by Lee, Damien
“Leigh!”
He grabbed the bird by its breast and wing, but it continued its frenzied attack. Leigh cried out as razor-sharp talons tore open her back. Driven by the strands of flesh, the bird darted forward, tearing into her with its beak. Adrian grabbed its throat and heaved backward. The creature let out a squawk of dismay before turning on the man. He dodged the eager beak as it went for his eyes. He pushed the bird to the ground and stamped on its throat. It screeched as he pushed all of his weight down, snapping its neck.
“Ade.”
The utterance of his name caused him to whirl around. He rushed over to his injured wife.
“I feel—”
“Shh,” he said. “Don’t talk. We’ll get you to the hospital.”
He scooped his wife up in his arms and rushed back onto the dirt track. Leigh’s blood saturated his shirt, oozing out of the remains of her face. He tried not to look at her. He kept his eyes focused on the path ahead, ignoring the aching in his legs and the tightness of his back.
“Ade.”
“It’s okay, darling.”
The sound of her guttural breathing made him increase his pace. He was desperate to reach the end of the track, hoping he could get a signal on his mobile phone. He tried to ignore his wife’s frenzied gasps, tried to disregard the damp touch of her blood on his skin. Her last breath rattled before she died.
“Leigh?” He gasped, shaking his wife in his arms. “Leigh!”
Panic seized his lungs in an icy grasp. His heart raced and he could feel the tears well up in his eyes. His legs trembled as he made to lower her limp body to the ground, his mind starting to cloud. Her sudden frantic inhalations brought him back to his senses. He felt the cold grip on his lungs start to thaw, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Oh, thank god.”
He adjusted her body in his arms as he rushed toward a familiar point in their trek. It was the last place they’d had a signal on their phones. He gently lowered his wife as she started to thrash.
“I’m going to ring for help.”
He tried to pry her hand from his shirt. She held tight, causing the fabric to stretch.
“Just lie back.”
He tried to disengage her fingers with one hand whilst holding his phone with the other. But it was no use, Leigh’s grip was firm, and he felt himself being pulled closer.
“Darling, please lay down.”
His request fell on deaf ears. As his wife drew near, Adrian had to look at her disfigured features.
“Sweetheart, you have to—”
His words caught in his throat when he glimpsed her wide eyes. She stared at him with an insatiable hunger. He barely had time to react before his wife was on top of him, tearing a chunk out of his neck. Blood spurted from the gaping wound as she chewed on the flesh. He stared through blurred eyes as his life fluid rapidly drained from his body. He watched in silent horror as his wife swallowed the meat before leaning back in to rip more from his throat. It only took ten seconds for Adrian to die, but it took over ten minutes for his wife to finish eating him.
Her meal was cut short when the corpse began to twitch. Adrian’s eyes regained focus once more as he started to move. Swallowing the last morsel, Leigh staggered to her feet and set off in search of more meat, closely followed by the remains of her late husband.
4
A roaring crowd filled the wing as Frank made his way into the main hall. Several guards lined the walls; an unusual sight during the organised fights. Ordinarily, they were paid to give the inmates a sixty-minute amnesty, with only one or two of the guards loitering to place a bet. But not tonight. All eyes fixed on the fight in progress. The air was warm, with the familiar smell of blood and sweat in the air. Frank tried to catch a glimpse of the fighters, but the boisterous crowd blocked his vision. He stopped at the back of the hall, his left arm hanging limply by his side.
Whilst his arm wasn’t broken by Henderson’s foul play, he had sustained significant muscle damage. He knew that if his foe discovered his weakness, he would be in trouble. With this in mind, he’d declined a sling whilst in the hospital ward. Any sign of vulnerability and his opponent would target that spot.
The crowd suddenly roared with vigour, signalling the end of the bout. Frank watched the usual exchange of commodities, noticing that several guards stepped forward to collect their earnings as well. He looked from face to face, trying to spot Henderson amongst the crowd. With his distinct features, it wouldn’t be hard to locate the guard. After scanning the area, Frank determined he was not amongst those in attendance. Gus Razor was easily visible, as was Tony Swales, who stood almost a foot higher than everyone else.
