by Simon King
He didn’t wait for Tim to respond, simply turned back to the wheel, flipped the lights off and continued on. Tim smiled a little, letting the adrenalin work for him, just as he always did.
“Two minutes,” Augustine said, not bothering to look back. Tim’s stomach tightened a little, but this time he was ready.
“Hey, Roger,” one of the officers said, waving at Augustine as he walked Tim in through the airlock. “Early transfer?” The man’s name was Dunkirk and he barely registered Tim’s presence.
“Yep,” Tim’s escort replied. “Arji asked me to drop this one off separately. Something about limited room in the bus. I had to drop these off to Perkins anyway.” He held up a bunch of envelopes as the officer gestured for Tim to follow.
“Let’s go, sport,” he said. “One sec, Roger. I’ll get your bracelets back to you.”
“Oh, no rush. I’ll come grab ‘em on my way back through.” He didn’t bother looking back, simply heading out towards another door, leaving Tim to his fate.
Despite already being dressed in prison gear, the officer went through his usual induction process, first giving the new arrival a complete strip search. Tim was given the thorough version, ending the process with a bent-over lunge and a cough.
Once dressed again, the Correctional Officer led Tim back through the induction area and palmed him off to a second CO, this one a woman who reminded Tim of a nasty version of Melissa McCarthy. Her demeanor was as frosty as her appearance and each question she fired seemed to snap off the final syllable.
Tim was glad once she had him sign his induction form and took him to a holding cell. It was empty, save for an old man sitting wrapped up in a blanket in the far corner.
“Wait here. Someone’ll walk you to your unit soon,” McCarthy snapped, before slamming the cell door shut once her prisoner was safely inside.
Tim felt the familiar knot in his stomach as he went to the bench that stretched around the outside of the cell. It had three normal walls, no windows and a front made up entirely of bars. It was exactly how he’d seen it in the movies and now felt the familiar nerves kick in.
As he sat, Tim closed his eyes for a moment and tried to regulate his breathing, focusing on the timing of each inhalation. It was a trick taught to him by a psychiatrist early in life and was one of the best ways he knew of controlling his anxiety.
“First time, huh?” a voice suddenly said and Tim looked across to find the old man watching him from beneath the hood of the blanket.
“That obvious, eh?”
“‘Afraid so. Picked a hell of a place to start with.”
“How so?” Tim asked, trying to sound uninformed.
“One of the worst places in the state. Maybe even the country. Just keep your head down and stick with your own tribe. Rules are different in here than out there. Trust me, I know.”
Feeling as if he had a chance for his first introduction, Tim stood and walked to where the man was sitting, dropped down beside him and offered his hand.
“Ray Brown,” Tim said. The man reached out and shook with him.
“Anton Tillerman.”
“I take it it’s not your first time then?” The old man laughed a little, a guttural sound, filled with the raspiness of lung issues.
“Not quite.”
“Any advice for a newbie like myself?” He sounded hopeful and it made Anton smile again.
“All I can say is get amongst your own kind as fast as you can. Loners don’t tend to last long, if you know what I mean. Watcha in for?”
“Drunken stupidity,” he answered, doing his best to sigh as convincingly as possible.
“Ah yes. Been there many times. Know the feeling. Any one got hurt?”
“Just my ego.” This time they both laughed. The sound carried out into the induction area and a voice came back, sounding unhappy with the cheer in the cell.
“You two clowns wanna shut the fuck up?” Anton, halted, held a finger to his lips and shook his head.
“Better listen. Don’t want to get marked on your first day.”
“Marked?” Tim asked.
“You’ll find out. One way or the other.”
The old man suddenly cocked his leg and let one of the longest farts rip that Tim had ever heard. His eyes seemed to glaze over as he focused on controlling his asshole and didn’t speak again until he was finished.’
“Prison Chow. Doesn’t always agree with ya.”
