Black Matter

by G D Parker

  On that particular day, Tommy was going to get the best form of medication he needed, besides Diazepam; exactly what he needed to survive in that shithole prison. Although he didn’t know it at the time, things were going to change.

  Breakfast was served in the mess hall. Tommy would always walk into the large room with his head down, absolutely avoiding eye contact with anyone. The room was loud and noisy, and it caused him claustrophobia and internal panic – Tommy managed to hold it in, but only just. Other inmates were either bantering one another or looking to pick a fight just to let off a bit of steam. Tommy was always the favourite amongst them all, due to his emotionless state. They trusted that he wouldn’t grass on them, plus if he killed himself, someone would benefit.

  The brown scrambled eggs were thrown onto Tommy’s tray by the kitchen staff, with a bit splashing onto his trousers as he moved down the line. The inmate behind was taunting him at the same time. He was a big fat, bald bastard who went by the name of Killroy - maybe because his name was Roy and he had killed someone. The beans then followed with a side order of cold toast.

  ‘I’m gonna fuck you, McGregor! I’m gonna fuck you hard, baby,’ said Killroy from behind.

  The words cut into Tommy on the inside, causing adrenaline to burst into his bloodstream, but on the outside, he just looked like he always did – the lights were on, but no one was home.

  ‘I’m coming to your cell tonight. I’m gonna get you so good, you’ll never want pussy again.’

  Tommy took the verbal abuse. He didn’t rise to it and he didn’t say a word, but the adrenaline was taking hold of him. His hands started to shake. Tommy’s ignorance and lack of response didn’t go in his favour at all. Killroy wanted a rise out of him, wanted him to snap so they could brawl in front of everyone. Killroy wanted to show off and wanted to show other inmates the damage he could do. He wanted to be the one to push Tommy into that body bag.

  Because Tommy didn’t snap, the punishment came. Killroy decided to ditch the verbal bullshit and take it a step further by giving him a pelvic thrust from behind, connecting with Tommy’s arse. Tommy was enraged with the force, which caused him to go flying. The sloppy breakfast on his tray spilt everywhere and humiliation kicked in, blending with the anger and adrenaline.

  ‘Back off!’ shouted Tommy.

  The whole mess hall erupted with a roar of cheers. Finally, someone had got a rise out of Tommy McGregor, the Walking Dead. Most inmates were standing to watch the show as guards forced their way through the crowd. Killroy then planted an elbow into Tommy’s eye socket, busting it open instantly. Blood poured down Tommy’s face. Seconds later came another right jab in the same spot, opening the cut further. The inmates cheered even more.

  The guards were getting closer, pushing and shoving to get through, but before they got there, Killroy stamped on Tommy’s face, fracturing his eye socket. He felt his nose break as the cartilage twisted under the force. Blood poured over his face, filling his eyes, so that he couldn’t see. Tommy gave up, taking more blows to the face. The pain faded as his mind dulled towards unconsciousness. He thought he was dying and gave Killroy a little smile out of the side of his bloody mouth.

  Killroy was taken down by the guards as Tommy flopped unconscious on the cold mess hall floor. A first responder came to his aid.

  The Princess of Wales was a nice clean hospital. Tommy was on a bed in the corridor waiting for a brain scan to see if there had been any serious damage. Once again, his mind fixated on the black mist taking hold of his thoughts, I wish he’d killed me. I wish I was dead. Maybe if I wind him up enough, he’d kill me next time? He imagined the scenarios in his mind, fantasising how he would die and how empty his funeral would be. He was floating above his open casket. He could see his own face, half of which was caved in, and an eye was missing with the optic nerve spreading down over his temple. He then snapped out of his thoughts.

  ‘Looks like you’ve had a nasty injury!’ explained the operator of the CT scan, who was dressed all in green, was around mid-forties and probably lived a happy life with his wife and kids; something Tommy knew he would never have, but something he wished he had.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ The operator then proceeded to explain what he needed Tommy to do.

