by Conrad Jones
As he dressed, he weighed his position in his mind. His situation was dire and claiming that he was being set up was futile. They weren’t listening. He couldn’t see any way out. They would give him life in prison without any chance of being considered for parole but how long would it actually be? Thirty years? Forty years or maybe even more. The jury would convict him on the strength of the evidence before them and the judge would crucify him. Rape was bad enough but what had been done to the police officer and her friend was far worse. The man that committed those atrocities was a monster. ‘You’re a monster, Tod. You did it,’ the voices whispered. Despite his denials of guilt, they wouldn’t give him any peace.
If there was a death penalty, it would be have been applied but that wasn’t an option in the UK. Life in prison was probably worse. Minutes were hours, hours felt like days, weeks seemed like years. Being confined to a cell for the remainder of his days would be like hell on earth.
As for what had happened to the two boys, they would throw away the key. The system would look at the severity of the crime and they would section him as a dangerous psychopath that needed medical help rather than prison. Prison was all about rehabilitation. There was no rehabilitation for him, no regret and no remorse. I have no regrets! They would send him to a secure mental unit. If they did, his tariff of incarceration would mean nothing. They could keep him captive until he turned grey and started dribbling in his chair. He didn’t deserve that, no one did. Could he be blamed for what was inside him? He didn’t think so. His urges were natural. He couldn’t change them so how could they blame him. Man is born with desires. His sexuality couldn’t be altered with a pill. His desires drove him to distraction. How could they punish him for acting upon them? They were in the wrong not him. His persecution was an injustice. He had to think of a way to escape or he wouldn’t survive a year. The thought of growing old behind bars sickened him. He couldn’t endure the monotony.
Tod tried to push such thoughts from his mind. He pulled on his underwear, fastened his trousers and slipped on his shoes and socks as quickly as he could. Being naked in the prison showers made him feel at his most vulnerable. He rubbed his armpits with the towel and reached for his prison issue denim shirt. As he fastened the buttons, he heard the wing alarm blaring. Somewhere on one of the landings, an officer had been attacked.
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Peter Barton approached the rear of the bungalow and crouched down behind the shrubbery. He looked through the patio windows and saw the figure of a man inside. The man looked fragile, his shoulders stooped by age. Barton began to think that he had made a mistake until the man turned and approached the window. His facial features were dark and drawn, his cheek bones sunken and his eyes had dark circles beneath them. Geoff Ryder had aged significantly in the years since he had emigrated but there was no doubt that it was him. He watched as Ryder put a mask over his nose and mouth and breathed deeply. A tube ran from the mask to an oxygen tank. It appeared he had been stricken by ill health. Barton felt no sympathy for the man no matter what illness had consumed him. He deserved no mercy and he would show him none.
He skirted the villa and approached a porch at the side of the house. The sliding doors were open at one end allowing the warm evening air to drift into the dwelling. He placed the tyre against the villa wall and checked the Mossberg. He clicked off the safety and slipped inside the door. Cooking odours drifted to him, onions and garlic mingled with roast chicken. He could hear a fire burning in another room, the wood spitting and crackling as the flames devoured it. The scent of smoke was faint and comforting. He raised the shotgun and looked around the room. The walls were lined, floor to ceiling with bookshelves, each crammed with books of every description. A single leather recliner was positioned at the far end to his right. Next to it was a side table with a cigar box and an onyx ashtray. He could sense the slightest whiff of stale tobacco drifting to him. A large teak globe stood to his left. The top was hinged and open to reveal a selection of crystal decanters that contained amber liquids of various shades. He envisaged Ryder sitting in the chair, reading a leather bound novel while sipping an expensive brandy and chuffing a thick cigar. The abnormal pretending to be normal. The image made his blood boil.
Barton walked silently to an adjoining door and pressed his ear against the varnished wood. All he could hear was wood crackling on a fire and the muted tones of a television. He twisted the brass handle and pulled it open an inch. The window where he had seen Ryder was now empty. The oxygen mask was left hanging from the back of an armchair. He opened the door wide enough to step through and then swept the room with the gun raised. There was no sign of Ryder. The fire was burning in a wide brick built fireplace that reached the ceiling. A slate mantelpiece was fixed at head height and was adorned with silver candlesticks and equestrian brasses. Fixed to the wall above was a huge mantrap. It seemed odd that such a device should be considered as an ornament. He moved quietly through the room, his heart thumped in his chest. A widescreen television showed Sky News from back home. It stopped him in his tracks. He was still the hot topic of the week. A noise from the next room made his breath stick in his chest. He froze and waited.
