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locked up
toffuna101
Posts: 3,751 Community Veteran
part 1 - the reckoning
Jacob wakes up to shouting. Not an alarm. Not gently. His mum's voice cuts through the thin bedroom walls, sharp and already angry.
“Jacob! Get up - you’re late again. Useless. Absolutely bloody useless.”
She yanks his door open without waiting for a reply. The curtains are still closed. His room smells faintly damp, clothes piled on the chair because there’s nowhere else to put them. Jacob blinks at the ceiling, heart already thudding, stomach tight.
“Fifteen years old and can’t even get yourself to school on time,” she snaps. “Good for nothing. Just like your dad says.”
Jacob doesn’t answer. He’s learnt that answering only makes it worse. He swings his legs off the bed, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor. She huffs and storms off, muttering under her breath.
He gets dressed quickly but carelessly - shirt creased, tie loose, blazer shoved on without bothering to straighten it. He doesn’t check the mirror. There’s no point. He already knows how he looks: tired, half-there, like he doesn’t care. Let them think that.
Downstairs, breakfast sits untouched on the side. His stomach growls, but he ignores it. He could eat. He wants to.
He doesn’t.
Being late again deserves punishment. If he does it to himself, maybe it hurts less.
He grabs his bag and leaves before his dad wakes up.
By the time Jacob gets to school, the bell’s already gone. He slips through the gates with his head down, hoodie pulled low until he remembers he’s not allowed to wear it and shoves it into his bag.
“Oi, Thornwick.”
Max Parker’s leaning against the wall by the lockers, grinning like he’s been waiting.
“Nice of you to join us, bruv. Thought you’d died or summat.”
Jacob snorts. “Shut up, man.”
Max laughs. They’ve known each other since Reception — back when they used to sit on the carpet and argue over whose turn it was with the Lego. Now they get called “troublemakers” in the same breath, like it’s a shared surname.
“Teacher gonna love this,” Max says. “You’re bare late.”
“Say that again and I’ll lamp you,” Jacob says, but there’s no heat in it. Max knows that.
Maths is exactly how Jacob expects it to be.
“Homework out, please.”
Jacob freezes for half a second. His bag’s empty except for a pen that barely works and yesterday’s crumpled worksheet. He doesn’t bother pretending to look.
“I ain’t got it, sir.”
The teacher sighs, like Jacob’s just confirmed something he already knew.
Max shrugs beside him. “Forgot mine too.”
“Detention. Both of you. After school.”
Jacob doesn’t react. He stares at the desk, jaw tight. Detention means getting home late. Getting home late means-
He pushes the thought away.
At break, they’re in the boys’ toilets with the Year 11s - the ones everyone knows, the ones who act like they own the place. Someone’s locked the door. Someone else passes a vape around.
Jacob takes a drag when it comes to him. It burns his throat, makes his head feel light. For a few minutes, he’s not thinking about home or school or the way teachers look at him like he’s already written off.
Here, he belongs.
Detention drags.
By the time Jacob walks out, the corridors are quiet and the sky outside’s already dimming. His phone buzzes in his pocket - a missed call from home. He doesn’t check who.
His chest feels tight. His steps slow as he leaves the school gates, every second ticking louder in his head.
Late again.
He knows what’s waiting for him when he gets home. He knows how this ends.
And there’s nothing he can do about it.
---
Jacob doesn’t want money.
He wants out.
Out of the house where silence means danger and noise means worse. Out of mornings that start with shouting and end with waiting. If he does something bad enough, serious enough, they won’t let him stay. Police, court, anywhere else. He doesn’t care where.
So when the house finally sleeps, he moves.
The knife feels heavier than it should. He keeps telling himself it’s just in case. Just to scare someone. Just to make sure he doesn’t lose control - even though that’s exactly what he’s already doing.
Louise Smith’s house is dark. Ordinary. Too close.
In and out, he thinks. Do enough. Get caught. Leave.
Inside, his head is racing. He grabs anything without looking - the telly, cash, bits he knows can be sold. He doesn’t feel triumphant. He feels hollow, like he’s already somewhere else, watching himself ruin everything.
Then the light comes on.
Louise Smith stands there, small in her dressing gown, confusion flickering into fear as she takes him in. Her mouth opens.
No.
Jacob steps forward before he can stop himself. His heart is slamming so hard it hurts. He raises the knife, his hand shaking, and holds it where she can see it.
