by Adam Steel
As she strode past the cells, she caught the sound of a glob of spit hit the floor behind her. Her head snapped round in the direction of the sound and she saw the offending matter on the floor.
Marko leered back at her from the bars.
‘Marseilles,’ she spat. Her blood pressure started to rise. Marko Marseilles.
She hated him. He refused to do anything the way she wanted it. Disobedience and contraband was up since he had been in and he refused to bow to her. He had also organised a murder on her block. She was sure he was behind the murder of Dud. It was a bad move on his part. Nobody fucks with me and gets away from it, and this uppity nigger’s not going to be the first, she thought.
Drawing up level with Marko’s cell, she glared at him as she twirled the stun baton. Marko didn’t step back into his cell (quite the opposite) he clung to the bars of his cell with even greater determination. He was a very good looking man in his prime. He oozed sex. She knew why the prison girls flung themselves at him. She hated them too. They enjoyed life (and him) and she didn’t. Marko was so close that she could smell the scent of his oily, dreadlocks. Her nose twitched in disgust.
He leered and taunted her in his strong Jamaican accent, 'Ey! Big Mamam. Mi ting see plenty haction! Ya wan' some? Mi 'ere dey gokka lonely gorillaz at da zoo!'
He moved his hips back and forth against the bars, and as he did so, a small piece of fabric fluttered to the ground at her feet. She glared down at the pair of red lace panties. The rage inside her shot up to boiling point. She stared straight at Marko. Her eyes were like splinters of ice piercing his flesh. A spiteful grin etched itself across her thin lips. A deafening crack, intermixed with a sickening crunch, echoed down the passage as she swung the stun-baton full force down on to Marko’s fingers, holding the trigger all the way down. Sparks of blue electric erupted from the device as Marko was thrown backwards into his cell. Smoke was pouring of his scorched knuckles.
‘You just wait nigger. I’m going to see to it you never leave this place. Forget the cushy rehab programme you’re on…you’re going straight to the lifer’s wing to spend the rest of your miserable existence licking the shit off my boots,’ she spat angrily.
She moved closer and whispered, ‘in the meantime remember this. In Beta, nobody’s going to question what happens to you and that ‘ting’ you have down there, might end up as my dog’s breakfast. Sleep well Marseilles.’
Clarke swept up the panties in one deft movement stuffing them into her pocket and turned to address the guard who was running up the corridor to see what all the noise was about.
‘Marseilles had an accident,’ she said dismissively.
The smell of burning flesh was getting up the guard’s nose as he leaned in close to inspect Marko.
‘Again?’ he quipped.
‘Infirmary for that,’ Clarke demanded.
She caught the word “Bitch,” coming from cell 2E, in between the moans of pain.
The guard went to unlock the door, but Clarke’s hand on his shoulder stopped him.
‘But not until tomorrow,’ she said, her face full of satisfaction.
Clarke twirled her humming stun-baton and started to make her way to Max’s cell. The guard trailed unwillingly behind her. Max had watched everything. He saw her coming and stepped back away from the bars. He didn’t want any trouble. She unlocked his cell (and brandishing a pair of handcuffs and leg irons) she prodded his cell mate Boris, with her stun baton. She glared at Max, who was standing as far back against the wall as possible in the cramped space.
‘On your feet Volkov. You’re being sent back,’ she ordered.
Boris woke up and yawned sleepily. ‘Da,’ he said, as he swung round on the tiny bed.
Clarke clamped the handcuffs and leg irons in place. As Boris was leaving the cell he turned to Max before he was led away.
‘Back to the motherland,’ he said and added, ‘Dasvidania comrade.’ He gestured ‘goodbye’ to Max with his cuffed hands as he was led away.
The corridor went deathly quiet as the sound from Clarke’s squeaking boots faded and Max settled back down into his bunk. He was missing Boris’s company already. It seemed an okay turnout for him to be sent back to Russia.
‘Hey,’ a voice whispered from cell 3G.
Alv came up on the bars.
‘Benson. Don’t feel too happy for Boris,’ he said, quietly.