  After the scan, Tommy was taken to a private room where he had two uniformed officers by his side the whole time watching him. He was handcuffed to the bed; not that he was in any fit state to try and do a runner, and why would he now?

  Hours later, a consultant came to see Tommy and confirmed he had a broken eye socket and a broken nose. He also explained that he would need twelve stiches in his face and that he would need to be kept in overnight due to his concussion and possibly another night, depending on how he progressed throughout the first night.

  A few days later, Tommy was on the road to recovery and was put straight back into the system. Nothing had changed, apart from a metamorphic thought process. After the event, Tommy had decided to take his fate into his own hands. He was going to stand and fight. He was going to get himself out of prison and start to rebuild his life. He wanted a family, a wife and kids, and a normal nine to five job, but first he needed respect.

  Every man stared at Tommy as he went down the line collecting his processed breakfast. They stared at his scarred face and looked intensely for any sign of emotion, but Tommy wasn’t going to give anything away. He only thought to himself, Look at you all - a bunch of low-life wankers!

  There were murmurs and whispers as Tommy sat next to an old inmate, who shuffled along, creating a significant gap between them. Then Killroy caught Tommy’s eye. He was sitting with other inmates, with his back to Tommy. Then the man in front of Killroy gave a nod as a gesture to look behind. Killroy took the hint and looked round.

  Tommy gave Killroy a smile. It was a silent message; a message that said, You tried, but you won’t break me. This was the first time Tommy had smiled properly in months.

  The sound of Killroy’s fists hitting the bench caused jumps and gasps from the inmates, followed by light chatter and a feeling of excitement – another show to keep them entertained. Tommy didn’t flinch, and the room went quiet. Guards started to move quickly to stop another incident from happening. Tommy felt somewhat protected and he smiled again, looking Killroy in the eye as he continued to eat his food, giving the impression he had no cares in the world – Bring it on! You didn’t kill me. You made me stronger, fool!

  When the lights went out at night, Tommy used that time to make a shank - a weapon. He wasn’t going to let Killroy get away with it again. Sweets were easy to get hold of in prison, so he’d arranged to get a stick of rock. The rock was about eight inches long and perfect for what he needed. He took the time to rub the rock against the concrete wall of his cell. He could only get so much done at a time, but the result would be worth it.

  A week later, his shank was ready. Who would have thought a simple stick of rock could be shaped into an ice pick, sharp enough to pierce through human flesh. Now, he had to sit tight and bide his time, pick his moment and shank Killroy. He wanted to kill him and to send out a message that he wasn’t going to be doomed in that place. Tommy wasn’t going to get caught, he knew it, and would earn the respect he needed to survive his remaining time in prison. No one would grass. No one grassed in that place – that was the culture. If you did, then you might as well have been the person on the end of a shank.

  The shank was well hidden in a hole in the wall just the right size for it under Tommy’s bed. Weeks were spent with Tommy observing Killroy’s movements. He spotted a routine; cell doors were opened for two hours per day, when the inmates could roam in their enclosure, mingle with one another, go outside for a fag, play pool or just chat shit.

  As soon as the cell doors were opened, Killroy always made a beeline for the smoking area. He’d chain smoke three fags and then go for a shower. He would be on his own most of the time, and this would be Tommy�
�s moment.

  The day had finally arrived, Tommy watched Killroy go about his daily routine. As soon as he went to the smoking area, Tommy went into the shower room, the shank hidden in a safe place – lodged uncomfortably. He went into a toilet cubicle, stood on the toilet, squatted and passed the stick of rock into his hand, wiping it with some toilet paper. He then waited silently, still standing on the toilet seat. A cocktail of nerves, adrenaline and fear flowed through his bloodstream, filling every cell in his body, gearing him up to knowingly, for the first time, take another life.

  On cue, Tommy heard someone walk into the shower room and turn on the shower. The water hissed through the shower head and splashed onto the red tiled floor. He could hear grunting from the enjoyment of the hot water massaging the bastard’s body. Tommy was able to identify the man as Killroy, as he had a slight tick that caused him to grunt every few minutes. This tick had driven the other inmates crazy, but no one had the bottle to say or do anything about it.