“Don’t scream,” he says. His voice barely sounds like his own. “I swear- I swear I’ll do it if you do.”
The words land heavier than the knife ever could.
Her eyes fill instantly. She freezes, hands trembling, breath shallow and sharp. He hates that he’s the reason for it. Hates that this is what it’s taken to feel like he has any control at all.
This is it, his head tells him. This is how you get out.
But standing there, threatening an old woman who can barely stand steady, he realises something else too.
Even if he escapes his house,
even if he never goes back,
this moment is coming with him.
Forever.
And no matter where he ends up after tonight,
he already knows he’s crossed a line he can’t explain away —
not to the police,
not to a judge,
and not to himself.
---
Jacob’s arms are full.
The telly’s awkward against his chest, corners digging into him, the strap of his bag cutting into his shoulder where he’s stuffed loose notes and anything else he could grab. The knife is still in his right hand - held too tight, knuckles white, like if he loosens his grip everything will fall apart.
Louise Smith stands in front of him, frozen.
She’s smaller than he thought. Smaller than she should be. Her hands shake at her sides, eyes fixed on his face, then flicking to the knife, then back again. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t move.
And suddenly, Jacob can’t breathe properly.
This - this mess of stolen stuff, this knife, this terrified old woman - this is what out looks like. This is what he thought would save him.
His arms start to tremble.
The telly slips slightly in his grip and he panics, tightening his hold, nearly dropping everything at once. The clatter feels too loud even though nothing’s fallen yet. His heart is going mad in his chest.
You can’t do this, his head screams.
You’ve done enough.
The knife lowers first.
Just a few inches. Then more. Until it’s no longer a threat but a dead weight in his hand. His fingers feel numb. He swallows hard, throat burning.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice cracking under the pressure of everything he’s holding. “I’m sorry. I didn’t - I didn’t think-”
He can’t finish. There’s no sentence that fixes this.
Louise lets out a small, broken sound - not a scream, not even a word. Just fear. Pure and raw.
That’s when Jacob breaks.
He drops everything.
The telly hits the floor with a dull thud. The bag slides off his shoulder, spilling notes and bits of stolen junk across the carpet. He stares at it all for half a second - proof of how far he’s gone - then turns and bolts.
He runs through the back door, out into the cold, lungs burning instantly. His feet barely touch the ground. The street is empty, quiet, unforgivingly normal.
He doesn’t stop running.
Not until his chest feels like it’s going to tear open. When he finally slows, he bends over, hands on his knees, gasping, eyes stinging with something he refuses to let spill.
The knife is still in his hand.
He looks at it, horrified - like it’s followed him, like it’s part of him now. With a sharp, desperate movement, he throws it into a hedge and stumbles back, rubbing his hands on his hoodie, breathing hard.
Somewhere behind him, he knows lights will come on.
Doors will open.
Police will be called.
He wanted anything - anything - to escape his home.
But standing there, empty-handed and shaking in the dark, Jacob realises the truth too late:
He didn’t escape.
He just traded one kind of fear for another.
---
Jacob doesn’t stop running.
By the time he slows, he’s crouched behind a hedge at the end of the street, hoodie pulled over his head, chest hammering so hard it feels like it might break through his ribs. The cold night air stings his lungs every time he breathes.
He glances back at Louise’s house. The windows are dark again. Nothing moves - but the silence is different now. Thicker. Heavy with warning.
Then he hears it.
A distant wail, sharp and keening. Sirens. Faint at first, then growing, twisting through the night like a living thing.
Jacob freezes. Every instinct screams at him to run again, but his legs feel leaden, like the stolen things and the knife and the terror itself are weighing him down, even though he’s dropped most of it.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The sound gets closer. Blue and red flashes sweep across the street in the distance. He crouches lower, pressing against the hedge, praying they haven’t seen him.
He knows. Somewhere in his head, he knows exactly what’s happened.
Louise must have called. Of course she did. Who else would?
Jacob’s stomach twists. His hands shake uncontrollably, and his mind races:
What do I do now?
Where do I go?
If they catch me… Dad…
He tucks his head down, trying not to breathe too loudly, trying not to think too loudly. Every siren, every echo of footsteps, every distant bark of a dog reminds him that he’s trapped — not by walls or bars yet, but by everything he’s done.
