Three Weeks in Hell

Chapter 8

After class, Callen was escorted to another previously unseen office, this time by Brown. They stood in silence outside the office and Brown rapped on the door.

"Come in," Woodley's voice sounded from within.

Brown opened the door wide and allowed Callen to enter, closing the door behind him. Callen stood still for a few seconds. In front of him was Mr Woodley, the centre's councillor, therapist, shrink or head doctor. They were all terms that were used to describe the same type of person; some busybody who thought they knew you better than you knew yourself, Callen thought, moving towards the only vacant chair in the room.

The office was small but cosy, with two green coloured arm chairs separated by a mahogany coffee table, which held centre stage. To the rear of the room were two matching low level bookcases, full of hardback books on psychology and child development, as well as scientific studies on criminology. Above the bookcase, a window provided a tantalising vista of the green fields and blue skies which lay beyond the confines of Southgate - a cruel reminder of the life which might have been or alternatively, a glimpse of hope of what life still may hold.

"Callen," Mr Woodley commenced, sitting down in the arm chair opposite Callen. "How are you today?"

"OK"

"Good," Mr Woodley said, grabbing a thick ring-binder file from the coffee table.

Callen could see his name along the spine of the folder and wondered where the second one was. He'd attended enough counselling and therapy sessions to know that Woodley had only half of his records.

"And how are you feeling about events over the past few days?"

"OK"

Woodley looked up from his file and smiled at Callen. "Now we've established that you're OK, I think we can move on. So tell me a bit about yourself?"

Callen stared at Woodley. He had his file open in front of him, he knew everything he needed to already.

Woodley read Callen's confusion and mistrust. "I mean, tell me what's not in the file, like your favourite sport, books, your favourite colour? What excites you?"

Callen shrugged. So Woodley had spoken to his social worker and was trying to play the positive card, focusing on the good things and then gradually worming his way around to saying that he was a good kid and circumstance and bad choices had led him to being at Southgate. Callen knew that he was the reason he was at Southgate. He was choosing a life of crime, and he actually enjoyed the excitement and adrenaline rush, from the planning stage, right through to the escape. He was only at Southgate because he had been caught, which was not a mistake he would be making again.

"Callen?"

"I like most sport, fiction stories and the colour grey," he replied with a neutral tone of voice.

"That's great," Woodley jotted a few notes on a lined writing pad. "Tell me about your favourite sport?"

Great, Callen thought, open questions. He knew it was basic psychology but he much preferred questions to which he could answer 'yes' or 'no'.

"I like basketball," he answered. Callen gave away the minimum amount of information possible. He realised it was a team sport; fast paced and physical, something which Woodley was bound to pick up.

"Ah yes, such a quick game. Thinking on your feet, trusting in your team and their reflexes. Any team in particular?"

Callen shrugged. He had never been to a professional game and didn't particularly have any allegiances, unlike football.