When Officer McCarthy told Tim that someone would walk him to his unit soon, he expected to wait maybe a half hour. When he was still sitting in the holding cell some five hours later, he began to wonder whether they forget about him entirely.
The old man had gone long ago, as had a new kid that arrived just before Anton was taken out. The kid introduced himself as Dusty someone or other and was gone again before they managed to say more than a few words to each other. Then came the crier, the wailer and the one Tim thought of as the “angry man”, a short Italian-looking man who spent the half hour in the cell with his face pressed against the bars shouting endless abuse. One of the officers ended up getting him out and moving him to another cell when he finally began to wail like a fire alarm.
An officer eventually called out his name, just as another was handing out sandwiches and Tim felt his stomach groan again, this time from the lack of food.
“Do I get one of those?” he asked just before he reached the gate.
“You’ll get fed in the unit,” the CO handing the food out said. The officer who’d called his name grinned at that and Tim instantly recognized it for what it was. There would be no food.
“Let’s go,” the CO said as he led Tim through the building and finally out into sunshine. A narrow walkway lay ahead of them, flanked by high fences topped by razor wire. There were prison yards on either side and Tim could see some of the inmates walking around within.
“Hey Fish, watcha in for?” someone suddenly called and Tim felt all eyes turn on him. The officer never paused, continuing towards the far end of the corridor. “Baby raper?” another called as others began to howl in pleasure.
The gate at the far end led into another long corridor, this one flanked by more prison yards. This time, the officer paused by one of the side gates, unlocked it and herded Tim through. Once inside, Tim waited for the officer to lock the gate, before following him towards the unit.
This yard was deserted, dominated by a basketball court and a makeshift weight training area in one of the corners. The CO walked to the unit’s airlock as Tim eyed the building’s many barred windows, several faces staring out at him.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” Officer Walton said once the outer airlock door was open. Tim walked inside, the opposite door leading straight into the unit, the window filled with the faces of its residents. Once the outer door was closed, there was a snap on the inner door and Walton twisted the handle while shooing the inmates back.
Questions flew at Tim from all directions, with faces bobbing back and forth in a kaleidoscope of people.
“Oxford. I’ll leave him in your capable hands,” the CO said, pointing at an older man, wearing the thickest glasses Tim had ever seen. Before he had a chance to ask anything else of his escort, the door slammed shut, leaving Tim surrounded by his new roommates.
For a moment, everyone simply stared at him, the questions temporarily halted. He was surrounded by around a dozen inmates, while behind them the unit stretched out in an ever-widening arc. Around the top, wound a second floor, several prisoners leaning forward on the hand railing that encircled the top half of the unit.
Tim knew about both the mixing and segregation of races, with several groups remaining at a distance from the rest. Along the top right were around half a dozen African-Americans. The top left appeared to house the Hispanics, their steely-eyed gaze boring through Tim like precision lasers. The ground floor was where the Whites seemed to live, with several open-door cells stretched around the outside. Every cell, whether upstairs or downstair
s, had a long rectangular window, from which behind more faces were watching him.
The moment he’d been dreading the most had finally arrived and with it, the official start to the investigation. He briefly paused, looking around the unit for a quick survey of the layout, to familiarize himself with where he’d been placed. But what none of his fellow inmates realized, was that the real monster had only just arrived.
Once the door had closed and the inmate named Oxford had led Tim towards one of the furthest cells, the rest of the inquisitive bunch seemed to disperse as quickly as they had originally gathered. The questions fired at him remained mostly unanswered and once Oxford had shown Tim to his bunk, also left him briefly alone.
The cell had six bunks, twelve beds in total. He’d managed to grab himself a top bed in one of the furthest from the door. The position offered the perfect view through the window and Tim figured that anyone wanting to hide something, wouldn’t want a clear view through the window.
It wasn’t until he was prepping his bed that the first real inmate came to speak with him. As if already aware of what the questioning would be, Tim mentally prepared for what he knew was about to come.
