Blackout - John Milton #10 (John Milton Thrillers)

by Mark Dawson

  “What have they done?”

  “They are the bitay,” Isko explained. “They have been convicted of crimes serious enough for them to be killed. They are kept here until it is time for their sentence to be served.”

  “Death row?”

  “Yes. They will be taken to the room where they have the machine that will kill them.” Isko put his index and middle fingers together and mimed an injection, his thumb serving as the plunger.

  They reached an antechamber similar to the one that Milton had been brought through on his way to the cell. Bright sunlight streamed inside, revealing a guard lounging back on a picnic chair with his billy club in his lap. He glared at them as they went outside.

  Milton felt the warmth of the sun on his face and immediately felt a little better. He looked up into the purest of blue skies, an infinite vault that was clear and cloudless for as far as he could see. The prisoners were corralled by a tall wire fence within a wide space. Guards with rifles patrolled outside the fence and the two watchtowers that looked down on the yard were staffed by guards who stood at attention, unlike some of their colleagues.

  There would be no opportunity to escape today. Milton put the thought to the back of his mind. He would be watchful and take the chance to consider how the security functioned, but he would concentrate on enjoying the sun and the opportunity to stretch his legs.

  Men were circulating around the perimeter. Isko joined the flow and Milton followed.

  The old man turned and pointed back at the building. “The cell house is like a prison within the prison,” he explained. “We have three types of prisoner: the castigados, those who have been convicted of serious crime and who await death, and political prisoners, like me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I am a member of the Communist Party. I was convicted fifteen years ago. I have been here ever since.”

  “How long is your sentence?”

  “For as long as they wish to keep me,” he said. “Nothing has changed. My organisation is still forbidden. They still see us as a threat to the country.”

  “Do you have anyone on the outside?”

  He shook his head sadly. “I had a wife. She was put in prison at the same time as me. She died five years ago. The last time I saw her was at our trial.”

  “You couldn’t appeal?”

  “This is not like your England. Things are different here. You can appeal, but it would be a waste of time. A judge does not go against the regime. He would not be a judge for very long if he did.” The old man put a withered hand on Milton’s arm. “It is all right. I have grown accustomed to my life here. I don’t know what I would do if I was ever released. Time has moved on. I have been forgotten. There are people I know here. I have friends. Perhaps you will be another.”

  Milton was taken by Isko’s sense of calm. He had seen it before in the meetings, the serenity that he, too, had sometimes found when he had accepted that he was helpless over his disease and there was no sense in pretending otherwise.

  They continued around the yard.

  “You said that Mr. Fitz set you up.”

  “I think so,” Milton said. “I think he had a friend tell me a story that would make me come here, arranged for me to be drugged and then made it look like I was guilty of murder.”

  “What will you do?”

  Milton glanced left and right. There were no other inmates or guards within earshot. “I need to get out.”

  Isko shook his head. “That will not be easy.”

  “Has it happened before?”

  “Yes, many times. But they don’t last long. The government rebuilt this prison to be a symbol of law and order. It has a reputation that they wish to maintain. There was a man, a year ago, he managed to climb over the wall. There was a weakness at the back of Building No. 3, a blind spot where the guards couldn’t see you from the tower. He climbed the wall with a rope and got away.”

  “And then?”

  “And then they hunted him down. They told us what happened to him. They had guards with dogs. They found him hiding in a ditch. They let the dogs have their way with him, and then they shot him. They showed us pictures. It was a warning. They were telling us that the same thing would happen to us if we tried to escape.”

  “This blind spot—”

  “It has been fixed,” Isko interrupted. “And, John, please. You must think carefully. You are not a Filipino, and this is not Manila. There is jungle around the compound, and then there are villages where the locals would never have seen a man like you. You would stand out. They would call the police. They know that the regime would punish them if they did not.”

  Milton knew that Isko’s concerns were well founded. It would be difficult to escape on his own. He would need help.

  “I need to deliver a message to a friend,” he said.

  Isko shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t be easy, either. You are new. If you’re lucky, maybe they’ll let you send letters when you have been here a few months. But they will open the letters and read them.”

  “What about my lawyer?”

  “Perhaps. But you will be fortunate if you can find one who will break prison rules for you. If they are found out, they would be punished. Perhaps they would join us here.”

  Milton frowned and looked down at the sandy surface of the exercise yard. It was baking, waves of lambent heat quivering as they rose into the air. He felt stymied. He knew that he couldn’t stay here, but, at the same time, it wasn’t obvious how he could leave.

  “Your trial, perhaps,” Isko suggested. “That will be held in public. Perhaps that would be an opportunity for you to say something. Perhaps they will let you speak to your embassy.”

  Milton glanced over and saw a guard coming toward them.

  “You,” the man said, pointing his truncheon at Milton. “English.”

  Isko and Milton both stopped.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Come here.”

  “Do whatever they say,” the old man said. “I will see you later.”

  Milton walked the short distance across the yard to the guard.

  “Come with me.”

  41

  MILTON WAS taken back to the latrines.

  He was thrown inside. The guards waited at the doorway, blocking his way out. It didn’t matter. Where would he go?