And for the first time tonight, Jacob realises the plan that made sense in his head - do something bad, get out - has already failed. He’s not escaping. Not now. Not ever.
All he can do is wait.
Wait.
And hope.
---
The sirens are loud now. Closer. Flashing lights carve the quiet street into pieces of red and blue. Jacob presses himself into the hedge, heart hammering so violently it feels like it might burst through his chest.
He knows there’s no point hiding anymore. He’s been running on instinct, but instinct can’t outrun a police car. Two uniformed officers step onto the street, torches swinging, voices sharp and authoritative.
“Police! Step away from the hedge!” one of them shouts.
Jacob freezes. Panic floods him like ice. His hoodie slips from his face as he takes a small, trembling step back.
“Hands where I can see them!” the officer commands again.
His mind races, but he doesn’t move fast enough. Another shout.
“You’re under arrest for burglary. Anything you say may be given in evidence. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Do you understand?”
Jacob swallows hard. His throat is dry. Words stick. He nods, barely, because the officer’s eyes don’t blink, and there’s no arguing, no way to slip out of this.
“Turn around. Put your hands on your head,” the officer orders.
Every muscle in his body screams, but he does it. Slowly. The stolen bag and knife are still in the street behind him - proof of what he’s done. He feels the weight of it in his chest more than his arms.
The officer cuffs him, the metal cold and unforgiving, clicking tight around his wrists.
“You’re coming with us,” the officer says. “You have the right to a solicitor.”
Jacob doesn’t argue. He can’t. Every nerve is screaming, Why? How did it end up like this?
As he’s led toward the police car, he glances back once at the quiet houses, the street lamps, the hedge where he tried to disappear. The world he thought he could escape from… he’s never leaving it. Not like this.
And somewhere in the distance, Louise Smith’s voice trembles through the night, calling it in. He doesn’t hear the words - just the memory of the fear in her eyes, and the knowledge that this night will follow him forever.
The doors of the police car shut. The sirens wail as it pulls away. Jacob’s hands are sore from the cuffs, his chest tight from fear and shame, and all he can think is:
I wanted out. I got out. But I didn’t get free.
---
Jacob wakes up to shouting. Not an alarm. Not gently. His mum's voice cuts through the thin bedroom walls, sharp and already angry.
“Jacob! Get up - you’re late again. Useless. Absolutely bloody useless.”
She yanks his door open without waiting for a reply. The curtains are still closed. His room smells faintly damp, clothes piled on the chair because there’s nowhere else to put them. Jacob blinks at the ceiling, heart already thudding, stomach tight.
“Fifteen years old and can’t even get yourself to school on time,” she snaps. “Good for nothing. Just like your dad says.”
Jacob doesn’t answer. He’s learnt that answering only makes it worse. He swings his legs off the bed, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the floor. She huffs and storms off, muttering under her breath.
He gets dressed quickly but carelessly - shirt creased, tie loose, blazer shoved on without bothering to straighten it. He doesn’t check the mirror. There’s no point. He already knows how he looks: tired, half-there, like he doesn’t care. Let them think that.
Downstairs, breakfast sits untouched on the side. His stomach growls, but he ignores it. He could eat. He wants to.
He doesn’t.
Being late again deserves punishment. If he does it to himself, maybe it hurts less.
He grabs his bag and leaves before his dad wakes up.
By the time Jacob gets to school, the bell’s already gone. He slips through the gates with his head down, hoodie pulled low until he remembers he’s not allowed to wear it and shoves it into his bag.
“Oi, Thornwick.”
Max Parker’s leaning against the wall by the lockers, grinning like he’s been waiting.
“Nice of you to join us, bruv. Thought you’d died or summat.”
Jacob snorts. “Shut up, man.”
Max laughs. They’ve known each other since Reception — back when they used to sit on the carpet and argue over whose turn it was with the Lego. Now they get called “troublemakers” in the same breath, like it’s a shared surname.
“Teacher gonna love this,” Max says. “You’re bare late.”
“Say that again and I’ll lamp you,” Jacob says, but there’s no heat in it. Max knows that.
Maths is exactly how Jacob expects it to be.
“Homework out, please.”
Jacob freezes for half a second. His bag’s empty except for a pen that barely works and yesterday’s crumpled worksheet. He doesn’t bother pretending to look.
“I ain’t got it, sir.”
The teacher sighs, like Jacob’s just confirmed something he already knew.
Max shrugs beside him. “Forgot mine too.”
