They call me “Big Jay” on the block.
Used to, anyway. Back then I thought it meant something. Thought it made me someone. Truth is, I weren’t big — just loud. Just angry.
I was sixteen when I got nicked. Thought I was untouchable. Me and the lads, we’d hang round outside the chicken shop every night, hood up, passing a spliff, talking like we were running things. We weren’t though. We were just bored kids from a grey estate with nothing better to do than act hard.
It started with nicking trainers. Bit of weed. Selling some knock-off vapes to the Year 10s. Then one of the older boys, Kane, says we could make proper money running with him. He had links — real ones. Gangs from London, proper stuff.
One night, we went to rob some lad who’d been dealing on “our patch”. Didn’t plan on using knives — swear down, I didn’t. But Kane brought one anyway. Said, “Can’t take no chances, Jay.”
Things went wrong fast.
The lad swung first, Kane stabbed him. Once. Right in the stomach.
I just froze. Watched him drop. The sound he made — it weren’t human.
We legged it, but they caught us two days later. CCTV everywhere. Kane got more years than me, but I still got five for joint enterprise. Didn’t even hold the knife, but it didn’t matter. I was there. I didn’t stop it.
First night in Feltham, I cried. Quietly, though — didn’t want no one hearing. You learn quick in there: don’t show fear, don’t show weakness. Then when I turned eighteen, they shipped me to adult prison. Whole different world.
That’s where I saw a man die.
It was in the canteen, just after lunch. Some beef between two lads over a debt — probably a tenner’s worth of spice. One of them pulled a shank made from a toothbrush and a bit of metal. Went straight for the neck.
Everyone froze. Even the screws were too slow. The blood — it came out fast, hot, spraying across the floor. I remember the noise more than anything. Like someone choking on air, trying to breathe when there’s nothing left to breathe.
We got locked down straight after. I sat in my cell, staring at my hands. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Just kept thinking — that could’ve been me. Could’ve been my mum getting that call.
That was the day it clicked.
All them years I’d been trying to act hard, trying to prove I weren’t scared — and for what? To end up in a place where people die over ten quid?
Been out six months now. Walked past the same corner where it all started last week. The lads out there — new faces now. Young ones. They looked at me like I used to look at the older boys — like I had stories.
I told them, “You don’t wanna end up where I was, trust me.”
They laughed, same way I would’ve. But maybe one of them’ll remember.
I still hear things at night sometimes — shouts, metal doors, that choking noise. But I’m trying. Got a job at a car wash. Keep my head down.
I used to think being tough meant not caring.
Now I know real toughness is carrying what you’ve done — every single day — and not letting it turn you into someone worse.
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