by Stan Mason
‘Hey, Williams!’ he called out loudly. ‘I want to paint your portrait.’
The other prisoner awoke with a start and looked down at Voce angrily. ‘Get outta here!’ he snapped tiredly. ‘I’m sleepin’. Leave me alone!’
Voce pulled harder at the sleeve of the other man until he almost tumbled out of bed on to the floor.. Williams forced his legs over the edge of the bunk bed and climbed down with fury showing on his face.
‘Whassamatter with you, Voce!’ he demanded.’ Whatcha wanna wake me up for?’
‘I want to paint you,’ repeated Voce softly.
Williams blinked a couple of times and he stared at Voce’s face. ‘What happened to you, man?’ he gasped . ‘You look a hundred years old. Your face is all wrinkled.’
Without warning, Voce moved closer to his cell mate and placed his hands gently on the other man’s face as an artist might do before painting a portrait.
‘Get your bloody ‘ands orf me!’ yelled the other prisoner.
‘You don’t understand... ’ began Voce, tailing off as Williams produced a metal skewer he had been fashioned as a narrow blade in the last two weeks. It was a formidable weapon in the hands of a killer. Without hesitation, he drove it into Voce’s body with indelicate force ending his life in seconds. He hadn’t intended to murder his colleague but tiredness and the strangeness of the attitude of the other man, whose face had become exceedingly old during the night, triggered something evil in his mind, causing him to stab Voce with the skewer.
Williams had become quite pragmatic in jail. He was already sentenced to life imprisonment... what more could they do to him? AS far as Voce was concerned, he had matched Farrell, the artist, in death. Both men were no longer on Earth but, even if an autopsy was carried out on either man, no one would ever discover the reason for the defects in the exchange programme which had gone further than just a body-swap. It had exchanged the whole body and the mind! That was something which would baffle the scientists when it was reported back to them!
***
Bill Preston soon became quite used to being alone at Lancaster jail. He was a loner and the silence and solitude that he endured suited him well. It didn’t mean that he wasn’t still angry at Jordan for failing to communicate with him but, with no prisoners in the jail, he had the penitentiary all to himself. Nonetheless, fighting resolutely against the establishment in his mind, he continued to enjoy a pleasant vacation on his own without any interruptions.
However change is always imminent and, one fine morning, the fax machine in his office began to print out a message from an unsuspected source. He went over to the machine and tore off a single printed sheet of paper to read the missive. He was shocked to note that it came directly from the Home Secretary.
“Mr Preston. Please accept my sincere apologies for not having communicated with you earlier. I am sure that you recognise the exigencies of my duties which diverted me from sending you this message. It has been decided that Lancaster jail will shortly start to receive high security risk criminals again which will be limited to five hundred inmates. The first of them should arrive at eleven hundred hours today after his sentencing in the Court. Your role as Governor of Lancaster jail still reigns supreme and I wish to take this opportunity to thank you for all your excellent efforts in the past. You have conducted yourself with the utmost valour at a time of great difficulty for which I commend you.
Signed... Fredrerick Stone
Home Secretary.”
He reread the text a second time with a slight smile touching his lips. It had been sent ot him directly by the Home Secretary... how about that! He was a man at the top of the tree who had written to him personally to commend his for his efforts. ‘You have conducted yourself with great valour,’ he had commented. The Governor could not wish for anything better. The best news of all was that it was all starting again with a new prisoner arriving very shortly followed by many more to come. It was the one thing the world wasn’t short of... criminals... people taking the law into their own hands.
At eleven-fifteen, a large white van pulled up outside Lancaster jail and two warders led out a prisoner who was handcuffed and securely chained at the ankles which allowed him to walk only a few short steps at a time. They brought the man in to the Governor’s office and one of them placed the criminal’s file on the desk. Preston inhaled deeply and stared at the man bleakly. The prisoner was dressed in a tweed jacket, a white shirt, a brown tie and denim trousers. He eyed the Governor with an air of arrogance as Preston looked at him up and down with a calm expression on his face. ‘
‘I understand I’m the first person in this prison,’ stated the newcomer audaciously. ‘If so, then let me say I’m honoured. But do I have to stand when there’s a seat available?’
‘How do you know you’re the first person here?’ questioned the Governor, annoyed that the prisoner had acquired information about the jail.
‘Word gets around,’ came the reply. ‘People talk!’
Preston picked up the manila folder that the warder had placed on his desk and opened it, glancing down at the contents. ‘Ronald David Whittaker,’ he muttered almost in a whisper, his eyes not leaving the front page. ‘Yes... you’re the first one here.’.
‘That’s me!’ confessed the prisoner arrogantly. ‘Ronald David Whittaker... with two t’s.’
