Florida Key

by Neil Watson

  “Well, I don’t,” spat the young girl’s parent. “Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind about the money. I’ll have it for you tomorrow, if you want it. Now, go.”

  Not expecting to even extract $500 from the man, let alone a promise of ten times that sum, Melody and Stephen, both sobbing as they walked towards their car, were however at least grateful for small mercies. “We’ll be back tomorrow, then,” shouted Coldplay’s uncle, turning his head towards Ozborn one last time before driving off.

  Ozborn stormed back inside the trailer, slamming the fly-screen door behind him, creating a loud clatter of metal on metal. Inside, he then paced up and down the cramped space, doing a quick calculation in his head. “Damn! Now I’ll only have less than fifteen grand left. And a new set of wheels and tyres are gonna be at least two. Muffler and pipe another one. Shit! Damn the kid!” Ozborn continued talking aloud, frothing at the mouth as he spoke.

  Slumping back in rage on his new leatherette couch, piled high with old issues of Playboys, CarMarts and TV guides, he shoved them all off onto the dirty floor, among the cigarette butts and empty beer cans. He caught a glimpse of the photograph of the little girl blowing out candles that lay face up on the coffee table. “Damn kid,” he reiterated. “Why did her mom have to go and die? She should be the one taking care of her, not me,” he shouted out loud, head held back as he stared at the low ceiling, wrestling with his mixed emotions of guilt and fury.

  He began to tear up the pictures, one by one, throwing the fragments on the floor. But when he got to the fourth, fifth and sixth pictures, it was clear that these hadn’t been taken at the same time as the first three. These three had obviously been taken years earlier, when Coldplay was only a toddler. Ozborn looked at the images of the little girl being held in her mother’s arms.

  For a few brief seconds, he paused, and his eyes focussed intently on the beautiful woman cradling the baby girl. He had to admit the mother had been a stunner. Her appearance reminded him of another beauty. Another woman who had been dead for many years. His mind went back to the brief encounter with Sandy Beach in the early eighties. The recollection was not an isolated one. After years of conveniently blanking out their short relationship, Sandy Beach’s untimely death had begun to haunt him lately. He’d even suffered a few sleepless nights—and he had no idea why.

  He took solace in a swig of Jack Daniels, finishing off the bottle that was propped up next to him on the sofa. And then, true to form, his anger exploded in the usual way. He hurled the bottle as hard as he could at the 40-inch TV in the corner of the trailer’s lounge. On impact, the screen shattered, sending an instant spider’s web of broken glass to all of its four corners. The endless stream of colourful cartoons that moments earlier had been playing in the background suddenly ceased, as the screen went black with sparks flying, coupled with a loud bang and a puff of smoke billowing upwards. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” yelled Ozborn, even more angry now—this time with himself as well as the outside world.

  He kicked open the door, not bothering to lock it behind him, stormed out to his new Ford, got in and sped off in the direction of the nearest local bar where he stayed until midnight, talking nonsense to no one in particular—just anyone who had the misfortune to sit on a barstool next to him in the dimly-lit room, while Ozborn became ever more drunk and obnoxious than usual.

  Finally, when he was barely able to sit upright any longer, the proprietor instructed Ozborn in no uncertain terms that it was time for him to go. At first objecting, Ozborn then realised how ravenously hungry he had become, having not eaten a thing all day, save for a few peanuts. Shouting some incoherent obscenities as he left the premises, he staggered over to the truck and climbed in. Hardly able to drive in a straight line, halfway home he stopped at a Tex-Mex carry-out for a burrito and slaw to go.

  While waiting for his meal to be prepared, he idly flicked through that day’s newspaper that was lying on the counter by the window. Unable to focus his eyes properly, on account of his inebriation, as well as his poor eyesight that was worsening with age, he very nearly missed the headline on page 51 containing the words ‘BIKE RADIO MURDER’. At first, he failed to register any relevance. It wasn’t until he browsed further down the page, past the picture of the guy with the Asian appearance being led away by police, to the portrait of the sexy dental assistant in her tunic, that old memories of her were stirred for the second time that day. So many years had gone by since that April evening in 1981, but to Ozborn it seemed like the events had occurred only yesterday.