Frank tore his eyes from the crowd and began looking around at each of the posted guards. He couldn’t see Henderson or Jones. It was surprising, as neither had ever missed a fight. The teeming crowd spread out as they waited for the next bout to begin.
“Frankie!”
Frank turned to see Gus Razor holding out his arms as if greeting a long-lost son. “We were wondering where you’d gone off to.”
“I was in the hospital wing. Is it true that I’m fighting tonight?”
“It certainly is, hair of the dog and all that. The best way to recover is to take another beating.”
“Henderson talked you into it, didn’t he?”
“Sure did. I gave him stupid odds as well, and he still placed a whopping wager.”
“It’s because he knows I’m going to lose, you prick!”
Frank stared fiercely at Gus, who looked over the crowd.
“That’s why I put you up against a new kid,” Gus replied, not looking back at Frank. “Some punk who had a problem with mummy and daddy and beat them to death with a shovel.”
“Oh, great.”
“Don’t sweat it; the kid’s a scrawny midget. He won’t stand a chance.”
“Gus, I’m not fighting.”
The gangland boss stopped scanning the crowd. He fixed Frank with an icy glare.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he said. “Tell me, Frankie, does this ring a bell? ‘Oh, Mr Razor, can you please help me? My horrible wife was being shafted by a young stallion. Can you get your boys to kill him?’”
Frank didn’t answer.
“I responded with kindness,” Gus continued. “I said ‘Of course, Frankie m’boy, I’ll be happy to help, for the princely sum of thirty thousand British pounds.’ You couldn’t afford that, could you? So, you agreed to fight for me to pay off the debt. Do you remember?”
Frank nodded.
“I held up my side of the bargain. Casanova’s dead. So, in response to your insolent comment; yes, you are fighting, and you dare question me again, you’ll end up the same way as your slag wife and her fucking toy boy.”
“You don’t understand Gus, I—”
Razor ignored Frank’s retort as he spied an inmate in the crowd.
“Oy, Craddock! You owe me a gram!”
Within seconds, Razor and his thug had left Frank behind.
He sighed and looked around the room once again. Despite reassurances by Gus that his opponent was only a kid, he couldn’t dismiss a feeling that Henderson had more up his sleeve. His fears increased tenfold when he finally spotted the guard conversing with a small teenager away from the crowd. They were too far away for him to hear, but Frank could tell by the body language what Henderson was saying. He was patting his left arm; revealing to the kid where to aim his punches. A feeling of dread developed in the pit of his stomach as he flexed the muscles of his left arm. Searing pain shot up to his shoulder.
“Shit.”
He flexed his fingers, gritting his teeth through the pain. His left hand would be no use in the fight, not without causing more harm to himself. He sighed as Gus Razor yelled at him, beckoning him over to the centre of the room.
“Frankie! Get over here, you’re up!”
The milling crowd formed a circle once more as Frank made his way into the make-shift ring. He wa
tched his young opponent emerge from the mass of spectators. He barely looked old enough to shave, yet he hopped confidently on the balls of his feet as he approached. He shot Frank an acid glance as he stopped next to Gus, who held his arms between the fighters.
“You girls ready?”
Frank remained silent. He stared at the teenage inmate. The youngster’s eyes met his, before flitting to his injured arm. There was no doubt about it; he knew his weakness. The babble of the crowd intensified as they placed bets. The chatter was almost inaudible, but Frank could make out some wagers. All were on him to win, some stating it would be after the first punch, and others predicted two minutes into the fight. Oh, how wrong they are, he thought as he lifted his shirt over his head. He winced as he stretched out his arm, but tried not to show pain as he hurled the garment aside. He locked stares with his opponent as the crowd fell silent.