‘What?’ Max replied.
Alv leaned closer, pushing his face between the bars.
‘You know, when you bin ere a long time - like me. Sometimes you see stuff. Stuff you ain’t supposed to.’
Max said nothing and listened as Alv continued.
‘You know Dudley? Well…I seen what was left of 'im gettin' loaded on a truck… when they took 'im outta ere…,’ Alv paused briefly ‘I can tell you son that Boris, your buddy? He’s going, wherever Dudley went, on the exact same truck.’
Alv shrank back into his cell saying nothing more.
Max rolled over and stared at the ceiling again.
He folded his arms under his head.
He was thinking.
Governor Taskin’s Office: Later that day
‘Uh, Ms Clarke, do you have an appointment?’
The secretary had barely got her words out, as Clarke stomped straight past her desk and stormed into the governor’s office, slamming the door shut behind her. Now that Boris had been squared away, Clarke had other business to attend too. The secretary slumped back into her chair and braced herself for the inevitable fallout. The Governor cowered behind his desk. Set in the centre of his desk, was a wooden nameplate, mounted on a brass plate. It was black and the words Governor Arthur Taskin, were engraved on it in gold lettering. The back wall of his office was adorned with framed awards and photographs of the achievements of Alpha Wing’s rehabilitation programme. Taskin took great pride in his work and promoted reform at every opportunity.
‘We need to arrange another transfer,’ Clarke demanded, before he could address her.
Taskin flinched. He tried his hardest to avoid conflict with Clarke. She made him a nervous wreck.
‘Look at this,’ she bellowed, chucking a pair of red lace panties in his face.
Her face was an ugly red colour, and her eyes were full of spite.
‘Marseilles. Unless he’s a tranny, which I seriously doubt, I’d like to know how the hell he managed to get a woman in his cell. He’s been shagging one of the CURE prison girls,’ she spat ferociously.
Taskin shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘I heard from the duty guard you’ve already arranged him a transfer, straight to the infirmary…again,’ he stated, with as much authority as he could muster.
Clarke glared at him.
‘He attacked me on patrol. I was compelled to use force to defend myself,’ she replied bluntly. ‘The cameras would have caught it if it wasn’t malfunctioning again,’ she reinforced.
Taskin folded his arms and considered her reply. The camera system only seemed to malfunction when Clarke was patrolling.
‘Why did you delay in sending him?’ he asked.
‘Because I had to deal with Volkov!’ Clarke snapped in response.
Taskin frowned.
‘These incidents all generate more paperwork,’ Taskin explained, trying to maintain a dry steady voice.
Inside he was quaking. Warden Clarke terrified him. He had been thrilled when he received her transfer request from Redemption, (the female counterpart to Vigilance). A warden of her experience had sounded like a wonderful asset on paper. He had been regretting the decision to approve the transfer ever since he had met his new warden.
She was psychotic.
He knew all too well why she had been given a glowing resume – the other prison couldn’t get rid of her fast enough. Now she was his problem.
‘You know as well as I do, that increasing prisoner’s terms and having them transferred in-between blocks has to be approved through Mason Henson’s offices, and t
hey hate it when things are done irregularly. It looks bad for us,’ he said.
Clarke snorted.
‘You know he was behind that business with Dudley Roach. The man is a killer! It’s our job to cage them. Permanently,’ she growled.
Her limited patience was rapidly expiring.
Taskin pulled a face, ‘we’ve already sent his cellmate, Maurice, down for that. The Hammer is supposed to handle the sentencing. Not us. Two in one month is going to cause a problem.’
Clarke’s patience snapped. She wanted Marko for life. She had made herself a promise that if it took her twenty years to break him she would do it. She would never stomach the possibly of his release, not before she had broken him. She viewed Taskin as a slimy puissant bureaucrat, who was preventing her from getting what she wanted.
‘You can’t cure animals like that,’ she stormed. Her face was turning an ugly purple colour. ‘He won’t follow orders. He’s a murdering bastard and I can’t understand a word he says in that stupid nigger accent.’
