Strangeways

by Matthew Samm

  Strangeways

  The Wardens Trilogy- Book 1

  Matthew Samm

  Proud and Independent Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Matthew Samm

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  About the Author

  Matthew Samm is a teacher, working in a British high school.

  He has a wonderful wife and two beautiful children.

  He writes whenever he’s not grading papers, writing lesson plans, playing with his kids or chatting to his wife…usually before 6am and after 9pm.

  ‘Strangeways’ is Matt’s first, full length novel.

  Come and visit him at his website:

  www.matthewsamm.com

  If you have a moment…

  Thanks for picking up a copy of ‘Strangeways’. It took many hours to bring it into existence and I’ve loved every moment.

  I would heartily appreciate if you could leave an honest review once you’ve read.

  If you enjoyed the story, great! Your review will help others enjoy it also.

  If you didn’t enjoy the story, then I’m sorry. I should know where I need to improve.

  Thanks for being a part of this journey.

  Cheers

  Matt

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my wife for the colossal amounts of patience needed to put up with me during this process.

  Also, to Bryn Ditchburn at On Point Edits. I didn’t think I needed you at first, but boy was I wrong! Thanks for everything.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  REMINDER: If you have a moment…

  Also by Matthew Samm

  1

  Robert Brooks suspected he’d be dead in less than five minutes. He stood behind the veil; a thin curtain drawn across the arena entrance. It reminded him of the tunnel dying minds see in their final moments, except there was no while light at the end.

  His breathing was calm, steady and deep; a breath that masters one's emotions and ensures clarity of thinking. He knew he was going to die. It was the way it always ended for people like him. He was his father’s son and for that; he was proud.

  Through the veil, he could hear the deafening cheers, the baying for blood from the crowd who had come to see justice enacted and the criminal pay for his assault on democracy and freedom. A strobe light passed over the semi-transparent curtain periodically, like a slow beating heart. It almost welcomed him, daring him to step through and face what was waiting for him.

  On both sides of him stood his guards. Enormous men, with thick muscles which were covered in tattoos and bristling with restraining gear. They didn’t carry guns, that wasn’t why they were there. They were there to ensure he got to the cells in one piece so he could be killed in the right way.

  For a second, he allowed himself to think back to the moment that sealed his fate. It was exactly a month ago.

  He stood out of sight, periodically peering around the corner, his shoulder pressed into the brickwork, his nose catching wafts of damp mortar. He focused on nothing but his target.

  She was a young and beautiful woman, wearing festive red, and carrying a shopping bag, bulging with whatever she’d been buying. It was nearly Christmas. Maybe they were presents. Maybe she was overjoyed at being home, desperate to see the gifts wrapped and safely tucked under the tree.

  Normally, her happiness might have swayed him down a different path, but not this time. He knew what he had to do. He watched as she struggled to close the car’s back door. Not wanting to put the bag on the rain-washed paving stones, she circled it with her arm and trapped it against her body. Her red coat and matching gloves provided less dexterity than she needed.

  Robert watched her curse as her arm squashed the gifts and she threw her free hand in the air in good-natured frustration, but the smile never left her face. She fumbled with her car keys and pressed the clicker, watching as the rear lights flashed; the vehicle secure.

  Robert made his move while she was distracted, trying to push the bulky keys into her coat pocket.

  His hand dropped to his side, feeling the holster and the Neos 22 pistol. Feeling the weapon in his hand was a familiar sensation. The smooth and sleek 900g instrument of death was an extension of himself, and it briefly crossed his mind how he could change lives with the weapon as he adjusted his grip and pulled it from its holster, allowing it to drop unseen to his side.

  He crossed the road in seconds, oblivious to the white car screeching its brakes and blaring its horn at him.

  She was mere meters away when two things happened. Together, they would ensure his one-way trip to the cells.

  As the gun raised, he saw the woman drop her bag onto the mucky pavement. She’d been so careful to avoid such a circumstance and yet, now, she dropped the bag without consideration.

  The door to this woman’s home had opened and Robert could hear screams of delight. He couldn’t see whoever was making the jubilant noise, but it didn’t matter. By this time, his gun had raised level, pointing to her back, right where her heart lived. If he’d had a few more moments, he might have hesitated and saved himself his doom, but he didn’t.

  He pulled the trigger. The crack echoed around the glass buildings, ricocheting around the downtown street, and coming full circle to crack into his ears again.

  Robert saw the bullet make contact with his mark. Her jacket puffed as the bullet parted the fabric. She arched forward and fell to the ground, her life already ended.

