Judy was flabbergasted. Here he was, a convicted killer, hitting on her at the end of a formal prisoner interview. The man’s ego was beyond comprehension.
Unbelievable.
Then she wondered if, perhaps, it was a consequence of his incarceration since his teens. Maybe he was just not aware how inappropriate it was. She busied herself bundling her things away as she thought how best to respond.
‘I don’t think so Peter. I have a husband.’ She avoided any sort of eye contact for that one. She almost added that she had a son too, but something, maternal instinct perhaps, stopped her from mentioning Josh to this man.
And anyway, it was true. She had been married. Even though her husband had left her. Well, she had kicked him out really. Either way, there was no need for Leech to know.
‘So why no ring? Ms Finch.’ His words harsh and suspicious.
She felt like prey again as his eyes lingered on her body. She sensed him stripping bare the partial truth inside her head, while undressing her body inside his. She shuddered. Her imagination was running amok again. She cleared her throat, tried to sound authoritative.
‘I never wear it to work. But I married my childhood sweetheart when I graduated from university. Goodbye Peter. I doubt we’ll meet again.’
She stood and shook his hand in an effort to signal the matter was closed. He held on for a second too long, and dangled some words in front of her, barely audible silky vocal threads, his face devious.
‘Whatever Birdy. We’ll see.’ His green eyes were drilling into her as he spoke.
She snatched her hand away. Surely she must have misheard him, but preferred not to ask him to repeat it. Did he call her Judy again? And what did he mean?
She scurried from the room and eventually surfaced on the street outside the prison, grateful at last to be able to suck in some fresh air. It tasted sweet.
She gulped it down and hailed a cab, her mind tumbling over his audacious request for a date. His cocky look. His lust for her body. And his parting words.
What did he say?
Whatever, Judy. We’ll see?
He must have been mistaken, thinking she was going to attend his hearing.
Of course he was.
***
Finch, he thought. A good name for her. A shy little bird, frightened but determined to keep on coming. Peck, peck, pecking at him.
Finch.
My little bird.
Leech shoved his arms straight, feeling satisfaction, his muscles working a steady rhythm as he bench-pressed two hundred pounds. His body worked while his mind considered the woman he had spent the last couple of hours with.
Woman. She smelt so good he had wanted to eat her, consume her, make her part of him. Shy little Birdy she may be, but all woman. Not like the fucking dyke warders that stank of fags and sweat. Not for the first time he wondered why the Home Office employed women, if you could call them that, to keep men like him locked up.
Bitches.
But the Finch. She had wanted him. He could see it in her eyes. Those coy, violet gems had tickled their way across his shoulders and chest, checking him out, fearful of showing just how much she wanted him.
Oh yeah, little Birdy. I can read your mind.
Leech stood, smiling to himself as he flicked the sweat from his forehead. The gym was small and crowded with machines and weights, but only a dozen inmates were permitted to use it at any given time. One screw sat, idle, turning pages of a magazine, supposedly supervising the cons.
Lazy bastard.
Leech grabbed the two largest barbells, shouldering a dread-locked Rastafarian aside, scorching him with a look, defying the bigger man to respond. He did not. He just walked away.
Pussy.
Pussy? Mmm, he thought. Ms Finch. Yeah. She came across like a virgin, but he knew better. She was hot.
Virgin? In one way she was – it was obvious this was her first time inside. The way she kept fondling her ‘awayday’ pass, as if the wrist-band was a talisman to ward off the evil of this place. And her birdy, birdy twitching as she kept glancing outside the glass walls, checking the guards were watching over her.
Yeah, little miss virgin.
But it can only be good for me, he decided. He knew that a hardened Parole Board Officer with experience of many prison visits would not have felt the same sense of shock and hopelessness. Would not respond to the pressure of prison squeezing the fresh air from his lungs.