Taskin coughed, ‘our rehabilitation programme…’
‘He’s fucking up the entire wing!’ Clarke yelled, drenching Taskin in a wave of spit. ‘That bleeder poppin’ motherfucker isn’t something you can fix with words. Animals like that have to be caged – permanently,’ she fumed. ‘I want him sent down as Maurice’s accomplice. You can do that. You NEED to do that before someone else dies.’
For a split second, Taskin pondered on who the someone might be, that Clarke was referring to, and whether Marko would be the perpetrator of that particular murder. Her eyes shone with hatred. She towered over him like a menacing colossus of anger. Taskin caved in. The extra paperwork was easier than this, he thought.
‘Okay. I’ll pull his file,’ he said in a wavering voice.
He turned to a computer screen beside him, relieved to be able to hide behind something. Clarke stood there fuming – breathing heavily – as the governor unlocked the work station with a shining key card and began hitting the keys.
‘What’s Marseille’s number?’ he asked tentatively.
Clarke re-iterated Marko’s Utopian number. She had memorised it off by heart. Taskin hit a few more keys and waited. A look of confusion crossed his face for a moment. Then a look of almost relief lit his features. He rotated the screen so that Clarke could view its contents.
‘Ms Clarke. It seems someone had pre-empted your concerns.’
Clarke paused. Her piggy eyes scanned the screen. A portfolio of Marko Marseilles was on screen featuring his mug shot, along with a read out of his vital statistics. This was followed by a flowing wall of text listing his criminal record. The ‘suspected’ section spanned three whole pages. One line at the bottom pulsed in red text, drawing Clarke’s attention.
STATUS: INCARCERATION
C.U.R.E. PRISON NORTH
ALPHA WARD CELL 2E
AWAITING TRANSFER
Several options were listed under the information.
[CLOSE]
[ENHANCE]
[DATA RETRIEVE]
[ROOT]
Taskin hit: [ENHANCE]
The screen changed to a wall of text.
‘It seems, Marseilles, along with those others brought in with him, and quite a few others, are having their sentences commuted to maximum,’ he said, pointing at the reams of prisoner numbers that were scrolling down the screen.
‘Good,’ spat Clarke under her breath.
Her vile temper was starting to cool back down into a steady pit of unpleasantness.
‘The orders are coming down from Mason Henson’s offices. It seems they concur with you that rehabilitation isn’t possible in every case,’ Taskin sighed.
He was relieved. Despite the fact he viewed each prisoner that got sent to Beta Wing as a personal failure (and it looked bad for the rehab statistics) at least he wouldn’t have to petition Mason Henson’s office for the transfer. The news had also pacified Clarke.
‘We’ve got sixteen individuals being transferred from Alpha Wing to Beta Wing right here. You’ll be handling the transfers of course,’ he offered.
‘Naturally,’ spat Clarke. Satisfied, Clarke straightened up, sporting one of her rare, twisted smiles. ‘It’s about fucking time,’ she snorted ‘these animals have no place outside. That’s what we’re here for.’
Taskin gave a resigned nod as Clarke marched out. He looked down at the red panties that had flopped into his lap and picking them up with a finger and thumb he dropped them into the waste basket. His shoulders slumped as he rotated the screen back around to face him. He was looking at the reams of information that poured out in front of him. Puzzled, he tried to make sense of the data. He had been governor of the prison almost ten years. He remembered exactly the amount of prisoners Mason Henson’s offices had requested be transferred from Alpha to Beta in that period.
It was two.
Chapter 13: The Masquerade Ball
Phoenix Palace: Sector One
Saturday 7th July
A rainbow of strobe lights filled the sky over Diamond Square. Phoenix Palace was iridescent with lights against the clear evening sky. The whole of Diamond Square Plaza was thronged with excited people. Phoenix Palace was the jewel in the crown for the masons. It was a truly magnificent tribute to their success. It resembled to some extent a smaller version of the 16th Century Palace of Versailles in Paris, and it had its own unique construction of the Hall of Mirrors. That is where the highly advertised, masquerade ball, was going to take place that evening.