  It was then he saw his mistake. The child still carried the final smile she’d worn as the bullet passed through her mother and into her. She could only have been five or six, but she lay underneath the woman’s dead body. Neither of them were breathing. Not only had Robert stolen the life of the woman, but he’d snatched away the life of her daughter.

  He didn’t bother trying to run. He was supposed to. As he did with any mugging, he was supposed to grab the bag and take to his heels, diving to cover and seamlessly disappearing into the spotlessly clean back streets; back into society.

  He couldn’t. He’d never meant to kill a kid. That was never part of the plan. He felt the fleeting stab of tears come to his eyes and blinked them away.

  Then, as sirens tore the city peace asunder, he dropped to his knees, allowing the gun to fall to the ground in front of him. He placed his hands on his head and waited for the handcuffs to lash closed around his wrists. His last taste of freedom.

  Robert snapped back to reality and the din coming from the crowd grew louder as he focused on it. He let out a deep shaky breath. He deserved to be here. He’d take it back if he could, but he couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been so bad if just the woman had died, but not the kid.

  Nodding to himself, he whispered his apologies. It wasn’t to anybody, but if there was a God and the kid was watching his punishment, he wanted her to know he was sorry. He never meant her to die. Maybe he’d have a chance to tell her face to face.<
br />
  He felt a sharp jab between his shoulder blades, pushing him off balance so he had to step forward. He took the step and halted, feeling the wrenching tug of fear deep inside. He felt another jab, and he moved again.

  The jabs kept coming until he was moving of his own accord, inexorably towards that veil, when he’d finally see the witnesses to his death. He wouldn’t see the millions more watching on vid, but the thousands in attendance would overwhelm enough.

  For a moment, Robert considered making an escape attempt. It was halfhearted, and he didn’t feel like he should be free, but you don’t survive on Strangeways Island, for as long as he had, by not instinctively pursuing survival.

  It was a conscious effort to keep walking towards the curtain.

  On autopilot, he checked the laser cuffs on his wrists; the bracelet above each hand and the lashings of electrical energy that bound them together. They’d be taken off soon.

  One final push saw him break the veil and tumble into a deafening sea of sensory overload. The noise, the colors, the vids, the spotlights, it was all blaring and made his head pound. He could feel the blood pumping around his temples, as the rise and fall of his chest quickened.

  He tried to look in every direction at once. Each time, his attention was diverted and then another diversion would steal it in another direction. He couldn’t focus on anything. The calmness he’d experienced moments ago had evaporated.

  His legs continued to move along the narrow path carved out of the audience. The guards had changed their role. Behind the veil, their job was to make sure he couldn’t escape. Through the veil, their role was to protect him from the crowd leaning into the walkway, clawing at his head and face, searching either to punish him themselves or to snag a souvenir that might be worth serious money some day; a few strands of hair or skin from under their nails.

  In front of him, at the end of the walkway stood the cell; a cage of meshed metal, topped with electro-wire.

  Normally, the criminal would enter the cell and a Warden would follow him. The Warden, a professional fighter employed by the city, was trained to the peak of physical perfection. Their reflexes, their power, their movement, their skills were superlative. The city took a fighter and turned them into a predator, and convicted criminals were the prey. Chosen by the victim’s family, the Wardens would dispense justice by pounding the lawbreakers until the bell sounded. It was open season if they knocked you out. The people loved it. The felons lost their power and the victims regained theirs as they watched the Warden beat the victim’s pain out of those who’d wronged them.

  After several bouts, as decided by a judge, they would release the convicted, their sentence served. No lengthy prison stays. You fought a ‘bout’ and then you recovered; you fought again and then you recover. This continued until you served your sentence.

  It wouldn’t be the case for Robert. His was an execution. When he entered the cell, he would not leave while breathing. He had one privilege that most victims didn’t have, however. He knew who his killer would be. The Deathsman. There was always only one; the greatest of the Wardens, whose job it was to punish those criminals condemned to die. His killer would be Peere Ropét, nicknamed ‘The Reaper’.

  On the far wall, seen through the mesh were pictures of the victims. The woman, Rosie Venner, was the wife of Lucien Venner, the founder of the Wardens and the young girl, Alice, was his daughter.

  His victims ensured an execution bout. Their pictures, portrait shots in happy times, flashed across the big screen as emotional melodies pulled at the audience’s heartstrings. Robert was the demon in this story and the law made damned sure everyone knew it.

  Entering the cell, his guards led him to his corner, facing away from the big screen and made to watch the approach of his killer.

  The lights dimmed and silence fell, smothering everything like a fire blanket. A single spotlight fell on the same veil he’d walked through only moments before. A bell sounded, a death knell and suddenly, the curtain parted to the most intimidating man Robert had ever seen.