And her face when he’d shown her his teeth! Ha! And the bullshit. As if he’d put up with being face-fucked and shafted for six months. Six days more like. What had he told her? Oh yeah, he’d squeaked like a little girl when he’d said he was just a harmless feeble druggie. He laughed aloud, oblivious to the glances from the other inmates, though if any one of them caught his eye it would lead to trouble.
He studied his forearms as he curled the dumbbells, not bothering to count, just pushing until fatigue finally made him cease the regular pumping. One thing was true, he had not looked anything like this good when he first arrived. He was lazy back then. But inside here there was not much else to do. And no one messed with him now.
His biceps were burning, but he ignored the pain, concentrating on his refuge, his private inner world. Thinking was free. Thinking was freedom – well, as close as you could get inside here.
His mind floated back to that first week after his conviction. Yes, a few of the more aggressive cons had forced him to perform, had violated his body, had drawn blood.
Even then, he was better than them. Smaller too. But brighter, quicker. More deadly. Sometimes he imagined he was a snake. A cobra, its strike a punching blow, hard, piercing skin, ruining flesh. Fatal.
It was not difficult to get a weapon in prison. You were only limited by your own imagination. And Leech’s imagination had no bounds.
He set the weights down, let his arms recover, and then strolled over to the leg press machine. Another inmate, pneumatic muscles slick and bulging, an advert for the steroids on offer from the dealers inside, was straining as he used the machine Leech wanted. Leech stared hard into the man’s face, screwing into him with his eyes.
The challenge was obvious. Eye contact is considered an aggressive action by inmates and inevitably led to violence.
Or acquiescence.
The other con stepped off the machine, muttering, ‘It’s all yours, okay man. I’m finished anyway.’
Leech blanked him, increased the setting and settled back to push his legs to exhaustion. His reverie continued, his thoughts ranging back to his first week in prison. And the start of his reputation.
McCauley was his name. He reminded Leech of his father. Six foot three, heavy set with solid muscle. A boxer’s build, not a gym junkie’s drug bloated frame. Inside for murder and gang rape, Mack was a forty year old lifer with no hope of parole. Or sex. Other than with another male, willing or not.
He had been using Leech for most days of that first week, along with two other inmates who had taken a fancy to Leech’s youthful body. Everything changed that last time though.
Leech’s face contorted as he squeezed his thighs against the weight, the memory rather than the effort twisting his features. He had been sitting on his bed, reading, when Mack entered his cell, pulling his hard, fat, stinking cock out and, as usual, shoving it at Leech’s face.
Leech almost gagged at the recollection, legs straining against the weights, eyes on the ceiling, unseeing. He groaned aloud, the events replaying in his mind.
Mack, cock in hand, voice rasping and urgent as he grabbed the back of Leech’s head, pulling the young boy’s mouth towards him. ‘Suck it bitch. Suck it hard.’
He was prepared for Mack this time. It had cost him though. He’d paid twenty quid to a trustee who worked in the kitchen. He wanted a knife but the trustee told him that was not possible – the warders were not that stupid. The best he could do was supply a tin lid, discarded from one of the many giant cans of beans they used every day.
&
nbsp; To Leech it was a bargain. He sharpened the jagged edge on the concrete wall of the exercise yard, and then bent the metal to fit comfortably in his palm. Now he had a shiv with a viciously serrated blade.
And as he bent his head forward, as if to take Mack into his mouth, he whipped his hand up between the big man’s legs. The weapon sliced through Mack’s lust swollen scrotum in a flash. Leech was euphoric, the adrenalin pumping as he struck again, ripping the blade through the head of Mack’s penis. A piece of purple flesh flew off in a gout of blood.
Mack did not even have time to cry out, he was so shocked and stunned by the speed of the attack. Leech pressed home the advantage. He rocketed up off the bed, battering the top of his skull into Mack’s face, the satisfaction of the crunch of bones lifting his spirits for the first time since his sentencing hearing.
Mack collapsed at his feet, unconscious. Leech strolled out of his cell to the washrooms. He had been sitting in his underwear, baiting the trap, and all he needed to do now was wash the spattered blood from his chest and face.
