by David Carter
Ramone Franks, a senior guard in his mid-forties, opened the security door that led into the administration block and roughly encouraged Blaze to get moving. With the help of the guard with him, Franks shoved Blaze down a long corridor with dark-green cinder block walls and a well-travelled, almond-brown, linoleum floor. Blaze didn’t take kindly to the unnecessary shoving from the tall brute with chocolate-brown skin, and thought it would be worth copping a few jabs in the ribs to antagonize both Franks and his partner.
He slowed his walking pace to that of an elderly man.
Franks shoved him forward. “Keep moving, asshole.”
“Or else, what?” replied Blaze.
“Or I’ll fuck you up good and proper, boy, that’s what.”
“Oh, you like fucking little boys, do you? It all makes perfect sense: I thought you were a bald-headed paedophile the moment you fucking touched me.”
Franks flared his giant nostrils with rapid snorts of rage, and his penny-brown eyes almost burst from their sockets as Blaze’s insolence threw him past the point of no return. He was used to the odd inmate mouthing off at him, but he had never been belittled in such fashion before. He reached for his baton, and sharply jabbed Blaze in one of his kidneys.
Blaze grimaced silently; hiding his pain. He refused to appear weak in front of anyone—least of all a hulking prison guard working for what he considered was the wrong side of the law.
He eyed the guard with Franks. “Is that all your boyfriend’s got? All he did was tickle me with his love-stick. I hope he prods you harder than that in the bedroom tonight when you get home.” He smirked.
Franks clobbered Blaze’s exposed knee joints from behind, causing his legs to fold beneath him. “Plenty more where that came from, smartass.”
They continued to navigate their way through two more corridors and another security door until they stopped outside a wooden door with a name-plate that read: SETH ARCHER.
Franks eyed Blaze. “Time for you to meet the governor. And if I were you, I would show some goddamn respect. If you can manage that for the next five minutes, I might neglect to mention your pathetic stunt back there in the corridor.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Franks opened the door and ushered him inside, standing directly behind him with his baton firmly placed at the ready in the small of his back.
The governor was an intelligent-looking man in his early fifties. Blaze noted his sharp green eyes looking him up and down, hiding behind his black, thick-framed glasses.
Blaze glanced around the spotless office. There was no clutter, not even a scrap of paper in the aluminium rubbish bin at the foot of his mahogany desk. The governor rose from his leather arm chair, taking a moment to smooth his fine, brown hair over his head, then said, “Welcome, Bobby. I’d like to say I’m pleased to meet you, but to be perfectly honest—I’m not.”
“You fucking said it,” replied Blaze.
Seth Archer stepped forward until their noses almost touched. They were identical in height. They eyeballed each other until Archer craned his neck to one side, rested his lips an inch from Blaze’s ear, and in a calm, yet threatening tone, said, “I will warn you once, Bobby Blaise: do not try anything foolish in my prison. I am the law, I am the judge, I am the jury—and I will punish you without mercy if you don’t play by my rules.”
Blaze rolled his eyes as Archer stepped back and paced back and forth in front of him, his hands locked together behind his grey suit jacket as he continued his welcome-speech. “I have read your file, Bobby. And it is apparent to me that you are a violent individual who burned down your own mother’s school in Glendale—on Christmas Eve no less. Why would you commit such a heinous crime? In my prison, I encourage every lost soul to find God, and realise the errors of their ways while completing their journey within the walls of this rehabilitation facility. Because that’s what this is, Bobby: a disciplined environment to help you learn to live by the rules of society. It’s amazing how many changes I’ve seen in all the shitheads, just like you, that have stood here before me in this office, with their arrogant, pathetic, hostile attitudes. But—through my guidance and discipline, most, if not all new prisoners have eventually realised what is good for them. And at some point, Bobby, I know you will too. When and how is totally on your shoulders, but please—take my advice and do yourself a good turn by not giving me a reason to punish you.” He smiled, showing off his recently whitened teeth. “So, Bobby, what’s it going to be? Can I offer you a Bible to take with you to your cell?”
