by Sean Black
‘Don’t worry,’ said Red. ‘I’ll have them.’
Franco lumbered off. Red put his towel back in the locker. A shower could wait.
Byron watched Franco continue his bunk tour, making threats and picking up rent as he went. He had zero intention of being extorted by a wall-puncher like Franco. In any case, he assumed it would be academic. By the time Franco started pushing him for cigarettes, Byron planned on being long gone.
14
Byron sat at a table in the cavernous mess hall with his bunk mate, Red. Going by the chatter of Spanish, the jail’s population was mostly Mexican. The prisoners appeared to self-segregate along racial lines. Despite his mixed parentage, Byron appeared to have been accorded honorary white status: he was sitting with the jail’s minority Caucasian population.
The food was slopped onto metal trays. A gristly stew, two slices of white bread, rice, beans, chocolate cake that had the consistency of a house brick, and a moldy orange. It was a grim offering. Byron didn’t mind. He was hungry. He had spent so much time in far-flung parts of the world with bizarre local cuisines that he had come to regard any meal that didn’t give him food poisoning as adequate. To maintain his spirits he made a promise to himself to hit a diner for steak and eggs as soon as he was clear of Kelsen County Jail.
Red jabbed at a lone piece of meat in the pool of gravy. ‘Didn’t figure you as a guy who’d let Franco push you around so easy,’ he said to Byron.
Byron continued eating. He looked beyond to the sea of inmates hunched over their trays. Their primary state seemed to be one of exhaustion. ‘Everyone works during the day?’ he asked Red.
His question earned a few smiles from the other inmates at the table. ‘Twelve hours. Six until six. Hard labor. Six days. They give us Sundays off. ’Less you’re lucky enough to get yourself a job cleaning or in the kitchen. But those jobs tend to be kept for the locals, or people with families that send in extra cash.’
Byron guessed that hard labor served two functions. For one thing it acted as a deterrent, demonstrating that the sheriff was tough on people who broke the law. More importantly, though, an inmate exhausted by backbreaking manual work was far less likely to cause any disciplinary problems. Or, for that matter, to have the energy to plot an escape. Work was a good way of controlling a population and ensuring compliance.
‘What do you mean, “the locals”?’ Byron asked. ‘Aren’t most of you from around here?’
The questions elicited some wider smiles. Red threw back his head and laughed. The sound caused a guard standing by the mess-hall door to look over. The smiles evaporated. Red made like he was having a coughing fit. ‘You don’t get it, do you? I had you figured as a smart guy too,’ he said.
‘Most county jails are full of people who live in the county,’ Byron said.
‘Not here they ain’t,’ said Red. ‘Kelsen’s like one of those Venus flytraps ‒ they take their time eating you.’
Byron watched as Mills swaggered towards them, his hand falling to his baton. Byron gave Red a warning nod. Red clammed up, and buried his head in his meal. The guard switched course, distracted by another table where a small knot of Latino prisoners seemed about to have a fight over some minor infraction of prison etiquette.
The rest of the meal passed in silence. There was no lingering. Once a meal was finished, or abandoned, the inmates got up from their table, scraped off any leftovers, and dumped their trays in a pile next to the serving hatch. Some went straight back to the bunkhouse. A few hardier souls headed out to the yard. Here, too, the groups seemed to be broken down along racial lines.
Byron took a walk around the perimeter with Red. ‘You’re the second person who’s said to me that Kelsen County is different,’ Byron said to him.
Red reached down and picked up a pebble. He tossed it from hand to hand. ‘I don’t know if it’s all that different. They’re just another grade of asshole.’
‘So what did you mean about it being like a Venus flytrap?’ Byron asked him. He was interested in the answer, but only to a degree. He wanted to give the impression of being occupied by the conversation while he got closer to the inside fence so that he could scope it out better. He could have asked Red about security but he didn’t yet trust him. It would only take Red making a casual mention of Byron’s interest in it for him to find himself in solitary, facing an extra level of escape challenges.