  “What the hell?!” he exclaimed, paying no attention to the other customers turning round to stare at him, as he unsuccessfully strained to read the small print. He would have to look at the newspaper again when he was less drunk, so he tore the page out and crammed it unfolded and screwed up into his pocket, ready to read another time. As he did so, he heard the restaurant’s new assistant, proudly displaying her one gold star on her lapel badge, call out his order.

  “Burrito and slaw to go!” she announced, rather timidly. Ozborn rudely snatched the brown cardboard box out of her hands and swayed out the door, climbed back in his truck, and sped out of the parking lot and into the street, tyres screeching. A few seconds later, a loud claxon sound alerted him to glance up, only to see the red flashing light that had seemingly appeared from nowhere in the rear-view mirror.

  CHAPTER 28

  (FRIDAY, 19TH JANUARY, 2018)

  Cell Discovery

  O liver had become used to his little Hyundai, and now that he was familiar with driving on the ‘wrong’ side of the road, he positively enjoyed the experience. He slotted one CD after another into the built-in player, as he made his way to Joliet, Illinois. Thanks to the efficiency of the route selected by his iPhone satnav, he reached his destination well before the time he had anticipated.

  Pulling up at the entrance to the old prison, he felt the memory of watching The Blues Brothers film come flooding back, and here he was at the very place depicted in that film, but this was now no movie—it was the real deal. Oliver followed the signs that read ‘VISITORS PARKING’, got out of the car and took in his surroundings. The building in front of him was like a scene from a horror movie, a huge, four-storey castle with towers at each corner and a protruding grand entrance—all built in yellow sandstone. To the right, a long wall that adjoined the castle-like building extended the entire length of the car park.

  There were a number of placards dotted around, informing visitors of interesting facts and figures about the prison—as well as one stating the opening hours, the location of the gift shop, and another apologising that, because of the dangerous state of repair, only limited access would be allowed to the cell blocks. Oliver was very disappointed, especially when he looked up at the large black-and-white photographs mounted along the wall showing inside the building from when it was a working penitentiary. They were fascinating.

  With the photographs giving him some idea of what it had been like inside, Oliver walked in the direction of the entrance turnstile, as indicated by the signage, hoping to get a full-blown guided tour. Sadly, he soon discovered that would not be the case. In fact, whether he had visited last week, this week or the following week, he would have only been able to gain access to a limited number of communal spaces, and only the ground floor of Cell Block B. Of course, the authorities had made sure that the cafeteria and the gift shop were fully open, aiming to extract as many dollars as possible from the eager public.

  Once he’d paid his $20 entrance fee, Oliver set foot in the main section of the building. Directly in front of him, he found the kitchens to be accessible, still with their stainless-steel vats that had once been used to cook gallons of stew and rice for the hundreds of inmates. The massive eating area was to the left of the kitchen, with long wooden tables running the entire length of the room. Further down the corridor, the library was open, with many books still strewn across the floor for effect. Oliver was saddened that they hadn’t been pick
ed up and put back on the shelves. Maybe it added to the authenticity, in the eyes of the franchisee responsible for the tourist attraction, but as far as Oliver was concerned, disrespect shown to books was a crime in itself.

  He continued to wander around, coming eventually to the quadrangle where prisoners would have been able to exercise and play basketball as part of their daily routine. Following the throng of visitors as they were being guided into the dark and dingy ‘B’ Block, he looked upwards at the peeling paint hanging off the walls and ceiling.

  The photographs on the walls cleverly integrated image and reality, with a soundtrack playing in the background of the general din, clanking of keys and doors, and shouts, moans and groans from the inmates and guards that would have been heard back then. The dim lighting and dank indoor air enhanced the eerie atmosphere. Oliver felt a chill run through him, and it wasn’t only from the cold temperature. But, as much as all this was without doubt of great interest, where Oliver really wanted to go was cell 10 on the 4th floor of ‘A’ Block. “No, that’s off limits,” was all the security guard would say when asked.