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Tod grabbed his wash bag and walked quickly to the entrance of the washrooms. He swore beneath his breath when he saw that the guards were gone. He caught sight of them running down the metal steps to the landing below. Shouts and screams echoed across the wing and the ear-piercing alarm was relentless. He stepped out of the washroom onto the landing and peered over the metal railings. The landings below were like a scene from a horror movie. On the ground floor, two prison officers were being subjected to a brutal beating. A dozen inmates surrounded their thrashing bodies, kicking, punching and beating them with pool cues. With the absence of the guards, many inmates took the opportunity to settle old scores. Prisoners battled with each other on every landing. Homemade shivs of every description were being used with deadly effect. Tod could see blood splatter up the walls of the landing below him. The prison officers tried helplessly to stem the violence but they were hopelessly outnumbered. Tod watched as the four officers that remained standing waded into the group that was attacking their two injured colleagues. Blows rained down on them in a sustained attack but they managed to drag their workmates along the floor to the wing’s entrance gates where fellow officers with riot shields, unlocked them and dragged them all out of harm’s way. They forced the gates closed and locked them. Until an armoured Tornado Riot Squad could be deployed, the wing and its inmates would be left to their own devices.
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Barton tiptoed across terracotta tiles to an open doorway that led to a hallway. At the opposite end of the hall was the front door. He could see three doorways to his left and two to his right. They were all closed. A pan rattled and then clattered on to tiles. He jumped and squeezed the gun tightly. He heard Geoff Ryder cursing and mumbling to himself and then he heard the sound of plates being stacked. The smell of cooking became stronger. Barton walked along the hallway to the front door and locked it from the inside; sliding heavy bolts into place at the top and bottom. There may be others in the villa and he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. He intended to perform a brief search of each room before neutralising Ryder himself. Once he had him contained, he could concentrate on what he had come for without the chance of being disturbed. He turned away from the front door and crept down the hall. He opened the first door and looked inside. It was a double bedroom, tastefully furnished but unused. The windows were blocked on the outside by ornate wooden shutters. He closed the door silently and moved to the next one.
The door creaked open and he froze to the spot. He listened intently for any warning that Ryder had heard him. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears. He waited for his pulse to settle and stepped inside. It was the master bedroom. Ryder’s bed was beyond king-size and the headboard looked like it weighed a ton. It appeared t
o be crafted from a single piece of oak that had been carved into a frieze of Dante’s Inferno. Each intricate detail had been hand painted and lacquered. It was as disturbing as it was impressive. The thick quilt was covered in a dark Paisley print so fine that he could hardly distinguish the details. He took one step inside and felt his boots sink into a thick wool carpet. Each wall held an oversized hellish oil painting of Dante’s ilk. The powerful aroma of patchouli oil saturated the air in the room. Its sickly sweet smell reminded him of the leather jacket clad bikers that he hung with in his teens. He took one last glimpse of the hideous carving above the bed and then retreated back into the hallway, closing the bedroom door behind him. He listened to make sure that Ryder was still distracted and stepped across the hallway to the next room. When he touched the handle, the metal was as cold as ice. A shiver ran down his spine as he twisted it and pushed it open.
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Tod was transfixed by the violence below him. He watched as three inmates held another down and stabbed him repeatedly with sharpened objects. His white vest changed colour as deep red stains blossomed across his stomach and chest. His screams sent shivers through him. One of the attackers ran his shiv across his throat and a plume of arterial blood gushed skyward. All that blood! ‘You did this to us, Tod.’ I didn’t kill anyone! Familiar faces flashed through his brain, their features twisted in agony. They picked the man up by his arms and legs and tossed him over the balcony onto the safety netting. He grabbed at the gushing rent in his throat desperate to stop his life force from leaving him but the wound was too deep and the pressure to strong. Blood squirted between his fingers and his struggles weakened. His dispatch was met by a chorus of cheers from the inmates below. “Nonce, nonce, nonce!”
The image of the twitching body on the net brought back memories. Warped and twisted memories that bubbled to the surface from the darkness of his mind. ‘Remember us, Tod!’ the voices whispered in his mind. ‘Remember!’ He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. They were memories that belonged to another. They must be. Waves crashed on the eerie statues of the Iron Men as he dug in the sand. Memories of women lying naked, their eyes like those of stunned cattle waiting for the slaughter man to slit their throats. ‘Remember us!’
His knees buckled and he grabbed at the rail to support himself. He stepped back from the edge as the image of two boys appeared in his mind. Their eyes, how could you look into their eyes? The images merged and he covered his ears to block out their screams. His heart thumped in his chest and sweat trickled from his forehead. The memories were so real, so sick, so evil. A darkness in him felt excited by them but another side felt weak and nauseous. He needed to escape from the violence below; the sight of blood made his mind play tricks on him. Tod took a breath and tried to banish the demons from his mind. He needed to reach his cell.