“Detention. Both of you. After school.”
Jacob doesn’t react. He stares at the desk, jaw tight. Detention means getting home late. Getting home late means-
He pushes the thought away.
At break, they’re in the boys’ toilets with the Year 11s - the ones everyone knows, the ones who act like they own the place. Someone’s locked the door. Someone else passes a vape around.
Jacob takes a drag when it comes to him. It burns his throat, makes his head feel light. For a few minutes, he’s not thinking about home or school or the way teachers look at him like he’s already written off.
Here, he belongs.
Detention drags.
By the time Jacob walks out, the corridors are quiet and the sky outside’s already dimming. His phone buzzes in his pocket - a missed call from home. He doesn’t check who.
His chest feels tight. His steps slow as he leaves the school gates, every second ticking louder in his head.
Late again.
He knows what’s waiting for him when he gets home. He knows how this ends.
And there’s nothing he can do about it.
---
Jacob doesn’t want money.
He wants out.
Out of the house where silence means danger and noise means worse. Out of mornings that start with shouting and end with waiting. If he does something bad enough, serious enough, they won’t let him stay. Police, court, anywhere else. He doesn’t care where.
So when the house finally sleeps, he moves.
The knife feels heavier than it should. He keeps telling himself it’s just in case. Just to scare someone. Just to make sure he doesn’t lose control - even though that’s exactly what he’s already doing.
Louise Smith’s house is dark. Ordinary. Too close.
In and out, he thinks. Do enough. Get caught. Leave.
Inside, his head is racing. He grabs anything without looking - the telly, cash, bits he knows can be sold. He doesn’t feel triumphant. He feels hollow, like he’s already somewhere else, watching himself ruin everything.
Then the light comes on.
Louise Smith stands there, small in her dressing gown, confusion flickering into fear as she takes him in. Her mouth opens.
No.
Jacob steps forward before he can stop himself. His heart is slamming so hard it hurts. He raises the knife, his hand shaking, and holds it where she can see it.
“Don’t scream,” he says. His voice barely sounds like his own. “I swear- I swear I’ll do it if you do.”
The words land heavier than the knife ever could.
Her eyes fill instantly. She freezes, hands trembling, breath shallow and sharp. He hates that he’s the reason for it. Hates that this is what it’s taken to feel like he has any control at all.
This is it, his head tells him. This is how you get out.
But standing there, threatening an old woman who can barely stand steady, he realises something else too.
Even if he escapes his house,
even if he never goes back,
this moment is coming with him.
Forever.
And no matter where he ends up after tonight,
he already knows he’s crossed a line he can’t explain away —
not to the police,
not to a judge,
and not to himself.
---
Jacob’s arms are full.
The telly’s awkward against his chest, corners digging into him, the strap of his bag cutting into his shoulder where he’s stuffed loose notes and anything else he could grab. The knife is still in his right hand - held too tight, knuckles white, like if he loosens his grip everything will fall apart.
Louise Smith stands in front of him, frozen.
She’s smaller than he thought. Smaller than she should be. Her hands shake at her sides, eyes fixed on his face, then flicking to the knife, then back again. She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t move.
And suddenly, Jacob can’t breathe properly.
This - this mess of stolen stuff, this knife, this terrified old woman - this is what out looks like. This is what he thought would save him.
His arms start to tremble.
The telly slips slightly in his grip and he panics, tightening his hold, nearly dropping everything at once. The clatter feels too loud even though nothing’s fallen yet. His heart is going mad in his chest.
You can’t do this, his head screams.
You’ve done enough.
The knife lowers first.
Just a few inches. Then more. Until it’s no longer a threat but a dead weight in his hand. His fingers feel numb. He swallows hard, throat burning.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice cracking under the pressure of everything he’s holding. “I’m sorry. I didn’t - I didn’t think-”
He can’t finish. There’s no sentence that fixes this.
Louise lets out a small, broken sound - not a scream, not even a word. Just fear. Pure and raw.
That’s when Jacob breaks.
He drops everything.
The telly hits the floor with a dull thud. The bag slides off his shoulder, spilling notes and bits of stolen junk across the carpet. He stares at it all for half a second - proof of how far he’s gone - then turns and bolts.
He runs through the back door, out into the cold, lungs burning instantly. His feet barely touch the ground. The street is empty, quiet, unforgivingly normal.
He doesn’t stop running.