  He heard the sound of feet approaching along the corridor. The guards parted and Tiny made his way inside.

  “You again,” Milton said, backing away to put a little space between them. “You didn’t get enough last time?”

  The big man grinned at Milton’s bravado.

  Milton closed in and led with a right jab. His fist found its mark, glancing off the corner of Tiny’s jaw, but it had a limited effect. Tiny tried to grapple him, but Milton was able to dance away to the right, ducking beneath the clumsy attempted bear hug and swinging a big left hook that terminated in the side of Tiny’s temple.

  The punch hurt him. Tiny fell away to the side, his right hand reflexively going up to protect the point of impact and leaving his ribs exposed. Milton swung another left, putting all of his power into it, and his fist sank into the rolls of flab that protected the bigger man’s ribs.

  Milton was caught up in the moment. He forgot that his future would not be best served by embarrassing Tiny, that he was guaranteeing a worse beating with every punch that he landed, and that they would take pleasure in ripping away every last shred of resistance. He surrendered to instinct and hammered a right-hander that detonated against the left side of Tiny’s head. The big man staggered back, turning away from the open doorway and retreating to the other side of the room. Milton followed him, closing in quickly and drilling him with a right-left-right combination to the head, ribs and head once again.

  Tiny ran out of room. He backed against the wall, both hands raised to protect the sides of his head with a wide gap left open between his chubby forearms. Milton drew back his right fist until it was al
l the way back behind his head, felt the tension and power surge into his shoulder, and then released it, pummelling Tiny square in the face.

  The big man slumped back against the wall, his hands covering his face.

  Milton kicked him, left and right, the side of his foot landing against his ribs and shoulders. Tiny began to slide down the wall, and Milton’s kicks landed against his forearms. He heard an animal sound, an angry growling and panting, and realised that it was him.

  Tiny was down on his haunches, low enough for Milton to step in closer so that he could start to use his knees and shins.

  He cracked his right knee into the side of Tiny’s head, then stepped back to switch legs when—

  —his vision went black and his head was filled by a single high-pitched tone.

  He lost consciousness and, when he came around again, he found he was flat on his face on the floor. The concrete was cold and damp and it smelled foul. He caught a quick glimpse to his side and saw one of the guards, his billy club raised above his head, and realised that he had been cold-cocked. The guard slammed the baton down, the wooden end cracking against his crown. The other guards came into the room, their own clubs raised. They rained blows down onto Milton, the ends of their clubs finding their marks as the men fell upon him. Milton tried to cover up, but they just switched their targets, hammering his trunk and then, as he rolled up, his kidneys. Milton curled into a ball, bringing his knees up to his chin, painfully aware that his back and ribs were vulnerable. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as the blows rained down on him again and again and again.

  42

  MILTON BECAME aware of hands on either side of his body. He was being gripped beneath his shoulders. He opened his eyes and looked straight down at the floor. It was moving beneath him: he looked down at pebbles and rocks, patches of sand, and then an uninterrupted run of rough paving slabs. His head hung limply and his face felt like one huge, throbbing bruise. His mouth was open, and streamers of saliva stretched down. He dabbed at the inside of his mouth with his tongue and tasted blood. He felt for his teeth; he thought that they were still there. A small mercy.

  He looked left and right and saw the legs of the men who were hauling him onwards. They were shod in shining leather boots. The guards. He allowed his head to dangle enough so that he could try to look behind him, but the effort made his head pound so that he felt like retching.

  He closed his eyes again.

  When he opened them again, he was back inside. He recognised the floor of the cell block, and his feet bounced off the stairs as he was carried upward. His cell door was open and he was thrown inside. He landed on the floor between the two bedrolls.

  “Hello again, John.”

  He looked up: Fitzroy de Lacey was standing before him.

  Milton didn’t move. His body pulsed with pain.

  “You still with us?”

  “Hello, Fitz,” he mumbled.

  De Lacey laughed. Milton concentrated on what he could feel without having to open his eyes. His arms were splayed out, and, as he moved his fingers, he felt the imperfections in the concrete floor. He concentrated his attention on the multitude of individual aches and throbs that he could feel. His face was the worst; he was lying against something sharp, and it provided a pinprick of intensity that was just perceptible as a peak amid the general swelling. He allowed his attention to travel down his body. His ribs throbbed, as did several distinct areas on his back and legs.

  “How are you feeling?”

  Milton could feel the blood on his head, the warmth of it ebbing away as it started to clot. “Not feeling so great,” he said. “Sorry if I don’t get up.”

  “They told me you took the fight to Tiny this time. How’d that work out for you?”

  “I think I broke his nose,” he said.

  De Lacey chuckled again. “You should have just taken your medicine. He wants to kill you now. I told him no. Don’t want you checking out, old boy, not yet. He’s going to be in charge of your morning exercise. I managed to placate him with that. He’s looking forward to it.”

  Milton tried to roll over, but the effort was too much. He lay still.

  “I had a cell like this when they first put me in here,” de Lacey said. “Bloody awful. Can’t really say anything good about it, can you? You’ve got a window, I suppose, but that just makes it worse, doesn’t it? Seeing the sky. Knowing you’ll never see it as a free man.”