  Oliver had seen enough. What a shame, he thought, that he’d come this far and wouldn’t be granted access to Yushi’s cell. He exited the building and dejectedly made his way back across the car park tarmac, only to suddenly stop dead in his tracks, possessed by a sudden thought. No! It was wrong to give up so easily, he told himself. He’d come to Joliet with the specific intention of visiting Yushi Yakamoto’s old prison cell. He was a journalist, was he not? He was here on a mission. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the key—his actual ‘Florida Key’—, turned 180 degrees and headed right back to the turnstile where he’d entered previously. He’d have another attempt.

  “Excuse me,” he began to the man dressed as a prison guard, but more likely to have been hired just to look the part and offer basic information to visitors. “Can you tell me where Cell Block ‘A’ is please? You see, I’ve got this key and I want to see if my key fits the lock.”

  Despite Oliver demonstrating his best English accent, his request fell on deaf ears. The make-believe guard was having none of it, and engaged in no conversation at all. Looking straight past Oliver, he merely offered a shake of the head and a few words. For the second time, Oliver was informed that Block ‘A’ was ‘off limits’.

  Clearly making no progress, but determined not to give up, Oliver politely turned and left, with a meek ‘thank you’, and began heading back towards his car so that he could work out his next move. As he walked parallel to the red-bricked wall, he went past a small door halfway along. Although he hadn’t paid particular attention to it previously, now he examined it much more closely. If he wasn’t mistaken, he thought it might be slightly ajar. With the sun’s shadow cast between it and the surrounding woodwork it was difficult to be certain—the only way to find out would be to go over to it and take a closer look.

  After checking over his shoulders, he was alone as far as he could make out, and neither could he see any CCTV cameras. Without spending a second longer to consider what he was doing, he ran across the dry grass to the door, illogically bending down just like in the movies, as if that would somehow make him more invisible. There was no time for hesitation, and as soon as he reached the door that was indeed open an inch or two, he pulled it further, took one final look around, and quickly sneaked inside.

  Aware that he really oughtn’t to be doing this, Oliver was spurred on by some spontaneous energy that he’d never experienced before. With his heart thumping, he found himself in a long corridor, with nothing to indicate whether he should go left or right. He got out his iPhone and typed some relevant words into Google. When a diagram of the prison quickly appeared, based on where he assumed his location to be, his instinct told him he should turn right, which he did.

  At the end of the corridor, which was dark, cold and smelt musty, the space opened up to a larger area with wide staircases and yet more corridors. In the far distance, he could just about make out another, narrower, set of metal steps. Oliver looked up, down and all around, excited—but also more scared than he’d ever felt before in his life. It appeared that he was in a central hallway, with signs for various locations pointing in all directions. This must have been one of the central thoroughfares, he thought, and it reminded him of being in the main reception area back home at Colchester Hospital. Here, as well as there being boards pointing to ‘MEDICAL’, ‘CHAPEL’ and ‘PUBLIC RESTROOMS’, there were signs to ‘BLOCK B’, ‘BLOCK C’, and ‘BLOCK D’. Oliver looked for one marked ‘BLOCK A’. There wasn’t one. Could that mean that he was in fact already in it? If so, he now just wanted the 4th floor, and that was indicated by the sign pointing to his left.

  He hesitated. Dare he venture up there? He stood still and listened. There wasn’t a single sound. Feeling momentarily brave, he ventured up the steps, trying desperately to contain any noise from his footsteps to a bare minimum. Going past the next two floors, he eventually reached the top one, with a sign confirming he was on the fourth. He peered down the long corridor. If it had had carpets, wallpaper and lighting, it would have been akin to a Travelodge, Oliver thought. He crept along, past the first steel-barred door on the left, marked with the number ‘1’ above it. As he went on, past numbers 2, 3, 4, and so on, he felt certain that anyone listening would be able to hear his heart actually pumping the blood around his body. He continued by the numbers 7, 8, 9—until he finally reaching the all-important number ‘10’.