Blaze gazed at Archer’s immaculate, polished shoes, as if considering all the profound words he’d just been privy to. He raised his head, and with his best poker-face, he calmly said, “Personally, I’d prefer it if you’d kindly shove your religious bullshit so far up your ass that you can eat it for breakfast tomorrow morning. Oh, and by the way, my name’s Blaze—not fucking Bobby.”
Archer’s smile vanished. He enjoyed the battle of wits that had become part and parcel of any spirited new prisoner who struggled with authority. He took Blaze’s wisecrack in his stride. He knew that, ultimately, even the most audacious prisoner would succumb to his way of running things—or suffer the consequences.
Archer walked behind his desk and sat in his chair. He took off his glasses and with a sharp breath of hot air, fogged the lenses. As he meticulously wiped them clean with his handkerchief, he returned his attention to Blaze. “Bobby, I have not one, but two welcoming gifts for you.”
“Really? I do love a good surprise.” He grinned. “I hope it’s some hot pussy and a bottle of whisky—in that order.”
Archer chuckled. “I reserve my gifts only for those who show, shall I say, a genuine lack of respect to the chain of command. And guess what, Bobby Blaise? You just graduated top of your class.”
Archer gave a slight nod of his head to Franks and the guard with him. They restrained Blaze by firmly holding an arm each behind his back, using their combined strength to hold him steady. Archer pulled a set of brass knuckles from the top drawer in his desk, and slowly slipped them over the pasty-white skin on his fingers.
Blaze had heard stories about governors who used such methods to soften up their new prisoners, and had an inkling that something like that was in store for him. He calmly inhaled, tensed, and waited.
Archer’s metallically-enhanced fist slammed into Blaze’s stomach. He gasped for air as Archer beat what little remaining oxygen he had left from his lungs, then jabbed him in the ribs for good measure. Any average man would have been sprawled out on the ground, groaning in pain. Blaze was no average man. He was suppressing the effects of the vicious blows, standing tall with pride. In between his rapid breaths for air, he said, “All right—all right— enough— you’ve made your point—I’m sorry. I’ll do things your way—you have my word.”
Archer was surprised how easily he’d broken him. He’d sensed Blaze’s attitude the moment he’d casually waltzed into his office. He cheerfully said, “That’s more like it, Bobby. See? You do know what’s good for you. I hope we can put this little incident behind us and get along.”
“That sounds fair to me. I’d put my hand out to shake on it, but your henchmen here have got me a little—er—tied up.”
Archer said, “Frankie, take off one of his cuffs and attach it to one of your wrists so we may shake on a clean slate.”
Franks complied with the order without hesitation, leaving Blaze with his hand outstretched for Archer to accept. Archer returned the brass knuckles to his desk drawer and stepped forward. They firmly shook hands; calling a truce. Just as Archer went to relinquish his grip, Blaze violently pulled him forward and simultaneously slammed his forehead into his face. It wasn’t perfectly executed, but it did plenty of damage. His nose was pissing blood like the Nile River in monsoon season.
Archer cursed as he gently cradled his throbbing nose, while Franks and the other guard subdued Blaze with a multitude of blows to his body with their batons. When the beating wa
s over, Blaze spat a mixture of blood and saliva at Archer’s feet, then said, “I want my second gift, asshole.”
Archer terrorized Blaze with a bloody-grin that was somewhere between psychotic and pure evil. It sent a chill down his spine, making him feel anxious for just the slightest of moments.
Archer retreated to the safety of his chair, and pulled a handful of tissues from the box on the desk, holding them delicately to his nose. He removed the soggy mass away long enough for him to eyeball Franks, and say, “Grant him his wish. Throw this miserable piece of shit to the wolves.”
“Yes, Governor,” he replied, and dragged Blaze out of the office and into the corridor.
Chapter 5
Elizabeth woke up in her hotel room with a guilty conscience. She felt terrible for what she’d said to Blaze at the courthouse. But after Blaze had burnt down the school, the dormitories, and her private quarters along with them, she had nowhere to live, and her anger had reached breaking point.