He showered, bent the metal weapon into a tight wad and poked it down the drain. He was whistling, towelling himself off when the alarm sounded.
That was the day his life finally changed for the better, he thought, as he got off the machine. He took a breather and a swig of water before leaping onto the jogging machine. No one was using it, very few of them did. He sneered at the posers, grunting and pumping iron for all they were worth while he built his stamina by running. He knew it was a slow way to create muscle, and it made him feel good that none of the others put in the effort. But he knew that muscles built quickly, faded quickly. Fitness was four things to him – strength, suppleness, speed and stamina. He had all four. An athlete.
He cranked the controls, jacking the velocity up, and pounded the rubber mat, all the while repeating his mantra: I’m better than all of them.
Once more his inner world took over as his body pushed itself on autopilot, his legs and lungs stretched to their limit by the miniature conveyor belt.
He had expected trouble from the Governor. An inquiry, some extra days of time or even a criminal court action against him.
McCauley had been carried from his cell squealing like a baby.
Hard man? Like fuck... Not that McCauley was much of a man any more.
Leech chuckled to himself at the thought.
He had been called to the Governor’s office an hour later, while his blood drenched cell was stripped and searched, then hosed clean. They frog-marched him to the boss’s office, hands cuffed and chained to a leather belt. Leech felt nothing but elation. No apprehension or fear for the consequences. He never had.
What will be, will be.
But the outcome surprised him.
The Governor rattled off a little speech. ‘Okay Peter. Inside this office you can tell me anything. No one else will know. Not the inmates, not the warders, not even the police. Just you and me. You’re a young man with many years ahead of you in here and you need to decide whether you trust me and the system. Okay? Now. What happened?’
Did he think Leech was stupid? He never trusted anyone, was always suspicious of other people’s motives, and this was no exception. His answer was a popular catchphrase inside: ‘Yeah. Right.’
The Governor flushed, his voice hardening. ‘So, you prefer the pathetic prisoners’ code of silence.’ He shook his head, then sighed. ‘I have a good idea what McCauley was up to, but I need you to tell me. Otherwise how can I improve things around here?’
Leech just shrugged. ‘I have no clue Governor. I don’t even know what Mack was doing in my cell. Having a wank over my underwear maybe? Caught his dick in his flies? I was in the shower.’
‘Bullshit. I don’t believe a word. You’d better keep your nose clean Leech... You’ve had your chance. But now I know which side you’re on.’ The Governor shrugged and dismissed him. And that was that.
No prosecution. No comeback. McCauley was transferred, and even though Leech hated the man, he gave him his due for not grassing him up to the authorities. Never spoke about the incident at all.
Must’ve known he just got what he deserved. Fuckin pervert.
From that day on, his time had got easier and easier. He had that most elusive and valuable asset inside prison: respect. In fact he became something of a minor celebrity and actively cultivated his iron man image. Even adopted a nickname. The Snake.
He was patient too. The other two men who had abused him decided he was best left alone after the incident, turning their attention to others more vulnerable. And nobody liked Mack, the big man had no friends inside, so no one was out for revenge.
Far from it. Leech remembered one of the hard-asses back-slapping him and telling him, ‘Well done kiddo. That ugly bastard’s days of fudge-nudging are over for good.’
He slowed the machine, satisfied he had worked his body enough for one day. He stepped off and stretched out. He ignored the other inmates. And they ignored him.
It did not bother him. He was a loner. Self-sufficient. Superior.
And he never, ever forgot a slight. Always took his revenge.
It had taken several months, but both the other two abusers died. One ‘overdosed’ on heroin, the other ‘committed suicide’ with a bed sheet. Subsequently Leech’s reputation grew to a point where no one messed with him. Men who had nothing, and so respected nothing, except physical strength and ruthless aggression, stepped aside for him. He was a king amongst fools.
He rubbed himself down, considered showering but couldn’t be bothered. He headed back to his cell, his subconscious throwing a vision of the Finch twittering at him in the interview. Her tight fitting suit barely disguising the luscious body beneath. Horny little bitch.