  He’d heard the stories, but they paled compared to reality. The Reaper’s head was shaved bald, except for a square of thick black hair on the crown of his head, pulled into a ponytail and stretching down to his mid-back, like a tail. It made him look almost bestial, as if he longed to return to a more savage world of kill or be killed.

  The Reaper’s body was lithely muscled, hammered to veteran perfection, and screamed a balance of strength, longevity and stamina. He would not get tired. He would not die easily, and he could move mountains.

  Dead faces covered his body, tattoos of his victims, their death masks. Another rodent eradicated, the Reaper would commit their dead face to memory and add it to his torso tapestry, a permanent reminder of a lifetime’s service killing those condemned to die by the City. He did not blink as he entered the cell. The Reaper’s eyes never left his quarry.

  Then the cell door closed, and the light flashed from green to red. Locked.

  The arena lights remained dim, and the announcer began his spiel. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, this is the main event of the evening! The Execution Bout!”

  The crowd noise rose to a crescendo, baying for blood, desperate to watch him die.

  “Introducing first, fighting for the guilty, a murderer who took the life of Rosemary and Alice Venner by gunshot. He stands six feet tall, weighing 170lbs and has been condemned to die by a jury of his peers, welcome to the cells, Robert Brooks!" The announcer lingered on his name, screaming it at the crowd, stirring them into an emotional maelstrom.

  The crowd roared again, jeers pouring down on Robert like acid rain.

  “And in your corner, fighting for the people, he stands six feet three inches tall, weighing in at 230lbs. His professional records stand at 24 victories and no defeats, please welcome, your Deathsman, Peere 'The Reaper’ Ropét!”

  This time, the roaring came on in waves, peaking and then dying away before crashing back onto the cells.

  The announcer finished his introductions and then rose out of the chamber. On his wrists, Robert watched as the electro-cuffs flicked off and he could separate his arms.

  The arena still in darkness, a death knell, like a rising heart rate, boomed as both fighters prepared themselves for the bout. Robert dared to hope. He didn’t deserve it, but if he was to play this game, he would play to win.

  A timer counted down and as it reached five seconds, the lights came on, so that all in attendance and watching across the city could witness justice.

  Then the bell rang.

  Robert raced from his corner to attack the Reaper, leading with a flying knee. The Reaper effortlessly batted it away, twisting to his left and sending Robert through to the other side of the cell. Robert turned and attacked again, trying to use aggression to make up for his lack of skill.

  The Reaper’s movements were deliberate and patient. He had experience on his side, and he knew many criminals turn to aggression when they are backed into a corner, like the wild animals they were.

  The Reaper bobbed away from a succession of punches, finally jabbing back and planting Robert on his rear end. He bounced back to his feet immediately, his face stunned.

  The crowd bayed at this first contact. Robert’s hand came up to his chin, wiping away a trickle of blood, before returning to a defensive stance. He didn’t attack this time; he watched as the Reaper marched forward, his hands down, emitting an aura of invincibility as if righteousness protected him from any damage.

  Robert backed up to the cell mesh. His arms covered his face as the blows fell. Each one thundered through the arena as the Reaper mixed up his targets. A blow to the gut and as Robert’s arm dropped to cover his belly, a crack to the chin.

  More blows landed, and the crowd sensed Robert beaten already. This is where they enjoyed themselves. The story became not whether the Reaper would win, but how he’d win. How much he’d make the murderer suffer.

  The Reaper understood the conce
pt of playing to the crowd. They represented law and order and crime must be made an example. For Robert, the bout would not be over until the City was satisfied.

  The clock ticked past one minute and the Reaper stepped away. Robert collapsed to his knees, a dribble of blood falling to the canvas from a shattered nose and a deeply gashed eyebrow. He was breathing heavily, rasping through broken nostrils, but he still looked up, staring defiantly at the Reaper’s back. Robert climbed to his feet, using the cell mesh to steady himself.

  In a different time, referees would have called the bout off at this point. Robert was incapable of defending himself, but this was a new time and he had crimes for which to answer.

  The Reaper turned, staring down his prey and listening for the crowd’s mood. Did they want the punishment to continue, or did they want him to end it? He paused for a moment while he gauged their direction. They wanted him to end it. Their wish was his command; end it he shall.

  He stepped towards Robert, who was slightly hunched, struggling to stand up tall, although his hands were still at his chin. An eye was swollen shut and blood meandered around the contours of his eye socket and down his cheek like crimson tears.

  He might look like he had protection, but he didn’t. A single strike from the Reaper would be enough to crumple his defenses; what was left of them.