She staggered into the confined space of the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror above the hand basin, peering at her reflection. “Jeepers, you’re looking old, girl,” she told herself.
She untied her pink silk nightgown and let it fall in a heap on the white-tiled floor, before stepping into the shower to give herself a soothing long massage under the near-scalding water that burst out of the shower head with sensational velocity, deeply penetrating her physical and emotional aches and pains.
After she had finished washing her slender body from top to toe, she towelled herself dry, and performed the one ritual of her day that made her start to feel alive. She had always been self-conscious, with wavering self-esteem. She survived each day by hiding under a generous layer of makeup and beauty products, combined with endless lines of moisturizers, creams, and magic potions guaranteed to reduce her tired lines and wrinkles.
She straightened her shoulder-length hair, during which time she changed her mind a dozen times over what she was going to wear. She eventually decided on a casual pair of skin-tight, blue denim jeans, a moss-green blouse, and tan leather boots.
She had two stops to make while out: the first, and most important item on her agenda, was coffee and a decent breakfast. She left her hotel, at the far south end of town on the main drag, which was literally the last noteworthy building before hitting the open countryside. Her boots sounded like trotting hooves as she passed the shops that lined each side of the street.
Glendale presented numerous choices of reputable eating establishments to the locals and to those just passing through. Elizabeth’s top three options to calm her pressing need for caffeine and a hot breakfast were: The Blue Lagoon Cafe, Billy’s Bakehouse, and The Greasy Axle Bar & Grill.
The thriving town of around five-thousand residents had managed to stave off the major food and shopping franchises from taking over, giving it that friendly, small-town-community feeling that one couldn’t experience in the city. That simple fact made reputation everything for business owners. And although Elizabeth liked The Blue Lagoon for its finer qualities, no one could beat a fry-up from The Greasy Axle’s breakfast menu. The coffee was strong and smooth. The scrambled eggs, sausages, crispy bacon, fried tomatoes, hash browns, and creamy mushrooms on buttered toast were simply to-die-for. Nobody in Glendale could beat fifteen bucks for a stomach-stuffing breakfast with perfect coffee.
Elizabeth sat down at her usual dining table. She liked sitting just inside the door next to an open window that looked out over the porch and onto the main street. Sharon noticed her come in and walked over to her. “Good morning, Liz, shall I order your usual?”
“Good morning, sweetheart, yes, thank you. Can I have extra bacon with my breakfast today? I feel like I need some grease in my joints to get me moving.”
“Of course.” Sharon smiled. “I’ll even throw an extra sugar into your coffee, if that helps?”
“You read my mind!”
Sharon knew Elizabeth was going through a rough time. And after the fire and the way she and Blaze had parted ways at the courthouse, she was eager to help.
Elizabeth’s daughter lived in the city and worked full-time, so Sharon took it upon herself to help her friend in her time of need. She gently put her hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “Your breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes, and I’ll go whip up your coffee now.”
Elizabeth put her hand on top of Sharon’s in appreciation. “Thanks, love.”
Sharon smiled and reminded her that if she needed to talk, she knew where to find her, before hustling off to the kitchen to relay her order to the chef.
Sharon loved her business. She had worked her ass off for it to be successful. It made her gush with pride when she served her customers a meal that was pleasurable to the palate.
The Greasy Axle served breakfast until 10:00 a.m. Then after the lunch rush had died off, the ice-cold beer and potato wedges drizzled in cheese, bacon, and sour cream kept the dinner sales steady, complementing the juke box, slot machines, pool tables, dart boards, and numerous television screens on the walls that showed non-stop sports coverage. The interior had polished wooden floors, and walls constructed from half-round logs, giving it the feel of a log cabin inside and out.
As usual, the tables scattered around the large room were all occupied by early morning coffee-addicts and starving businessmen and women, wolfing down their breakfasts before commuting to the city for their day’s hectic schedules.