“Right then, you know the rules,” Gus said. “Are you both ready?”
He looked between the two opponents who both gave quick nods, maintaining their icy stare.
“Good. Then beat the shit of each other!”
He stepped to the side as the crowd roared. No sooner as Gus was out of the way, the young prisoner dashed forward, his attention focused on one place. He threw a flurry of punches towards Frank’s disabled arm. One punch connected, spreading a wave of pain up to his shoulder. The crowd jeered as Frank sidestepped the teenager’s rapid punches, all directed at the same spot.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Gus bellowed. “Knock his fucking head off!”
Frank continued to sidestep, parrying some of the punches and dodging others. He could see the frustration in his opponent’s eyes as he persistently retreated. The crowd roared in anger. An abrupt shove from a spectator sent Frank staggering forward. He quickly recovered, pivoting to the right as his opponent advanced. The young prisoner continued aiming at the weak spot, but with Frank stood sideways; his right shoulder forward, he could not reach.
With a roar of frustration, the opponent targeted other parts of his body, giving Frank the opening he was looking for. As the prisoner aimed for his face, Frank caught his fist in an open hand. A brief look of surprise came over the younger man as Frank lunged forward, breaking his opponent’s nose with his forehead. The crowd cheered in delight as the prisoner staggered back.
“Yes! Knock his fucking teeth out!”
Razor’s voice was barely audible over the hollering crowd. Frank stepped forward and threw a powerful jab, keeping his injured arm out of reach. The young prisoner reeled back as blood pumped from his face. He stared wide-eyed as Frank came at him again, throwing punch after punch with his right hand. The younger man tried to block the attacks, but his efforts were futile. Jab after jab struck his mangled face. In an act of desperation, the teenager lurched forward and grabbed his opponent’s left arm. His effort was short-lived as Frank sent a knee into his midriff. The youth doubled over before a second knee crashed into his face with crushing force. The crowd roared in delight as the young man’s head snapped back. His legs buckled and he crumpled to the ground.
“Get up you piece of shit!”
The angry outburst came from Barry Henderson, who had pushed his way through the jeering spectators. The teenager didn’t respond. Henderson turned a dark shade of scarlet. Veins throbbed in his temples as he glared at Frank.
“Lee! You’ve had it!”
“Bite me.”
“Oh, I’ll do more than that.”
He lurched forward, thrusting a baton into Frank’s abdomen. He doubled over, coughing and wheezing as Gus Razor made his way into the circle.
“Take your frustrations out on someone else, Barry. It won’t get your money back.”
The guard turned on Razor, who folded his arms as his colossal bodyguard stepped beside him.
“Well, well, Gus, it seems we have a bit of a situation here,” Henderson said. “You must have, what? A century? Two centuries on you? You can’t walk around with that much product. You might get hurt!”
The smile slid off Razor’s face as the guard held out his hand.
“Why don’t you hand it over and we’ll keep it safe for you.”
“Put your hand away, Barry, or I’ll have Tony rip it off.”
“Well, I tried to play it peacefully.” Henderson shrugged his shoulders as he turned away. Frank watched as he unclipped a two-way radio. “C’mon then boys.”
A flurry of footsteps echoed off the high ceilings of the room as an army of officers entered. They all wore riot gear, some carried large, Perspex shields, and others held firearms. The walkway above them clanged under a flurry of footfalls. Frank looked up to see more officers pointing weapons at them. The guards already in attendance had drawn their batons. Razor looked back at the smug guard.
“You slimy cunt,” he said, as Henderson held out his hand again. “You’re a dead man. You know that, right?”
“Sure, Gus, whatever helps you sleep at night.”
He waited as Razor produced a large transparent bag containing a variety of individually sealed drugs.
“You’re a dead man.”
“We’re all dying, Sunshine.” Henderson winked as he pried the bag from the man’s chubby hand. “My, my, you have been a busy boy.”
