Page 1 of Freshman

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Alfie thought about hurling insults, he thought about punching Ryan, his superior, in the face, but in the end, he rolled his eyes and stomped his heel to the floor. The angry clomp didn’t stop the snort of amusement from the man strolling away.

For the past few months, Alfie had been subjected to hundreds of colourful, new names. Being called a dipshit arsewipe by the prisoners was preferable to what the staff called him. Rookie, newbie, fish, tender meat—they were a few of his new names from his colleagues.

“It’s Alfie,” he hissed, then turned and leaned against the metal gate.

Alfie, that was all his mother gave him. His name, which sounded too soft for the world, a weak name he was determined to strengthen. He was the youngest prison officer to work at Larkwood in decades, but so far, he’d only be assigned to the brain-numbing night shift. Every time a post opened up on days, Ryan, his superior officer, denied him. He said it was because he was too inexperienced, but he couldn’t get any experience until they shoved him on days—even working the visitor’s corridor would’ve been a step up.

Ryan didn’t like Alfie’s age, and he didn’t like that he was from the care system. He never said it, but Alfie strongly believed Ryan thought one of the cons had planted him there in the prison.

“Have a good night, Rook.”

Alfie didn’t turn at the taunt. He breathed deep and exhaled to an internal count of ten.

The day shift had just handed over to the night staff. Alfie was five minutes into the graveyard shift where the very walls looked like they were shifting in the darkness. Ryan was on his way home, back to his wife and kids and his detached house in the nice part of town.

Alfie stood inside G-wing; behind him was the lobby, and on the opposite side was another gate that led to H-wing. The lobby acted as a space to ferry prisoners through whatever gate they needed to go. Whether that was to the hospital, the visiting area, the church, or the classrooms. Alfie imagined it was bustling with activity during the day, but at night it was an echoing chasm.

Alfie stared straight ahead without blinking, the darkness bleeding into his peripheral until only black splodges remained, forming faces, sinister ones that put the prisoners to shame. The prisoners had been locked up since seven. All of them were accounted for in the droning roll call. It was surprisingly quiet, and the only sound came from behind him, the office, where the night staff munched on doughnuts and drank coffee after coffee.

Inactivity turned the officers into zombies, and the tug of weighted eyelids could be too much. People never grassed on those officers that fell asleep, but it did irritate Alfie that it was always the same one. Henry, wrinkled and frail, had wisps of white hair hanging from the back of his creased neck. They might’ve been attached, but Alfie suspected they had been trapped in his folds of wrinkles or had been stuck there with glue.

Henry believed himself to be a crafty bastard. He lounged in a worn chair facing one of the camera feeds that covered the lobby. Most of the cameras were down, but that one remained operational.

Dark-green sunglasses covered Henry’s eyes. He claimed they helped with his apparent glaucoma, but everyone knew he wore them to hide his eyes so he could nap. Once Alfie walked right up to him, clicked his fingers, rudely gestured, then finally picked up a stack of heavy books and dropped them from a height.

Henry had jolted forward so violently the glasses had flung from his face, and he threatened to clip Alfie around the ear for trying to kill him.

Six of them worked the night shift; three officers were assigned to each wing. The two others with Henry were Ben and Dan. Identical twins with identical mullets, and after two months Alfie still couldn’t tell them apart. They had identical smoking habits too and often left the lobby to satisfy them. Henry and the twins were assigned to H-wing, while Alfie was assigned to G, alongside Marie and Glen.

“Hey, newbie?”

Alfie cocked his jaw, then flashed an irritated expression over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

Marie’s cheeks were bright red, and she shifted from foot to foot like she needed to use the bathroom. Behind her stood Glen, grinning manically and staring down Marie’s open shirt as she jiggled side to side. She didn’t need a piss, but they were heading for the staff toilets anyway.

“We heard a noise, and we’re going to go check it out.”

Alfie nodded his head patronizingly slowly. “Sure, and when I hear wails and moans, I’ll just assume it’s the ghost that haunts our shift…”

She tilted her head and pulled an expression of bewilderment.

Glen leaned over and bobbed his head. “Thanks, bro.”

Alfie tutted and turned back to face the prison. “Don’t mention it.”

At least ‘bro’ was better than all the other names that had been thrown his way.

Henry always fell asleep, the twins took smoking breaks every ten minutes, and Marie and Glen disappeared for their intimate ghost hunts. Eighteen, and Alfie behaved the most professionally out of all of them. It was a sombre thought, and he shuddered. He’d had to grow up fast in the care system, and he prided himself on being mature for his age and focused, unlike his peers.

His colleagues taught him with age came less care. If they did the bare minimum and got paid, they were happy. That was maturity in the workplace.

Alfie ran his eyes along all the closed doors, imagining the prisoners inside, most of them fast asleep.

In the centre of the room was a metal staircase that led to the next rows of cells and then another that led to the second level of convicts. Those were considered the more desirable cells, private cells instead of bunks. Those well-behaved prisoners could even buy curtains and luxurious duvet sets and paint the walls as long as it was approved.

It was an incentive to do well—get to the top, and you can make your cell a home. Fall from grace and find yourself at the bottom, where you’re welcomed by a bed of nails and a chilly draft from the outside world.

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