Elizabeth finished her breakfast, drained the last of her coffee, and made the effort to thank Sharon before she departed. She was awfully fond of her, having watched her grow up and become a successful businesswoman.
If only my Bobby had his head screwed on like her.
She paid her tab and continued up the main street for her second appointment; she never tired of strolling through the centre of town. There were several one-of-a-kind shops that made up the main hub: including a quaint boutique store, a milk bar, a locally owned hardware supplier that sold tools designed to stand the test of time, and a supermarket that still carried the name of the original owner: Harold’s Bargain Bin. It was old-fashioned, but Elizabeth, like most of the older residents, thought it was a nice touch of history and should be revered. There were also modern buildings sprinkled around the historic township, necessary for the town to operate efficiently, as it was at least a thirty-minute drive south to Milton City—the only metropolis in the region. There were shops that sold sports gear, books and magazines, high-end clothing, and electrical appliances. There were law firms, car yards, farming suppliers with sheds brimming with all the latest must-have machinery on display, as well as timber and building suppliers, a post office, a library, gas stations, banks, and liquor stores.
One hour’s drive north of Glendale was a larger town called Woodridge: a prosperous industrial town, at least double the size and population of Glendale. It provided many of the staff who travelled a further forty-five minutes north each day to Winterhill Corrections Facility. Two hours’ drive east and west of Glendale was nothing but farmland and native forest until the road reached the beautiful coastlines of the North Island.
Elizabeth bustled along the concrete path that was specifically paved for the many people in town who liked to slow down and travel on foot to the Glendale Christian Church. The path was laid parallel to the country road for about four-hundred metres past the boundary of Glendale’s township. A steel safety barrier stood between the open road and the path, protecting anyone who made the pilgrimage from passing traffic.
The church was a magnificent piece of architecture, constructed from a mixture of orange and red bricks that made up the large walls. It had an arched, grey-tiled roof, with a tall steeple bearing a statuesque cross above, and a large bronze bell beneath. Subtlety-arched stained glass windows, depicting the various scenes of Christ’s crucifixion, beamed beautiful multi-coloured rays of light across the entire congregation.
The interior was breathtaking. Polished
wooden beams lined the walls, slowly tapering into supporting archways that held up the cavernous ceiling, decorated with an expansive painting of the Last Supper. The aisles and head of the church had been recently refurbished with fresh crimson carpet, and matching soft cushions lay in the rustic wooden pews. Golden chandeliers floated elegantly from the lofty support beams, providing a soothing ambiance to the holy place of worship.
Elizabeth crossed the car park and wandered through the foyer before she entered the church. She felt a strong measure of reverence as she meekly shuffled down the centre aisle towards the pulpit—where she saw the priest anticipating her arrival. He held out his arms in a welcoming gesture. “My dear Elizabeth, what a joy it is to see you, as always.”
She smiled back at one of her oldest and dearest friends. “You always know how to make me feel welcome, Father.”
“Please, Elizabeth, enough of that ‘Father’ nonsense. You make me sound ancient! Please address me as Jonas. Must I remind you every time I have the pleasure of your company?”
She covered her mouth as she giggled. “I’m sorry; it’s force of habit. I shall endeavour to remember next time.”
Elizabeth had known Father Jonas Meyer ever since she arrived in Glendale with her young family. She loved the comfort of his presence, and the fact she could be completely transparent with him. His warm, brown eyes never wavered when listening to her problems. His gentle smile and humbleness spoke volumes of his devotion to God.
With the pleasantries out of the way, he said, “Is everything okay, Elizabeth? You sounded anxious on the phone when I spoke to you last night.”
She lowered her chin, fixing her gaze on a patch of carpet as she gathered enough courage to pour her heart out.
“I need to be honest with myself and to God.”
“By your hesitation, I gather this is a rather delicate matter? Let us take your troubles to God, shall we?”
He gestured towards the confession box that rested against the side wall at the head of the church. It was a sturdy old structure that had been well-used over the past nine decades. It was chestnut-brown with a cross carved into the centre panel, separating two doorways where dark-maroon curtains hung.