“Done time before, Bloke?” Tim shook his head, held his hand out and stepped forward.
“No, first time. Ray Brown.”
“Guess everyone starts somewhere. Lads call me Mort.” They shook briefly, Tim feeling the strength in the man’s grip. “What did they get you for?”
“Being stupid,” Tim repeated, but noted the expression of his latest acquaintance. This time he would need to provide more detail. “Tried to jack a Ferrari.”
“Oh? How’d that work out for ya?” Mort said, grinning.
“Too damn drunk to realize my stupidity.”
“Maybe I can point you in the right direction. You know, make sure you don’t end up stabbed on your first day.”
Tim knew what was happening, remembering Sam warning him about uninvited help being offered. It would land him in debt and that was considered bad. Mort seemed to notice Tim’s hesitation and tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry. Not gonna get you to suck my dick or anything. Just lookin out for a brother, you know?”
“You telling me you’re not gonna want anything in return?” Tim asked, tucking in the sides of his sheet. The mattress barely resembled its namesake, a simple lump of foam covered in a torn cover. The stains covering it looked painted on, Tim not wanting to know which part of the body they came from.
“Maybe just some of your biscuits at chow time. Love my biscuits.” He smiled, as if to emphasize how far his love went.
Tim finished fixing his bed, then watched as two more guys walked in, one leading the other. Mort turned to look at the newcomers, then introduced each to the new inmate.
“Guys, this is Ray.” Tim held his hand out as Mort pointed to each of the new arrivals. “This here is Ben, and that’s Bevan. They bunk in here with us.”
“Yo, welcome to the finest suite in Bolton, man,” the one named Ben said, fist-bumping with Tim instead of the usual handshake.
“How many times you been down?” the other one asked and Tim knew it would be a question he’d have to answer time and again.
“First time,” he replied.
“Oh shit. For real?” Ben turned to Bevan and said ,”Dude’s gonna be out some smokes.” They both laughed, but Tim saw it wasn’t meant as an insult. Instead, it felt more like an acceptance.
“You’ll catch on quick,” Bevan began. “Just tend to stick to the floor, hover amongst your own kind and don’t be letting no bitch talk down to you. If they do, you make sure to put ‘em in their place.”
“Oh, and see that dude up there by the end door?” Ben walked a little closer to the window, staring up at the second-floor railing. There were three men, all with their jumpsuit’s top half pulled down, their white t-shirts as bright as fog lights on a dark night. “That middle one is called ‘Gallo’. He’s the boss in the unit.”
“Gallo?” Tim asked.
“Means Rooster in Spanish. He’s like the big dick around here. Don’t be getting on his wrong side.” Bevan turned back to Tim and the others. “He’s an all-dayer, so doesn’t have a lot to lose.”
“All dayer?”
“A lifer, bro. He’s in for, you know, ever. Damn, you really are fresh,” Mort said.
“Of course,” Tim said, shaking his head a little. “Guess I have a lot to learn.”
6
As Tim was getting to know his new bunk-mates, Sam was waiting for her own ride to the airport. The Mustang was safely parked in the garage, despite the community being one of the safest in the country. Sam couldn’t bring herself to leaving her pride and joy out in the elements. No-one knew how long this operation would take and so had tucked it away for the foreseeable future.
Her bags were waiting beside the front door and as she sat flicking through the diary for the unknown-th time, there was a knock on the door.
“Mumma?” Sam said, as she pulled the door open.
“Hey, Sugar. Wanted to say goodbye in person. All packed I see?” she said, looking down at the luggage.
“All packed,” Sam said. “Not sure how long I have. Cab’s on the way.”
“Listen. This Lance Henderson. I managed to find something else and it may turn out to be nothing, but, who knows. With these types of men, anything is possible.”
Sam led Mumma back into the living room and both sat on the couch. Mumma looked more than a little concerned and Sam gave her hand a squeeze.
