Ash felt like he was floating through his life. Every day was the same. Get up, go to school, come back, play football or hang out with Rob Vaughn and his gang. Ash never got into bed before midnight: he knew if he was exhausted he wouldn't lie awake feeling miserable about Leaf and his mum.

The only time he'd seen Leaf in the three weeks since his mum died had been at the funeral. The telephone number on the bit of paper Giovanni had given him didn't work. Giovanni had told Ramos that Ash was a bad influence. He didn't want him near his daughter.

"You stink," Brock said. Ash sat on the edge of his bed rubbing his eyes. He didn't need to get dressed because all he'd done the night before was kick off his trainers and climb into bed wearing his football shirt and tracksuit bottoms.

"You've had the same socks on for days," Brock said.

"You're not my mum, Brock."

"Your mum never had to sleep in a room that stinks of your BO." Ash looked down at the blackened bottoms of his socks. They reeked, but he'd got used to the smell.

"I'll have a shower," Ash said. Brock tossed a packet of Mars bars on to Ash's bed.

"Happy twelfth birthday," Brock said. "Should have got you deodorant." Ash was pleased Brock had remembered. It wasn't much of a gift, but five Mars' was quite expensive for someone on three quid a week.

"You'd better clean yourself up, anyway. You've got to go to the police station today." Ash looked at Brock. His hair was gelled in a spiky wave and his clothes was immaculate, with his shirt tucked in and his bottoms fitting perfectly around his waist. Ash looked at the black under his nails, ran his hand through his gluey tangle of hair and couldn't help laughing about the mess his life was in.

Madeline was in a mood. Her car was overheating, the traffic was awful and there was no space in the police station car park.

"I can't park, you'll have to go in by yourself. Have you got the bus fare to come back?"

"Yeah," Ash said. He got out of the car and walked up the steps of the police station. He'd dressed in chinos and his best fleece, even combed his hair back after the shower. Everyone said getting a police caution was no big deal, but it didn't feel that way as Ash walked up to the desk and said his name.

"Sit," the policewoman said, pointing at a row of chairs.

Ash waited for an hour. People came in and filled forms, mostly reporting stolen cars or mobiles.

"Ash Ryan." Ash stood up. A fit-looking cop reached out and gave him a crunching handshake.

"I'm Sergeant Peter Davies, juvenile liaison officer." They went upstairs to an interview room. The sergeant got an inkpad and a piece of card out of a filing cabinet.

"Relax your hand, Ash. Let me do all the work." He dabbed the tips of Ash's fingers in the ink, then rolled each tip firmly against the card. Ash wished they'd given him a copy because the fingerprints would look cool pinned on his bedroom wall.

"OK, Ash, this is the caution. Any questions?" Ash shrugged. Sergeant Davies began reading from a piece of paper:

"The Metropolitan Police have received information that on October 9th, while attending Holloway Dale School, you seriously assaulted one of your classmates, Ursula Dean. During the assault Miss Dean received a severe cut to her cheek, resulting in the need for eight stitches. During the same incident you also assaulted the class teacher Agatha Adams, who received injuries to her back. As this is the first criminal charge you have faced, the Metropolitan Police have decided to give you a formal caution if you admit to what you have done. Do you admit to the offences detailed above?"

"Yes," Ash said.

"If you are found guilty of another criminal act before you reach the age of eighteen years, details of this offence will be given to the Magistrate or Judge and it is likely to increase the severity of the sentence you receive." Sergeant Davies put the piece of paper down and tried to sound friendly. "You look like a decent kid, Ash."

"I never meant to cut her face. I just wanted to make her shut up."

"Ash, don't kid yourself into thinking it's not your fault Ursula got hurt. You can never predict what will happen in a fight. If you're stupid enough to start one, you're to blame for what happens whether you meant it or not."

Ash nodded. "That's true I suppose."

"I don't want to see you here again, Ash. Will I?"

"I hope not," Ash said.

"You don't sound sure. Do you know what sentence you would have got for what you did if you were an adult?"

"No," Ash said.

"A young girl with stitches in her face, you'd be looking at two years in prison. That's not funny, is it?"

"No," Ash said.

Ash was pleased the caution was out the way. Everyone was right; it was no worse than getting told off at school. He'd taken some money out of his locker and thought he'd buy himself a birthday present. He got a new game for the Playstation and Xbox and a Nike tracksuit. Then he stuffed himself at the buffet in Pizza Hut. He made sure he didn't get back to Coumarine House until it was too late to go to afternoon lessons.

Ash put his new game on and lost track of time. Brock came in and sat on the edge of his bed, the same as he did every day. Brock felt something under the covers. He pulled them back and found Ash's Man United shirt.

"Why's your stinking football shirt in my bed?" Ash knew he'd be furious. Brock was a total girl when it came to cleanliness. When Brock moved the shirt a new tablet slid out on to the bed.

"Ash man, did you steal it?"

"I knew you'd say that," Ash replied. "Receipt's in the box."

"This is mine?" Brock asked.

"You've been whining about your old one since I got here."

"Where'd you get the money, Ash?" Ash liked Brock, but he didn't trust him enough to say about the cash in his locker.

"Tied an old lady to a tree, beat her mercilessly and stole her pension," Ash said.

"Yeah right, Ash. Seriously, where did you get sixty quid?"

"Do you want it? Or do you want to ask me stupid questions about it?" Ash said.

"This is sweet. I hope you didn't get yourself in any trouble. When I get my pocket money on Friday I'll buy you that deodorant you need."

"Thanks, I think," Ash said.

"So you want to do something tonight for your birthday? We could go to the cinema or something?"

"No," Ash said. "I said I'd go out with Rob and the gang tonight."

"I wish you'd stop hanging around with those freaks."

Ash sounded annoyed, "You give me the same lecture every time."

