...Wells opened the folder in front of him and handed Steven a few photographs. “Have a look at some of the kids who have been through this program over the years.”
Steven looked at the first few photographs before setting them back on the table. “So what? Are you going to tell me that they are all in prison now?”
“Sort of.” Wells replied. “Their own, personal prison. Turn the top one over.”
Steven did so and dropped it as if it was on fire. “Christ! What happened to him?”
“He was walking home from school one day when a car pulled up and the driver asked for directions. As he approached the car he was sprayed with acid. It was the day before he was going to commit his first crime. They never did find out who did it.”
Steven leaned over and looked at the image. The boy’s eye sockets were empty and there was no discernable nose. The lips were pulled back over the teeth and only small clumps of hair remained on his head.
Wells leaned over and turned over the next photograph. “This one was burgling his first house when he was savaged by a rottweiler. The homeowners didn’t even like dogs and were at a loss to explain what it was doing in their garden. The real owner was never traced. As you can see, the surgeons couldn’t save his lower jaw. He also lost the use of his right arm.”
Wells turned over the next picture. “That one was a girl, believe it or not. She was abducted one night, doused with petrol and set alight. She ran into the road in flames and was hit by a car, shattering both her legs. Again, they never caught the person who did it. The important thing is that all the people in those photographs, at one time or another, were sitting in that same chair that you’re sitting in, looking at these same photos. Take a look at this one.”
He handed another photo to Steven, who took it gingerly. His jaw dropped as he recognised the face. “It’s me.”
“That’s right, Steven. Turn it over....”
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