‘I see that it’s taken the British Government nearly four years to have you extradited to Britain. No doubt the Americans agreed to do so to maintain cordial relationships on both sides of the Atlantic,’ continued the Governor ploughing through the details.
‘Yep,’ confirmed Whittaker. ‘I was the bone of contention driving them all crazy.’ He moved towards the chair as if to sit down but Preston indicated to one of the warders who forced him to stand up straight.
‘I brook no contravention of the rules in this prison, Whittaker,’ snapped the Governor with a tinge of anger in his voice. ‘If I say you stand, you stand!’ He looked down at the notes in the file again. ‘It says here that you went to the United States with the excuse that you wanted to tour California. You hitch-hiked your way from San Diego to Los Angeles and then got a life to Malibu.’
‘I’ll have you understand that I’m totally innocent of the charge,’ bleated the prisoner interrupting the flow fo the Governor. ‘Totally innocent!’
A wry smile crossed Preston’s face. ‘I had five hundred prisoners in this jail a short while ago,’ he went on with a slight element of amusement, ‘and every single one of them was innocent. They all told me so. What surprised me was how they all ended up with life-sentences for something they didn’t do.’
‘I don’t know about them,’ countered Whittaker sharply. ‘All I know is that I was framed. I’m innocent of the charge brought against me by the Yanks!’
‘You stated that on your way through Malibu, a saloon car travelling on the wrong side of the road, coming from the other direction, smashed into the truck in which you were travelling. You claim that the driver of the other car was drunk and then resorted to road rage. When the police arrived, they found a file in your possession which held the codes of a number of files registered at the Pentagon. When they asked you about it, you told them that the file belonged to the truck driver. Before they could question him, however, the drunk driver of the saloon car produced a revolver and shot the truck driver dead.’
‘That file did not belong to me. I had no idea what was in it. I mean do I look like someone who has hacked into the Pentagon? It’s ridiculous! And for that reason they held on to me for almost four years!’
‘It says here that they believe you shot the truck driver and that there was no other car or drunk driver around. Do you have any answer to that?’
‘I didn’t kill him. They didn’t find the gun. It was taken by the drunk driver who drove away after he shot the truck driver.’
; ‘How the hell did you expect the jury to believe your story?’ forwarded Preston in disbelief.
‘Why not?’ ranted the prisoner. ‘It was the truth!’
‘Truth or not. You’re in here for life. You’d better get used to it!’
‘By the way,’ added Whittaker with a comment that shook the Senior Warden to his roots. ‘I’m not going to have my body exchanged like you’ve done with others.
Preston looked at him in astonishment, baffled by the fact that the man knew all about the exchange programme. ‘What are you saying,’ he managed to respond.
The prisoner stared directly into the Governor’s eyes. ‘My cousin, a man by the name of Metcalfe, escaped from Blackstock jail. He wrote to me telling me all about body exchanges. I’ve left the letter with my lawyer to say that if I don’t contact him every three months he’s to go public with it.’
‘I’ve never heard of anything so stupid, stated the Senior Warden, although flashes of Metcalfe shooting himself flashed through his mind. However he was not the kind of man to buckle to blackmail. ‘Let me outlined the facts here. Prisoners remain shackled by the hands and feet all the time. They enjoy no leisure facilities whatsoever. Telephone calls are no allowed in or out to the outside world. I rule this jail with an iron fist. You’ve a lot to learn, Whitaker. You’re here for life to be punished and you’ll suffer the circumstances for whatever you did... like it or lump it!
He looked down at the notes again shaking his head slowly. ‘There’s a lot more here that I’d like to go through in detail but now is not the time. Apparently they fond ten thousand dollars on you when they searched you and you failed to answer how you came by that sum. They though that you might have been dealing in drugs as well. Hm... you’re an interesting case, Whittaker. I have to say. How old are you?’
‘Thirty-three, What’s that got to do with anything?’
Preston turned his attention towards the warders. ‘Take him to cell thirty-three. He won’t forget where he lives for the next fifty years!’
The prisoner was taken away and the Governor leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. He was absolutely delighted for it was clear that the exchange programme had come to a swift end. The Government was allowing criminals sentenced to life imprisonment back into the jail and he was about to resume his role as the Senior Warden. At last he knew about his future!
***
Sky Summers and Jordan sat facing each other as they enjoyed their meal together in a lavish restaurant. She hardly noticed anything that she was eating, staring long and hard into the handsome face of her dining companion. For a short while, she was willing to allow herself an evening of romantic ideal, dwelling on thoughts of deepest love. However she quickly realised that she was getting ahead of herself. She didn’t believe for one moment that it would last much longer than one single evening... one single meal. Nonetheless, she made certain that she would enjoy it.