Richie Red and his band would be attending the ball as guests. The whole event would be broadcast live, on an immense screen, which faced out over the vast plaza of Diamond Square. The screens facing Diamond Square would also be showing the last live concert that Richie Red had performed in Eden City. Huge speakers would beat out the music so that the crowds outside of Phoenix Palace could enjoy the evening.
The theme of the ball was to be an ultra-modern twist on French renaissance period. Everyone, who was anyone, in Coney City would be there. Many citizens had travelled down from Eden City to stay overnight in the luxury hotels in Sector One ready for the event.
Mason Bruce Katcher had made a point of telling Jon Li many times over in the last few weeks (as the construction of Phoenix Palace came to fruition) that, Phoenix Palace was going to be very good for business indeed.
Phoenix Palace was Mason Katcher’s pet project and he kept the financial details very close to his chest. Katcher had been very nervous since the incident at Genie involving Mason Henson. She was now escorted by six personal body guards, instead of the usual two, wherever she went.
He also had plans to step up his own personal security routines.
Jon Li had had to endure Katcher's’ constant sarcastic quips and put downs which had accelerated since the incident. His hand in saving Mason Henson had only seemed to aggravate Katcher further. Jon Li had kept his head down at work and quietly tried his best to avoid Katcher.
Katcher had insisted that Mason Deckler bring in extra TALOS security for the occasion. His emphasis on ‘extra security’ meant that TALOS officers seemed to out-number the reporters – which was a feat in itself.
A massive crowd of reporters had gathered on the steps to photograph the celebrities that were attending the grand opening of Phoenix Palace. A hundred cameras clicked and flashed in a frenzied array of light to photograph the elite of Utopian society as they arrived in their expensive limousines.
It was a reporter’s paradise.
It was a security officer’s nightmare.
Abigail Winters was one of a number of freelance reporters that was hustling for good footage. She had her camera man, Anton, with her and she was intent on hunting down the best story she could get for her freelance newspaper, The Daily Informer. It was hard work being a freelancer in Utopia. The Daily Utopic (which was owned and run by Mason Henson) would get the best shots and interviews. They always did.
Jon Li’s silver limousine glided into
place behind the queues of similar cars, which were offloading their fashionably dressed passengers. They drove past the lines of TALOS security officers. Jon Li’s chauffeur, Rexton was a reformer. Ellie had often wondered if they put reformers into jobs that reflected their crimes and she pondered if Rexton’s crime was car theft or, perhaps joy riding. Jon Li rarely rode in the car himself, preferring to walk to work. He liked to keep fit, and he claimed the fresh air invigorated him.
The multitude of camera lights flashed in Jon Li’s eyes. He put his hand over his face and smiled at Ellie. He was thinking that she looked amazing: beyond the words of even the most accomplished poet. The intense blue colour of her dress only served to highlight her long blonde hair. Her blue lace gloves covered her milky skin, right up to her elbows. Her mask was silver with a blue trim. It seemed to go perfectly with the white streak in her hair. The mask was finished with decadent peacock feathers.
Jon Li leaned in and kissed her. Rexton glanced at the kiss through the mirror. He adjusted his chauffeur's hat slightly. Ellie could see that Rexton was smiling from the wrinkles around his eyes.
‘Ready?’ Jon Li said.
‘I’m ready…I think,’ she replied, nervously touching up her lipstick for the umpteenth time.
The cameras clicked and flashed and reporters jostled around the car. Several TALOS officers stepped in and pushed the reporters out of the way of the limousine. One of them gestured to Jon Li to get out while he held back the crowd.
‘Don’t be nervous. Enjoy it. You deserve it,’ Jon Li said.
Ellie was looking at the lines of TALOS that stretched up the steps of Phoenix Palace.
‘So much security Jon. Are they expecting trouble? You know…like that incident,’ Ellie said with some trepidation.
She stroked the white lock of hair that curled its way down the side of her mask, as he recalled the horrible attack on Mason Henson at Genie. Rexton looked at her curiously in the mirror. Jon Li put his finger to his lips, looked at Rexton, and then to her.