Not until his chest feels like it’s going to tear open. When he finally slows, he bends over, hands on his knees, gasping, eyes stinging with something he refuses to let spill.
The knife is still in his hand.
He looks at it, horrified - like it’s followed him, like it’s part of him now. With a sharp, desperate movement, he throws it into a hedge and stumbles back, rubbing his hands on his hoodie, breathing hard.
Somewhere behind him, he knows lights will come on.
Doors will open.
Police will be called.
He wanted anything - anything - to escape his home.
But standing there, empty-handed and shaking in the dark, Jacob realises the truth too late:
He didn’t escape.
He just traded one kind of fear for another.
---
Jacob doesn’t stop running.
By the time he slows, he’s crouched behind a hedge at the end of the street, hoodie pulled over his head, chest hammering so hard it feels like it might break through his ribs. The cold night air stings his lungs every time he breathes.
He glances back at Louise’s house. The windows are dark again. Nothing moves - but the silence is different now. Thicker. Heavy with warning.
Then he hears it.
A distant wail, sharp and keening. Sirens. Faint at first, then growing, twisting through the night like a living thing.
Jacob freezes. Every instinct screams at him to run again, but his legs feel leaden, like the stolen things and the knife and the terror itself are weighing him down, even though he’s dropped most of it.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The sound gets closer. Blue and red flashes sweep across the street in the distance. He crouches lower, pressing against the hedge, praying they haven’t seen him.
He knows. Somewhere in his head, he knows exactly what’s happened.
Louise must have called. Of course she did. Who else would?
Jacob’s stomach twists. His hands shake uncontrollably, and his mind races:
What do I do now?
Where do I go?
If they catch me… Dad…
He tucks his head down, trying not to breathe too loudly, trying not to think too loudly. Every siren, every echo of footsteps, every distant bark of a dog reminds him that he’s trapped — not by walls or bars yet, but by everything he’s done.
And for the first time tonight, Jacob realises the plan that made sense in his head - do something bad, get out - has already failed. He’s not escaping. Not now. Not ever.
All he can do is wait.
Wait.
And hope.
---
The sirens are loud now. Closer. Flashing lights carve the quiet street into pieces of red and blue. Jacob presses himself into the hedge, heart hammering so violently it feels like it might burst through his chest.
He knows there’s no point hiding anymore. He’s been running on instinct, but instinct can’t outrun a police car. Two uniformed officers step onto the street, torches swinging, voices sharp and authoritative.
“Police! Step away from the hedge!” one of them shouts.
Jacob freezes. Panic floods him like ice. His hoodie slips from his face as he takes a small, trembling step back.
“Hands where I can see them!” the officer commands again.
His mind races, but he doesn’t move fast enough. Another shout.
“You’re under arrest for burglary. Anything you say may be given in evidence. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Do you understand?”
Jacob swallows hard. His throat is dry. Words stick. He nods, barely, because the officer’s eyes don’t blink, and there’s no arguing, no way to slip out of this.
“Turn around. Put your hands on your head,” the officer orders.
Every muscle in his body screams, but he does it. Slowly. The stolen bag and knife are still in the street behind him - proof of what he’s done. He feels the weight of it in his chest more than his arms.
The officer cuffs him, the metal cold and unforgiving, clicking tight around his wrists.
“You’re coming with us,” the officer says. “You have the right to a solicitor.”
Jacob doesn’t argue. He can’t. Every nerve is screaming, Why? How did it end up like this?
As he’s led toward the police car, he glances back once at the quiet houses, the street lamps, the hedge where he tried to disappear. The world he thought he could escape from… he’s never leaving it. Not like this.
And somewhere in the distance, Louise Smith’s voice trembles through the night, calling it in. He doesn’t hear the words - just the memory of the fear in her eyes, and the knowledge that this night will follow him forever.
The doors of the police car shut. The sirens wail as it pulls away. Jacob’s hands are sore from the cuffs, his chest tight from fear and shame, and all he can think is:
I wanted out. I got out. But I didn’t get free.
---
3
Comments
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.
---
tysm @Amy22 i appreciate it.
No worries. I can tell creative writing is something you really enjoy doing and I say keep doing it because your writing is very beautiful. I haven't done as much creative writing in a while actually and it's something I want to get back into someday.
yes i did. thanks.
thank you again. i like writing to be honest as it gives me the freedom to do anything.