It was freezing cold sitting on the wall at the back of the industrial estate. After the first night all they'd done was hang around smoking. Big Wayne had punched a public schoolboy's tooth out and taken his mobile and wallet, but Ash hadn't been with them.

The gang congratulated Ash on his first criminal offence. Vince said he'd been arrested fifteen times. He had half a dozen court cases coming up and was facing a year in a young offenders' prison.

"I don't care," Vince said. "Brother's in young offenders. Dad's in prison. Granddad's in prison."

"Nice family," Ash said.

Rob and Big Wayne laughed. The look Ash got from Vince was scary.

"You say anything about my family again, Ash, you're dead."

'Sorry,' Ash said. "I was out of order."

"Kiss the floor," Vince said.

"What?" Ash asked. "Come on, I said sorry."

"He said sorry," Rob said. "It was only a joke."

"Kiss the floor, Ash," Vince repeated. "I'm not saying it a third time." Fighting Vince would be suicide. Ash slid off the wall. He was worried Vince would jump on his back or kick him in the head when he crouched down. But what choice was there? Ash put his palms on the pavement and kissed the cold stone. He wiped his lips on his sleeve and stood up, hoping Vince was satisfied.

"You know what keeps out the cold?" Rob said. "Beer."

"Nobody will serve us round here," Little Wayne said. "Got no cash either."

"That off-licence up the road keeps the trays of twenty-four cans stacked up in the middle of the shop," Rob said. "You could run in, grab one and be halfway up the street before the tub of lard got out from behind the counter."

"Who's gonna do it?" Little Wayne asked.

"The birthday boy," Vince said, laughing. Ash realised he should have taken a beating; at least that way Vince would still respect him. Showing weakness to a guy like Vince was inviting him to tear you apart.

"Come on, man. I just got a caution this morning," Ash said.

"I've never seen you do anything," Vince said. "If you want to hang out with us, you'd better be prepared for some action."

"Fine, I'll go home. This is boring anyway,' Ash said. Vince grabbed Ash and shoved him into the wall.

"You'll do it," Vince said.

"Leave him, Vince," Rob said. Vince let go. Ash gave Rob a nod of thanks.

"You better do it though," Rob said. "I don't like being called boring." Ash wished he'd listened to Brock.

"OK," he said, now he had no choice. "I can handle it."

The gang walked to the off-licence. Big Wayne gripped Ash's shoulder, making sure he didn't run.

"Be really quick," Rob said. "In and out, they'll never get you." Ash walked inside the shop, nervous as hell. The warm air was beautiful. He rubbed his freezing hands together and looked for courage.

"Can I help you, son?" the guy behind the counter asked. Ash had no reason to be in an off-licence. The clerk knew something was up. Ash made a quick grab at the cans of beer. They were heavy and his frozen fingers didn't have much grip.

"Put those down, you little..." Ash spun around and tore towards the door. He crashed into the glass. Vince and Big Wayne were holding the door shut from outside.

"Let me out," Ash shouted, hammering the glass.
The assistant lumbered around the counter.

"Please, Vince," Ash begged. Vince gave James an evil smile and flicked him off. Ash knew he was done for.

Little Wayne was jumping for joy. "You're busted, you're busted." The clerk grabbed Ash's hands and dragged him backwards. Vince and Big Wayne let go of the door and walked off casually.

"Nice night in the cells, faggot," Vince shouted. Ash stopped wriggling. There was no point, the clerk was five times his size. He dragged Ash behind the counter and shoved him into a chair. Then he called the police.

They'd taken Ash's shoes and everything out of his pockets. He'd been sitting here three hours. Back to the wall, arms wrapped round his knees. Ash had expected the hard rubber mattress and graffiti but he'd never realised how bad a cell smelled. It was a mixture of disinfectant and everything nasty a body could pump out.

Sergeant Davies came in. Ash had hoped it wouldn't be him. He looked up nervously, expecting an explosion of rage, but the sergeant seemed to find it funny.

"Hello, Ash. Did you have a problem grasping the meaning of our little chat this morning? Fancied a few beers to celebrate getting off easy?"

The sergeant took Ash to an interrogation room. Madeline was there, she looked angry. The sergeant was still smiling as he put a cassette into a recorder and spoke his and Ash's names into the microphone.

"Ash," the sergeant asked, "bearing in mind that the off-licence you were arrested in has three video cameras inside, do you admit trying to steal twenty-four cans of beer?"

Yes," Ash said.

"On the video you can make out a couple of monkeys holding the door and not letting you out of the shop. Would you care to tell me who they were?"

"No idea," Ash said. He knew he'd be dead if he grassed on four of the hardest kids in Coumarine House.

"Why not tell me, Ash? You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for them."

"Never seen them before in my life," James insisted.

"They looked like Vincent St John and Wayne Puffin to me. Do those names ring a bell?"

"Never heard of them."

"OK, Ash. I'm ending the interview." Sergeant Davies turned off the cassette recorder.

"Play with fire and you get burned, Ash. Hanging out with those two is more like playing with dynamite."

"I messed up," Ash said. "Whatever punishment I get I deserve it."

"Don't worry about this one, Ash. You'll go to juvenile court. The magistrate will probably give you a twenty quid fine. It's the bigger picture you want to look at."

"What do you mean?" Ash asked.

"I've seen hundreds of kids like you, Ash. They all start where you are now. Cheeky little kids. They get a bit older. Spottier and hairier. Always in trouble, but still nothing serious. Then they do something really stupid. Stab someone, get caught selling drugs, armed robbery, something like that. Half the time they're crying. Or so shocked they can hardly speak. They're sixteen or seventeen and looking at seven years banged up. You might get off easy at your age, but if you don't start making better choices you'll be spending most of your life in a cell."