So like his Susan. His childhood love. He’d seen her photograph recently and of course, she’d aged. Finch reminded him of her, but was even better looking.
And she had such lovely tits.
Then he frowned as he remembered the rejection. ‘I don’t think so. I have a husband.’
What bullshit. Why would she tell him to call her Mizz and not Mrs? And where was her wedding ring, eh?
She was just spoofing him. Yeah, that was it. Didn’t want to seem too keen. The little prick tease.
He felt better. No, she wouldn’t be able to resist him.
After all, she wouldn’t want a Snakebite, would she now?
***
Judy was clinging on to the grab handle in the back of the black cab as the driver, who seemed to think he was in formula one rather than London rush hour, raced around the back alleys and hidden short cuts to avoid the snarled up traffic.
The meeting had left her dazed and confused. Or rather, the man had. After leaving the prison she walked around for a while, found a park bench and tried to make sense of her first prison experience. Her first prisoner experience.
Normally, after rising to a challenge, as she had many times in her academic and professional career, usually having exceeded her own expectations, she would be exhilarated, charged with excitement at conquering a new task, a new experience. But this?
She did not know what to think. And would she ever get used to prison?
Did she want to?
She had no ready answer, rousing herself to hail a cab only when the rain started and she realised how much time had ebbed away.
As the vehicle jolted her through the Friday rush hour traffic she glanced at her watch – it was getting on for six. Her mother would be disapproving, as usual, though reliable as ever, baby-sitting Josh and preparing dinner for all three of them.
‘Traffic’s solid up ahead love. I’ll avoid the south circular if that’s okay. Might be no quicker, but worth the risk?’ The cabby’s eyebrows were raised in question as he watched her in the rear view mirror, waiting for her reaction.
‘I don’t mind. Do what you think is best.’
She almost fell off her seat as he swung the cab into a U-turn and they rattled off in the dir
ection they had come.
London. Traffic still bad, despite the congestion charge. She had no car now, unwilling to pay several pounds a day for it to spend most of its life parked outside her Fulham home. Shame though. She just fancied a trip out to the coast or the countryside this weekend. Some clean air. As she considered the idea she concluded – why not? Josh would love that. They could take her mum too. A train ride to Brighton would do them all the power of good. That’s that, she decided.
The cab driver had been right. It seemed she was home in no time, pulling up outside her little sanctuary in a leafy London backstreet. She had bought it with the proceeds of the sale of the old family home after the divorce.
The garden flat had cost over half a million pounds, but was worth every penny. It had seemed a lot for a couple of small bedrooms, a galley kitchen that, she thought guiltily, she rarely cooked in, and two large reception rooms – a play room for Josh and a quiet lounge for her. She loved the place.
She opened the front door and heard Josh squealing, ‘Mum’s home,’ as he bounded out of his play room, followed at a more sedate pace by his grandmother.
‘Hi honey.’ She ruffled his head, knelt down and gave her six-year old pride and joy a hug. She pulled a face at her mother while clinging to him. ‘Sorry I’m late. It took longer than I expected.’
‘Don’t worry love. We’ve had a great afternoon, haven’t we Josh?’ The barb was not lost on Judy. Her mother was dumpy, frumpy, white-haired and wrinkled beyond her years. Laughter lines she called them, with disarming accuracy. She was a godsend for Judy, even if she did still think a woman’s place was in the home.
‘We’ve baked cakes mum! Little cup cakes with icicles on!’ She allowed her son to drag her into the kitchen, his hot hand straining as he tugged her along.
‘They look lovely! But I think you mean icing sweetheart.’
‘Uh – icing. Whatever.’
Her heart frosted at the word and the way it was uttered.
Whatever.
Her mind wrenched her back to the prison, making her think of Leech, his attitude and his parting words. She clutched at her chest, eyes wide, shocked.
Remorseless: A British Crime Thriller (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate #1) Page 5