  Milton heard de Lacey’s footsteps as he moved around the room, and then felt the toe of his boot against his tender ribs.

  “You look pathetic, John. Pathetic. It’s not how I remember you. You were something when we met before. You had a confidence about you. A swagger. I’ve been thinking about that. I always thought I was a good judge of character, but you put one over on me. Made me doubt myself. I keep coming back to it, how you were so confident. Arrogant. You knew I was dangerous and you acted like it didn’t bother you. As if you belonged with us. I believed every word of it. I’ll be honest, old boy: it took me a while to get over how stupid you made me feel. But you don’t look so confident now, John. All that cockiness is gone. You look weak.”

  Milton took a deep breath and felt a stabbing pain in his chest. He crawled ahead a few feet, pain flashing with the effort, and managed to fall onto his bedroll. He brought his knees up beneath his body and pressed up with his hands, raising himself enough so that he could turn and sit, his back up against the wall of the cell.

  He opened his eyes and looked over to where de Lacey was standing. He was wearing a pair of expensive-looking jeans, a white poplin shirt and a pair of new desert boots.

  “Going somewhere, Fitz?”

  “Funny you should say that.” De Lacey undid his cuffs and rolled up his shirtsleeves. Milton saw a heavy and ostentatiously expensive watch on his wrist. “As a matter of fact, I am. Leaving tomorrow. They’ve changed how they see me in London. The new regime here has been fortunate for me, too. I’ve been negotiating with them for years, obviously. The previous lot let me move into the villa and they let me run Tactical, but they wouldn’t release me—they didn’t want to upset the Americans, apparently. But Duterte doesn’t care about that. Wants the world to see him as a strong man. Doesn’t want anyone to think the Americans can push him around. He’s been much more receptive to what we’ve offered. The rest of my sentence is being commuted.”

  Milton closed his eyes. “What did you have to put up for that?”

  “What do you think? Think of the favours I’ll be able to do once I’m in circulation again. You put me in here, John, but people haven’t forgotten about me. Far from it. My old clients are very excited about the business we’ll be able to do together. And I have new clients, too. It’s going to be a good year.” He paused, chiding himself with a theatrical tut. “I’m sorry, that was insensitive. It’s going to be a good year for me. Not such a good one for you.”

  De Lacey took a step toward the open cell door.

  “Fitz,” Milton managed.

  De Lacey stopped. “Yes?”

  “You said this would be the last time you saw me.”

  “It will be.”

  “No,” Milton said. “It won’t. I—”

  De Lacey interrupted him with a chuckle. “Oh, come on, John,” he said. “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?” He turned and took the step necessary to bring himself directly in front of Milton. He crouched down and put a hand on Milton’s shoulder. “Look at you. You’re done, old boy. You’re finished. Threats only work when they have substance. You can’t threaten me. You’re in here. I’ll be out there. But when I say that you’re going to be beaten every day, you should take that seriously. It’s not an empty threat. And when I say you’re going to die, you should believe that, too.”

  Fitz stood and backed out of the cell.

  Tiny stepped up and took his place.

  The big man had a dressing across his nose. He laced his fingers and pushed, cracking his knuckles.

  “More?�
�� Milton said.

  Fitz smiled through the bars. “Lots more. Have fun, John. Goodbye.”

  43

  “ARE YOU all right?”

  Milton coughed. He felt bubbles of hot blood in his mouth. His nose was clogged up with plugs of solid blood. He had to breathe through his mouth, and, as he did, he felt stabs of pain from the back of his mouth. He probed with his tongue and felt the sharp sliver of enamel that had once been his back molar.

  “John?”

  He managed to groan. It was the best he could do.

  He felt Isko’s hands as they slid beneath him, then heard him grunt as he tried to roll him onto the bedroll. Milton was in too much pain to help. His body throbbed, as if every last square inch had been pummelled repeatedly with a hammer. The pain swamped over him in waves.

  The old man persevered and managed to push him into a half roll that ended on the mattress. Milton lay still, face up, his eyes closed. There was more blood in his mouth, and, lying like this, it started to trickle back into his throat. He managed to turn his head so that his mouth was pointing down and then tried to push the blood out with his tongue.

  He felt a dampness on his skin and then the sensation of something moving up and down in a gentle pattern. He opened his eyes. Isko was crouched next to him. He had poured the water from his mug onto Milton’s forehead, and now he was very carefully brushing it across his face with the tips of his fingers. The water was tepid, but his skin was burning hot and it felt good. The old man washed it over the cuts and bruises, gently brushing away the dried blood.

  “It was Mr. Fitz again?”

  Milton managed a moan. “And the big guy.”

  “You were unconscious when I got here. He beat you worse than last time.”

  Milton wanted to tell Isko that he had embarrassed Tiny and that he didn’t think it had gone down very well, but the sentence was too long and he didn’t have the strength for it.

  “We need to do something,” the old man said. “You can’t go through this every day.”

  Milton tried to speak, but all he could manage was an uncontrollable cough.