“He had a child who died a few years back, a son. Was aged 15 at the time of the accident.”
“Accident?”
“The kid was riding his skateboard and was hit by a car. The driver was intoxicated and turned out to be a serial offender. Several stints in prison, including two where Henderson was working.” Sam considered the revelation.
“You think he’s getting payback?”
“I don’t know. But what I do know is that in the years since the accident, Henderson has been going to a counsellor for help, turning up religiously every week for the past seven years.”
“I don’t understand,” Sam said.
“The sessions stopped two weeks before the first death at Bolton. And can you guess who the first victim was?” Sam looked curiously at Mumma.
“You’re kidding, right?” she asked. Mumma slowly shook her head.
“Nope. Fergus Norman. The same man who hit and killed Henderson’s boy.”
“But how? How could that even be possible? Don’t they have rules in place for keeping victims and perpetrators separated? Surely someone knew about the relationship between the pair?”
“Normally, yes.”
“What do you mean, normally?” Sam asked.
“Norman was a late transfer, only arriving at the prison two days before his death. I guess, whoever had him transferred, either didn’t know about the relationship and didn’t bother checking, or…”
“Or the transfer was on purpose,” Sam finished. “Did anything come of it?”
“Nope. The investigation is still pending, but as far as Henderson goes, he wasn’t rostered on at the time of the death. As far as anyone knows, he was home alone.”
The cab suddenly honked out in the driveway, breaking the spell in the room. Sam looked towards the door as Mumma rose to her feet.
“Just be aware that this Henderson may be on some kind of vengeance rampage.” The two women hugged briefly, then headed back to the door. Mumma grabbed one of the bags, as Sam pulled the other outside, then turned back and locked the door.
“Thank you, Mumma,” she said, stealing a final hug.
“You be careful in there, girl,” Mumma whispered, holding the smaller woman close to her.
“I will.”
A moment later, the cab reversed out and drove away, Sam turning back and waving at the woman standing in the middle of the street. Once they turned the corner and Mumma disappeared from view, Sam closed her eyes and
prepared herself for the road ahead. With Tim already on the job, it was time for Pogrom’s hunt to begin in earnest.
Mumma had booked Sam into an apartment complex, located almost ten minutes from the prison. Being in such close proximity, Sam decided that a bicycle would also be a great mode of transport while on this job and as she opened the door to her new home a few hours later, saw the bike sitting assembled and waiting in her new living room. The keys to her rental car were on the counter.
Mumma had taken care of all the arrangements, including stocking the cupboards and refrigerator with Sam’s usual list of necessities, topped by a case of Coke, six of which were already chilling in the fridge. Sam smiled as she ran her fingers across the cold tin, feeling the chill of the only cure she’d ever found for her cannibalistic rage.
The apartment itself was smallish, just a single bedroom, with a combined kitchen/living area. There was a balcony off from the living room, overlooking the swimming pool below. Despite loving the water, Sam couldn’t see herself using the pool during her time here, not while Tim was locked up a few miles away.
She had her first shift the following morning, courtesy of Carl Walker, the son-in-law of Dyson Montgomery. Being a shift supervisor for the morning crew, meant it was easier to slot Sam into his own shift, rather than the preferred evening one. But with very little choice, it would have to do. She hadn’t spoken to the man personally, but he did offer John a little reprieve, by saying the prison was well understaffed and overtime shifts were a daily commodity amongst the CO’s.
Her uniforms were already hanging in her bedroom closet, three complete sets, including utility belt and boots. Sam ran her fingers over the Bolton Prison badge, feeling the rough fabric, as if making sure it was real.
Once she had the bags unpacked and her clothes all hanging in the closet beside her new uniforms, Sam went and sat at the kitchen table and pulled out her cell. Bolton had an online app for their rostering system and Sam had complete access, with other shift member’s names displayed next to her own. Right then, there was only a single name that interested her and it wasn’t one on her own shift.