Red shook his head. ‘Like I said, you’re a smart guy, you’ll figure it out. Everyone does, eventually.’
15
An hour later a klaxon sounded from one of the guard towers to announce the end of yard time. The inmates filtered slowly back into the bunkhouses. Byron couldn’t tell whether it was reluctance to leave the yard or sheer fatigue that had reduced many of them to a zombie-like walking pace. He guessed it was a mixture of both.
Inside the bunkhouse some men hit the showers. Others, who had already washed, lay on their bunks. A few played dominoes or cards or sat around bullshitting about the usual staples of male conversation: sport and women.
Franco sat across the bunkhouse. He was surrounded by a little posse of thick-necked buddies who looked like the left-hand side of a poster showing human evolution. Byron was aware of him peering now and then towards his and Red’s bunks. He would glance at them, say something to his buddies and they would snicker among themselves. Byron stripped down to his underwear, left his clothes folded with razor sharp creases on top of his bunk, grabbed a towel and headed for the showers.
Once he had dried off, he walked back to his bunk. He climbed onto the top bunk, laced his fingers behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling. For the past few weeks he had been sleeping outside. He would dig in under a juniper tree, with his boots hanging up on a branch to prevent scorpions climbing into them, and watch the stars until his campfire died to the embers.
This was a very different experience, and not in a good way. Byron did not crave the company of others. He never had. His preference, even when working for the government, was to operate on his own. He enjoyed solitude. If anything, his need to be alone was even more pronounced now than it had been before. There was an additional tension underlying it. Byron needed to be apart from others because he no longer trusted himself not to hurt people.
That was what he was thinking about as he lay awake, craving the blue-black dome of a vast sky. He thought back to New York, Las Vegas, and the facility. To the people he had hurt. To the people he had killed. Some, it could be argued, had deserved to die. Others had not.
As soon as he could, he had to get out of here. To move on. To separate himself from people.
* * *
Byron’s eyes snapped open from a deep sleep. It took a moment for his conscious mind to tell him where he was. In that moment he felt a sudden acceleration of his heart rate. He remembered. His heart rate stilled to a normal level.
It was dark in the bunkhouse. Quiet. But not silent. Beyond the low-level snoring from every corner, Byron heard something else. It was a man’s voice. He couldn’t pick out the words. He could only get a sense of tone. Whoever it was, and whatever words he was using, he appeared to be pleading.
He listened more intently. He heard someone else speak. By contrast this person sounded calm and in control.
None of my business, Byron reminded himself. He closed his eyes again. Tried to conjure up an image of the stars he should have been looking at.
It was no use. He would struggle to sleep now. In any case, he needed to pee.
The nearby talk was louder now. He did his best to filter it out. It was no use. More voices joined the two he had already heard.
Byron leaned over the edge of his bunk, making sure that Red was still there. He was. He looked up at Byron, eyes open.
‘None of our business,’ Red whispered.
‘What’s going on?’ Byron asked.
‘Go back to sleep,’ Red said.
Byron sat up. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and jumped down, then start
ed slowly towards the showers. Red reached out a hand to stop him. Byron shrugged him off.
‘It’s your funeral,’ Red said.
Byron reached the doorway to the showers. Now he could hear what was being said and suddenly wished he had taken Red’s advice.
A man’s voice, the slow, calm one he had heard before, said, ‘Let it happen and it won’t hurt so much.’
Byron took another step. His bare feet found wet tiles. Two of Franco’s buddies each had the arm of a young inmate. His face was pressed against the wall, his pants pulled down. Franco was kneading the young man’s ass cheeks.
‘I said, relax,’ Franco told his victim.
Franco’s head turned slowly as he realized they were no longer alone. That Byron was standing there watching them.
Franco’s tight expression gave way to a smile. ‘Hey, Davis. This is a private party.’