He inspected the contents of the bag before stuffing it into his pocket. He looked past the seething gangland boss and down at Frank, who had propped himself up on one knee, still struggling to catch his breath. The mass of armed security began leading the protesting convicts back to their cells as Henderson approached him.
“Just think, Lee, all of this could have been avoided if you had just sat down like a good little dog.”
Henderson swung a boot into Frank’s face, knocking him sideways.
“Take this piece of shit to segregation.”
“What about the kid?”
A guard motioned towards the young prisoner who still lay motionless.
“Take him to the inpatient beds. If he wakes up, throw him in the seg. If not, bury him outside.”
Frank felt rough hands clasp him under the arms, hauling him to his feet. He watched as Gus Razor and Big Tony were forced out of the hall at gunpoint.
“Get that fucking pellet gun out of my face!” Gus turned on the guard who had motioned for him to move. “I’m going to get you, Henderson!”
Frank watched the men leave until more prisoners obstructed his line of sight. He looked at the guard who held his arm in a pincer-like grasp.
“Fancy loosening your grip?”
The officer responded by squeezing his arm tighter.
“Oh, you little bitch.”
Frank glanced from room to room as he was led down a corridor which housed the segregation cells. The majority were empty. He frowned at the guard.
“Am I not good enough for these cells?”
The man ignored him, leading him further down the corridor. Frank looked in at some more empty rooms, noting that each had the same layout.
“Does it matter which one I’m in? It’s just four walls and a shit-bucket. Put me in any.” They stopped at the end of the corridor. Frank glanced into the empty cell before looking back down the corridor.
“You made me walk all this way just to come in here?” He laughed as the guard shoved him into the room and slammed the thick metal door.
Frank turned to look at his new surroundings. The room was identical to all those he had passed. The thin mattress on the floor was the only luxury offered. Aside from the primitive toilet in the corner, the room was empty. He sat on the edge of the mattress, listening as the rest of the cells became occupied with spectators from the fight. The segregation block was designed to be soundproof; a psychological measure used to punish unruly inmates. Yet, time and lack of maintenance had left countless gaps in the brickwork, rendering the measure ineffective.
“You can fuck off if you think I’m going in there!”
Gus Razor’s voice boomed down the corridor. A series of tirade
s came from the other prisoners as one by one the guards slammed the cell doors. After a while, silence enveloped the corridor, with only the odd dissatisfied murmur coming from the cells. Frank lay back on the mattress, contemplating the night’s events. Henderson was becoming more and more reckless. It was starting to make him feel uneasy. The guard’s actions would get reported eventually, but how much damage would he have caused by then?
Frank flexed his arm, wincing as the pain shot up to his shoulder once more. The shotgun attack was a clear example of Henderson’s deteriorating mental state. Trying to throw the bout was a dangerous move, even for the arrogant guard. Frank replayed the fight in his head. The knee to the face was a crushing blow, but something the teenager should recover from.
A sudden footfall from the end of the corridor caused Frank to sit up. He listened hard as one of the cell doors was quickly unlocked. Probably Gus being released before the shit hits the fan, Frank mused. He soon realised that he was right about the cell belonging to Gus Razor, but wrong about his release.
“What?” Razor’s voice boomed down the corridor.
“Keep your voice down,” a guard said.
“What do you mean they failed? I told them to intercept that cargo nearly two weeks ago! Why am I only finding out now?”
Frank strained his ears, trying to hear the indecipherable whispers of the guard, but it was no use. If his cell was closer, he may have a chance of overhearing the conversation, but being at the end of the corridor meant he was more isolated than anybody. He leaned back on his mattress, musing at Razor’s ability to keep his criminal empire running from within the prison. He had observed the man dealing drugs, arranging protection, and now he was clearly involved in the acquisition of some kind of cargo. The number of screws on the crime boss’ payroll seemed endless.
The sound of the cell door slamming shut indicated the end of their conversation. Frank briefly wondered whether Gus was still in segregation until the loudmouthed inmate shouted after the guard.
