, avoiding the officer’s gaze. Finally, he lifts his head.

“No comment,” he mutters, quietly but firmly.

The officer sighs softly. “Alright. Can you tell me why you went to Louise Smith’s house?”

“No comment,” Jacob repeats, voice steadier this time.

“Did you take anything from the house?”

“No comment.”

“Were you carrying a knife?”

Jacob tenses. He glances at Sarah, who gives him the faintest nod. He looks back at the officer. “No comment.”

The questioning continues. Every question - where he was before, how he got in, whether anyone else was involved - is met with the same response: “No comment.”

The officer writes notes, occasionally looking up, but says nothing more.

Sarah leans slightly toward Jacob. “You’re doing exactly the right thing. Nothing you say now can be used against you. Stay calm.”

Jacob nods, throat tight. He wants to say more - explain, defend, apologise - but the words won’t come. He doesn’t trust them. Not now. Not ever.

The session lasts twenty minutes. Every question he answers with silence. Every answer he doesn’t give feels heavy, like it’s pressing on him from the inside. But inside, he knows this is the only control he has left.

When it’s over, the officer closes the notebook. “Alright, that’ll do for now. Thank you, Jacob.”

Jacob stands slowly, shoulders tense, hoodie still up. He glances at Sarah, who gives a small, proud nod. No one else understands how difficult that was. How terrifying. How smart it was to say nothing at all.

As they leave the room, Jacob takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the weight of the night and the stolen items still in memory. One small victory. One small piece of control in a world that feels completely out of it.
---
The courtroom smells faintly of polished wood and old carpet. Jacob sits on the bench, hoodie drawn over his head, hands fidgeting in his lap. The whispers of other people, the shuffle of papers, and the murmur of the court staff make the room feel impossibly large.

He doesn’t look at the gallery. He doesn’t want to. His stomach twists into knots, not from hunger but from fear — the kind that makes your hands shake and your throat dry.

A solicitor sits beside him - Sarah Hughes - giving him a quiet nod. He can barely see it beneath the hood.

The magistrate looks down at him. Calm, firm, authoritative. “Jacob Thornwick. You are charged with burglary at the property of Louise Smith on the night of 12th December. How do you plead?”

Jacob swallows. The words feel like stones in his mouth. Do I confess? Do I stay silent? Part of him wants to admit it - to unload the weight of everything - but part of him is terrified. Terrified of what will happen next, of how his dad will react if he admits it, terrified of losing control.

“Not guilty,” he whispers finally, voice shaking.

The magistrate nods. “Very well. As you are under 18, and due to the seriousness of the offence, you will be remanded into custody until your next hearing.”

Jacob doesn’t flinch. He feels hollow inside, like the words have passed over him without touching. Sarah leans down, whispering: “It’s okay. You did the right thing by staying calm. We’ll work on your case.”
---
Outside, the air hits him like ice. The prison van waits, grey and unyielding, doors open. Two officers motion for him to step inside.

He hesitates, looking at the van, then at Sarah. She gives a small, encouraging smile. Jacob swallows, nods, and climbs in.

Inside, the smell is stark: metal, disinfectant, and something sharp that makes his stomach twist. The seats are hard, bolted to the floor, with bars on the windows. He sits in silence, hands on his knees, staring at the floor. The van rumbles as the engine starts.

The other occupants are older - some fidget, some don’t speak, some stare blankly ahead. He feels small. Younger. But he’s got to remind himself: he’s only 15. They’ll put him on the under‑18 wing. At least he won’t be thrown straight in with the older boys. At least that’s something.

The van drives off. Streets blur past. The reality sinks in.

This is it. No going back now.

Jacob leans back against the wall, hoodie over his head, heart hammering. He thinks about home - the shouting, the threats, the life he wanted to escape - and realises it’s gone. Not just tonight, but for the foreseeable future.

And as the van rumbles on toward HMP/YOI Stonehill, Jacob Thornwick feels, for the first time in a long while, completely and utterly alone.
---