  Tommy stripped completely naked, his bath towel hung around his neck, with the shank in his right hand, hidden underneath the towel. Killroy was washing himself. His back, thick with black matted wet hair, was to the entrance of the large open shower room. He was on his own as planned.

  Tommy slowly crept towards Killroy, the sound of the powerful shower disguising any sound Tommy made. He got closer. He could smell the scent from the shower gel and feel the steam from the shower, and the splashes from Killroy’s back wet Tommy’s face. He was at arms-reach now, and just close enough.

  He took the shank and planted it straight into the side of Killroy’s neck. This took Killroy’s breath, and he fell to his knees. Tommy withdrew the weapon. Blood poured and diluted in the water as it flowed across the shower floor into the drain. Tommy had hit the jackpot - straight into his carotid artery. Ten seconds later, Killroy was on the ground and was dead within minutes.

  A sense of excitement, fulfilment and complete gratification filled Tommy - he felt totally exhilarated. Within seconds he had gone back to his cell, smiling and looking forward to the outcome of this attack.

  The stick of rock went down a treat with Tommy. It took great effort to eat, but it was gone within the hour. It was the only safe way he could think of getting rid of the evidence without a trace. With no evidence, Tommy knew he’d get away with it. When Killroy’s body was found, all hell broke loose, with every cell locked down, searched and every inmate interrogated. Tommy maintained his black cloud facade – the lights were on, but no one was home.

  That night, Tommy slept better than he had done in a very long time. There was no black mist haunting and controlling his mind – a mental release.

  14

  ‘This had better be good,’ said Valentina, checking the time and seeing that it was 3.00am.

  ‘We have a breakthrough, Valentina. I need you down at the lab ASAP!’ exclaimed Professor Conroy, a well-established professor for the local university, specialising in Neuroscience.

  Valentina walked into the medical lab in the city centre. She had roughed-up bed hair and was wearing sweatpants, a hoodie and trainers - not her usual look.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded of the well-respected professor.

  The professor was a polite gentleman in his 60s, who always dressed smart in jeans and a tweed sports jacket. He looked like a typical professor, but he was not a man to be underestimated.

  ‘It’s Tommy’s brain activity. There are peculiar anomalies never before heard of. Please,’ the professor held out his hand, ‘take a seat.’ He then pulled out a brown leather chair on the other side of his large oak writing desk with green leather lining.

  ‘Thanks, okay so what is it?’ Valentina’s voice buzzed with anxiety.

  ‘Using a download from Mr McGregor’s IPEA implant, I’ve been able to study Mr McGregor’s brain activity and the chemical movement in his brain during each incident. Here look,’ the professor turned his laptop round and pointed at a line graph. ‘His brain activity is what we would class as normal or as expected during normal behaviour. Then thirty minutes before he commits the indecent exposure incident earlier this year,’ he paused, ‘two brain chemicals interacted that would normally lead to the development of psychotic disorders, such as schizophrenia. The results here suggest abnormal levels of the neurotransmitter glutamate, which may lead to changes in the levels of another neurotransmitter, dopamine, causing the transition into psychosis. However, in Mr McGregor’s case, a third synthetic chemical binds with the glutamate and dopamine, putting Tommy’s brain into an unconscious state. Are you with me on this?’

  ‘I am,’ Valentina replied, giving an unconvincing smile, confusion written all over her face.

  ‘Good,’ he smiled. ‘So, I’ve found that during this unconscious state, the disruption to the connectivity in the brain and greater modularity created an environment that is inhospitable to the kind of efficient information transfer that is required for consciousness.’

  ‘Okay, now you’ve lost me?’ Valentina admitted defeat, combing her hair with a hand.

  ‘Okay, Mr McGregor’s brain can only transfer local information, only within the brain, a bit like an island. He has no control over his body; he can’t consciously think, see or hear. Then it gets tricky-’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt. So, you’re telling me, Tommy had no control over his body when these acts were carried out?’