Although her ears remained deaf to all that he told her, Jordan ranted on boringly about his life, stating that he was the youngest son of a tailor who was employed by a presser by a large ladies clothing manufacturer in the East End of London. His father had worked overtime, and his mother took a job as a cleaner to earn enough money to send him to university. After all, he had become renowned as the top student in his school in Bethnal Green. Following three years of study at Aston University , he became employed as a lowly manager in the House of Commons. His talent for organisation was soon recognised by one of the members of the Cabinet who took him in hand to sort out the plethora of texts and literature that were passed to him to read daily. He went on to ease the role of the Minister and actually wrote some of his speeches for him, proving himself almost to be indispensable. In due course, he was elevated to a position where he was allowed to attend meetings of senior Members of Parliament acting as an advisor, often asked for clarification or advancement with regard to the subject being discussed. As time went on, he was promoted from one modest post to another, most of them being anonymous appointments ranging arranged by the Government of the day for specific reasons. He regarded himself as an ‘odd-job’ man but at least it was at the highest level.
When the body-exchange programme came to light, his name came to the top of the list and he was appointed as the government agent in charge of the operation. He was burdened with the project which he detested from the start. In his opinion the Government had made the wrong decision to play God by undertaking such an experiment on hapless people, whether they were criminals or not. It was taking away a large part of their lives for no real purpose. However, it was yet another appointment for him up the rungs of the long ladder to the top and he was being paid extremely well for his services. Despite his distaste for the operation, it was a situation where he dared not turn down the appointment for fear of being overlooked for his reticence in the future.
Sky looked at him as he concluded the brief summary of his political life, admiring the man for his progress from a lowly tailor’s son in the East End of London to the relatively eminent role of government agent. She welcomed his honesty, expressing sympathy for his predicament, and her heart opened towards him. She had never mentioned her commitment to anyone of the opposite sex before because her life had been strangely barren with regard to men. Her flaming ambition, to become the top television presenter, was always the paramount aim in her thoughts. Now, on this least auspicious occasion, after three glasses of wine, her mind moved in a different direction to stare at the face of her dining companion with an element of love and romance.
‘I bet you were a little devil as a young girl,’ he advance, with a light smile touching his lips. ‘I can see you tugging the pigtails of the little girl in front of you in class in order to get the attention of the teacher,’
‘Mr. Jordan!’ she reacted in mock surprise. ‘How could you possibly know that?’ She grinned all over her face at his perception of her as a young child. In truth, he was most accurate in his assumption. She had been the terror of the class... not as a bully but as the leader of a gang of young boys and girls.
‘I came from a modest country background,’ she told him candidly. ‘My father was the vicar of Blenville West, supported ably by my mother who was a teacher at the local school. I was an only child and very wayward in my youth... driving them crazy every day, every week, every month by my ambitions and my attitude. I sometimes considered that they had adopted me... that I wasn’t their daughter... because I was so different to either of them. I left home at seventeen and made my way to the City of London, extremely lucky really because I went directly to the television studio demanding to become a news reader. It was strange because my parents didn’t own a television but Destiny was moving ahead of me. Without any previous knowledge, I was interviewed and thrown in at the deep end to become successful. My forte was research and, eventually, I became the head researcher for unusual news items to relate to the public. One of the latest was the body exchange programme of which you’re in charge, although I’m not allowed to tell the viewers about it.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ he apologised. ‘It would start a panic among old people if you did. Everyone would want to get on to the band wagon and why not. What could be better than to extend your life by thirty or forty years with a new body? But when you think it through, there’s bound to be a shortage of people to body-swap in due course. There’s only a limited supply.’
‘Definitely!’ she responded quickly. ‘Where can you find people willing to exchange their bodies for someone much older? I can’t think of anyone agreeing to it voluntarily.’
‘Then we thought about prisoners serving life sentences. They simply rot away in prison being taken care of by the State for the rest of their lives. It was decided that they could become useful especially as the minds of each individual stayed with them as the body was exchanged.’
‘Did anyone consider the human right
s for those deprived of years of their lives?’ she countered, playing the Devil’s Advocate, with her ideas of romance suddenly fading into the distance. ‘What do you say about that?’
‘Those deprived people, as you no double call them, are criminals who deprived other people of their lives leaving a trail of victims behind them to grieve. That’s why they’re serving life sentences,’ he retorted quickly. ‘In reality, they have no lives. They’re incarcerated in prison, deprived of joining human society for their crimes. Can’t you see what an aged military man, or a scientist, an artist or a successful industrialist can do with those extra years against a prisoner spending his life wastefully behind bars? The benefits to humanity are enormous!’