  Like all the others, the door wasn’t completely closed. He wanted to step inside, so began pulling the door open towards him. Its hinges squeaked, the sound echoing all around the cavernous building. Not wanting to bring any attention to himself, even though he was sure of being completely alone, he opened the door just a fraction at a time so that no noise emanated. Oliver was surprised at how even darker it was inside the room compared to being outside in the corridor. It took him a while to adjust his eyes to the very minimal light that came in from the only source–the skylight that partially ran along the length of the main block outside the cell.

  Oliver couldn’t quite believe that, finally, here he was, standing in the cell that had been the subject of his intense interest for so long. The very cell that, according to the research he’d been able to carry out, used to be ‘home’ to two inmates whose names he was now so familiar with—Emanuele and Yakamoto. He looked down at the key held tightly in his hand, and wondered if it would actually fit into the lock of the door. He couldn’t resist the temptation to try, even though he was afraid the clanking sound of metal might resonate throughout the building.

  As carefully and with as much precision as he could, he slowly put the key into the slot, managing to muffle the sound as much as possible. Yes! It did fit—but now Oliver wondered whether it would actually operate the latch. He tried to turn it. At first it didn’t budge, but as he applied more and more force, gradually the key became unseized and rotated very slightly. He wiggled it back and forth, his action further freeing up the mechanism. He tried turning it fully once more. With an unexpected clunk, the thick metal plate shot forward from the lock housing, causing a deafening noise that rippled throughout prison block A. Oliver jumped in shock, and with an almost comical action, tried to deaden the sound with his bare hands, even though it was obviously too late. The damage had been done.

  Inside the cell, he stood motionless for only a few seconds, although it felt like minutes. During that time, he cast his eyes around the cold, barren room that he guessed must have been about twelve feet by ten. At the opposite wall to where he was standing, the iron bunk bed had been stripped of any linen, but the mattresses were still there, stained and torn. Next to the bed was a white porcelain sink with a crack right across its bowl, and one single tap. At the far end of the room, offering no privacy, was a toilet with no seat.

  As Oliver’s eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light, he noticed a number of graffiti markings scratched on the brickwork next to the lower
bed. He moved closer to take a better look, but unfortunately wasn’t able to make out any of the words or letters—it was simply too dark. Just as he was staring at the markings, trying to decipher anything at all, the electric lights outside the cell in the main building suddenly came on. Oliver was scared witless. The light shone through the bars of the door, illuminating the area of the wall that he had been looking at. Torn between getting the hell out of there without delay, and examining the wall for a few more seconds, his curiosity got the better of him. While he studied the markings, he thought he could hear distant footsteps far away, reverberating throughout the prison building.

  “Bloody hell. I’d better get out of here, now!” thought Oliver. He took one more quick look at the wall, now that his eyes had become fully adjusted to the dull lighting.

  This time he was definitely able to make out the etched words, just as he could now hear two men’s voices in the distance. “You check this floor and Two,” said one. “Okay, and I’ll do Three and Four,” replied the other. A short while later, the heavy sound of boots stomping up the main staircase grew increasingly louder.

  Still intrigued by what he had read on the wall, as quick as lightning, Oliver pulled his iPhone from his pocket and took one quick snap, knowing that even in the dull light it would work. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten that the camera’s auto flash was switched on, and an instant bright light went off.

  Petrified that he’d now given away his location, he was thankful that he was wearing his Converse baseball shoes with soft soles. Without another moment’s hesitation, he darted through the partly-open cell door without making a noise. “Bugger!” he almost said out loud, when he saw his precious Florida Key still protruding from the lock. He had no choice—he had to remove it. Keeping an ear for the rhythm of heavy boots coming up the steps, he managed to pull the key out exactly in time with the man’s down-step, shielding the sound the key made as he whipped it from the door.