  ‘Correct, but wait, don’t get ahead of yourself,’ the professor paused. ‘The third chemical is synthetic,’ he paused again and elaborated. ‘Not real.’

  ‘Thanks, Professor, I know what synthetic means.’ Valentina was slightly insulted, but she let it go.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s come from an external source; not something that Mr McGregor’s brain could produce – that would be impossible. How it got there...I do not know, yet.’ There was a slight pause whilst Valentina registered the information. ‘To me, and please feel free to have a second opinion, but this information suggests a third party is using Mr McGregor as a host. Someone has been taking complete control over his body, so he has no idea what is happening.’

  Valentina used her fingers to comb back her matted bed hair once again. She was frustrated by the information she had received and it was a little too early in the morning for it all to sink in properly. ‘Okay, so how does this work?’

  ‘That I don’t know, Detective. I apologise,’ said the professor.

  ‘Professor Conroy, you must be one of the most intelligent men on this planet. Do not apologise!’

  ‘That’s very kind of you to say so, Detective, but I can assure you, even this is beyond me. Can I suggest you have a discussion with Medi Corps. They created the IPEA. I think, but could be wrong, the IPEA is the conduit into Mr McGregor’s brain.’

  ‘Okay, well my brain is well and truly fried!’ Valentina admitted.

  ‘Mine too, Detective, mine too!’ Professor Conroy gave a smile.

  ‘If I can get Medi Corps in for a meeting, would you sit in on it with me? I’ll need you to explain this. I’d get lost in the introductions!’

  ‘Of course, please have my secretary schedule me in when you have arranged the meeting,’ said the professor.

  ‘Professor, thank you so much for your time. Your help on this case has been invaluable.’

  Professor Conroy stood politely and shook her hand with a gentle grip. ‘It’s a pleasure, Detective Valentina, as always.’

  They both exchanged pleasant smiles, then Valentina left the lab moments later.

  It was now 5.00am, and the dregs from the night clubs could be seen staggering home, pissed. Valentina called up Detective Constable Roberts. Roberts had been in the police force for twenty plus years and had supported Valentina for six of them. He was her trusted right-hand man.

  ‘Roberts, sorry to wake you, but as soon as you can, I need you to make contact with the CEO of Medi Corps. It’s the McGregor case. We’ve had a development we can’t ignore.’
r />   ‘No problem, DI. What’s changed?’ Roberts’ voice was broken with a yawn.

  ‘It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in with the details later, once you’ve woken up. Set up a meeting with him as soon as you can. I don’t care where he is, we must see him!’ Valentina used a direct tone, hoping he would grasp the urgency. Roberts was good at taking direction; he never took her abrupt approach to heart.

  The shower was hot, making goose bumps appear on Valentina’s body at first and giving her an intense need to pee, as her body quickly adjusted to the sudden change in temperature. She washed her hair and freshened up, getting herself ready for the day. Although tired from the 3.00am start, Valentina never slept in, never switched off. Her life revolved around the force. Even though she was nearing her fortieth birthday, she had no urge to meet and marry anyone. Valentina feared that type of commitment and had built a life for herself on her own. She was not ashamed to admit that she was too selfish to have children – and fair play, not many can admit that.

  A self-confessed coffee snob, Valentina loved the aroma that filled her house when she filtered fresh coffee through her coffee machine. She loved the rich taste and polished off pints of the stuff on a daily basis. She believed it kept her focused, kept her mind in gear, got her blood moving and made her feel energetic – she would never start a day without it.

  Down at the station, Roberts was waiting for Valentina. They had an 11.00am meeting scheduled with the CEO of Medi Corps, Mr Russell Davidson MBE. Davidson was a high profile individual, however he kept himself to himself. He didn’t believe in social media and was known to say that it was the route of all evil. Since his company produced products and services that made use of social media, he would admit the hypocrisy, but would state, ‘In business you produce what sells’.