‘Party’s over,’ Byron said, taking another step towards the three men.
16
Franco’s hand pressed against Byron’s chest.
‘You can either party with us,’ Franco said, ‘or you can go on back to your bunk.’
Franco’s two buddies had loosened their grip on their young victim. They still had hold of his arms, but he wasn’t pressed up against the wall. He wrenched his head round and stared at Byron, his eyes pleading for someone to save him.
Byron’s eyes flicked back to Franco. He met his gaze. Franco was as big as Byron. His two buddies were about the same size. All three men had bodies hardened by weeks and months of manual labor. They were three and Byron was one. Their intended victim looked too petrified to be of any assistance.
‘I told you. The party’s over,’ Byron said.
‘And I told you to run along,’ Franco said.
Three to one. Not great odds. Assuming he had to fight all three.
They wouldn’t wait their turn. Prison fights tended not to go like that. They wouldn’t take a number and wait for him to deal with Franco before they stepped up. They would wild-dog him. Punches and kicks would come from all sides. They would swarm.
The shower room was wet. If he slipped and went down, he’d likely be kicked and stomped to a pulp. Possibly to death.
If he fought back, he could lose control of himself entirely, switch into a mode where he was no longer really human. If that happened, it was entirely possible he could kill all three.
Neither option was good. Both would all but obliterate any chance he had of escaping. At best it would complicate matters beyond a point where he had any control.
He should have stayed in his bunk. He should have taken Red’s advice. Shoulda. Woulda. Coulda.
He had allowed curiosity to get the better of him. And now he couldn’t stand by and surrender the boy to his fate.
Franco’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re still here. Thought I told you to run along.’
Byron allowed his body to relax. His shoulders slumped, his feet inched apart. He stared into Franco’s eyes. Slowly he brought both his arms up from his sides. He smiled, moving his hands up slowly until the tips of his fingers touched Franco’s cheekbones.
Franco didn’t move. He seemed transfixed. A punch. A kick. A lunge. That was what a man like Franco might have expected. What the hell was this guy doing?
Franco raised his hands to push Byron away. ‘I ain’t no faggot,’ he said.
Without warning, Byron spread the fingers of both hands wide, digging his thumbs into Franco’s temples and his little fingers into the mandibular nerve under the hinge of his jaw. Then he opened his mouth and bit down hard on Franco’s nose, biting straight through the cartilage. Blood spurted out.
Franco tried to push him away. To prise him off. Byron’s grip held fast.
The pain in Franco’s temples, mandibular nerve, and from his near amputated nose would have been overwhelming. Individually each offered a rich harvest of pain. Together, the shock and trauma to the central nervous system would have been catastrophic.
Byron kept biting down. Finally, he felt the last stand of cartilage and flesh give way. He let go, shoving Franco hard in the chest. The man was screaming with pain. His high-pitched keening seemed completely at odds with his size.
Byron spat the bulbous chunk of Franco’s nose onto the shower-room floor. Franco’s two compadres had let go of their victim. They stood there, arms raised, fists clenched, but ultimately frozen.
There was a white plastic bottle of disinfectant sitting on the floor. Byron picked it up. He reached over and turned on one of the shower heads.
He took a mouthful of disinfectant. It burned as he sluiced it around his mouth. Better a mild chemical burn than Hep-C, HIV or whatever the hell else was coursing through Franco’s veins.
Franco was lying on the floor. His legs were tucked up under his chin. He was still screaming.
Byron spat out his improvised mouthwash and stepped under the torrent of water, quickly washing off the blood that had dribbled down his chin and onto his chest. An alarm had started to sound. It was deafening. But not deafening enough to drown out Franco’s screaming.
Franco’s two sidekicks stared at Byron. They didn’t know whether to call or fold. They ended up doing neither. Their victim had wriggled free. He squeezed past Byron. One of the other two began to go after him. Byron took a single step to the right, the warning implicit.
He turned on his heel and walked out of the showers. By the time the first guard came rushing into the bunkhouse, still hastily pulling on pieces of riot gear, Byron was already on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. The only clue that he’d moved was the damp blanket covering his body.
17
Prison law dictated that no one was going to offer up Byron as the man who had bitten off Franco’s nose. Partly that was down to the code that dictated a snitch was the lowest of the low. But there was another factor at play. Put simply, what penalty might a man pay for informing on someone who had demonstrated such extreme violence in a situation that, again according to prison rules, had been (strictly speaking) none of his business?
Besides, Franco had terrorized the unit for months. He had taxed every inmate outside his very small circle. He’d had it coming. The Darwinian law of survival of the fittest dictated that, sooner or later, someone would to knock him off his perch. No one had guessed that he’d lose his beak at the same time, and there was a secret delight among the inmates that even the most regimented of jails could offer up a rare surprise.
After the lights had gone on and the guards had arrived, after Franco had been carted off to the prison infirmary, claiming, between shrieks, that he had slipped and fallen, after his nose had been bagged up in a Ziplock full of ice, Warden Castro had appeared, red-faced from being woken at home, his hairline at a jaunty angle
‘I want to know who the hell did this,’ he fumed, pacing up and down the length of the bunkhouse.
The inmates stood by their bunks. Eyes forward. Backs straight. Saying nothing. Byron had witnessed this scene back in the military. The rules were the same. You didn’t rat anyone out and you took your lumps. If someone kept screwing up they got dealt with by the group. Somehow he didn’t see that happening under these circumstances. Everything else was noise and fury.
Castro stopped in front of Red and Byron’s bunk. ‘What about you two assholes? You know anything about who bit off the man’s nose?’
Byron stared straight ahead, his face set like granite.
Castro prodded his chest. ‘Answer me.’
Byron could smell cilantro and gut-rot whisky on the warden’s breath. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘I was sleeping. Didn’t see nothing.’
‘You slept through that?’ the warden bellowed.
‘Guess I woke up for the screaming part,’ Byron said, unable to rein in a childish desire to yank the warden’s chain just a little.
The warden stepped behind him. He reached up and ran a hand across Byron’s bunk. ‘Why is your blanket wet, inmate?’
Byron didn’t answer.
‘Guess I must have had a nightmare, Warden. I get night sweats sometimes,’ Byron said.
‘Night sweats? You expect me to believe that bunch of bullshit?’
‘Or I pissed the bed,’ Byron offered.
The inmates’ snickers ran the length of the bunkhouse in a wave. They were snuffed out by the guards shouting for silence, telescopic steel batons smacking into their open palms for emphasis.
Byron waited for the warden to explode. He was pretty sure that his smart mouth had earned him a week or more in solitary. He had just dug his own grave. He would sit in the hole and when the door opened someone from Washington would be there and it would be over, once and for ever.
He closed his eyes. He cursed his own stupidity. He had ridden right up to the line, then gleefully skipped over it. Now he would pay the price. When Byron finally opened his eyes the warden was still staring at him. ‘See me in my office tomorrow morning, before you head off on work detail.’ He turned around to face the body of men standing by their bunks. ‘I see any more trouble from any of you and you’ll all be sorry. Real sorry.’
18
The mess hall buzzed as Byron stood in line. One of the servers, a short, muscular Mexican whom Byron recognized from his own unit, slopped a double portion of rehydrated eggs onto his tray with the glimmer of a smile. Byron wasn’t sure whether an extra serving of eggs that had likely never been near a chicken was a good thing, but he appreciated the gesture.
He took his tray to a seat at what was already his regular spot at the table next to Red. Red hadn’t yet said anything to him this morning about the previous night’s events. A four-fifteen alarm call tended to put a dampener on conversation. Most inmates navigated their morning routine with little more than the odd grunt.