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement on his landing. A lone figure stood leaning against his cell door with his arms folded. The huge man glanced at the carnage below and then looked back at Tod and smiled. Tod instinctively moved back against the wall. He looked to his right and saw two more men staring at him. They had no interest in what was happening on the lower landings; they were totally focused on him. The first figure walked slowly along the metal grating towards him. His thick arms were covered in tattoos and he had swastikas on either side of his head, which was shaven. He grinned through a dark goatee. Tod recognised him as the man they called, Beast, the wing governor.
“Impressive isn’t it?” he said to the men on the opposite landing. They nodded silently and stared at Tod. “Enjoying the show, Harris?” He smiled at Tod with crooked teeth but there was no friendliness in his smile. “You should be impressed.” He gestured to the lower floors. “All this is for your benefit, you fucking scumbag.” The smile twisted to a sneer. “We don’t want them sending you off to a nice secure mental hospital before we’ve had a chance to express our outrage at your hideous crimes, now do we, boys?” he grinned at the other men.
“We don’t want that, Beast,” one of them sneered.
“Not until we’ve had a word.” The other added.
Tod could feel their hatred. He began to tremble with fear and his knees trembled again. He looked to his right and the two men moved along the walkway opposite towards him. Beast moved along the landing to his left and took a toothbrush handle from his pocket. He held it up and Tod could see razor blades glinting in the light. They were melted side by side into the plastic. He was trapped with less than twenty metres between him and the sinister inmates. Tod walked back to the railings and looked down. There was still some activity on the lower landings but he quickly realised what they were doing. The prisoners were barricading the wing entrance gates with everything that they could rip loose. Mattresses, tables, chairs and the pool table had been piled against the gates to prevent the guards returning in force. As he looked around the lower floors, it seemed to Tod that every inmate on the wing was looking up at him.
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Peter Barton felt a rush of stale air hit him as he looked beyond the door. A staircase climbed to a loft room and the smell of unwashed humans wafted to him. The stench evoked fear and frustration inside him, deep rooted emotions from his past. Stale urine, sweat, vomit and excrement. All the odours of his prison days. He felt gripped by a sense of foreboding and trepidation. Don’t go up there, Peter. A voice whispered to him. Get Ryder first!
Commonsense deserted him. He knew that he should wait. He also knew that if he had applied his commonsense at any point since Simon went missing then things would be different. He wanted to see what Ryder had upstairs. His mind nagged him. No, you need to see. That’s always been your problem, Peter, you don’t think before you act. He climbed the first steps and pulled the door to behind him. As soon as it closed, he regretted his decision. The air was thick and cloying. Sweat trickled down his back and he felt wet and uncomfortable beneath the arms. He placed his feet close to the walls as he climbed. His progress was slow but silent. As he reached the top of the staircase, the stench intensified. Barton took a small torch from his pocket and switched it on. He aimed it at the roof and moved it from one side to the other. The rafters and tiles were bare. As he brought the beam lower, it settled on metal bars. He stepped closer and swept the beam along the bars. They are cells! Ryder has cells in his loft! He heard shuffling at the far end of the loft; shuffling and breathing. Then a whimper, like an injured cat. Chains clinked and rattled. Barton felt sick to his stomach as he crept forward. He drew level with the first cell and aimed the torchlight inside. A filthy mattress lay empty at the back of the cell. Handcuffs dangled loosely from the bars. An upturned water bowl designed for a dog was pressed against the bars. The door to the cage was ajar. He heard whimpering behind him and turned the torch towards it. The figure of a girl crouched in the corner, naked and trembling. A chain was anchored to the bars and padlocked into a metal necklace that was locked around her neck. Her long hair reached past her shoulders touching deep scars of various age. He could see her ribs protruding through skin. Her emaciated frame belonged to a holocaust survivor. She buried her face into the mattress and shivered with terror. Barton wanted to free her right there but he knew that he couldn’t. He tugged at the door but heavy chains fastened it. The shotgun was capable of blasting the lock but she still wouldn’t be free. He needed the keys.
A shuffling sound made him turn around quickly. He aimed the torchlight at a second cage. He crept towards it with a morbid curiosity and a feeling of dread in his stomach. Another whimper from the shadows. Chains rattled and the floorboards creaked. He shone the beam at the source of the noise. The form of a young boy lay curled on the mattress in a foetal position. The disks of his spine protruded like the teeth on a cog. Scar tissue ran across his back from his shoulders down his buttocks to his thighs. His sandy blond hair was long and matted and hadn’t been cut for an age. Barton felt his breath coming in short sharp blasts. His pulse wa
s racing. The boy looked emaciated, his skin bruised and filthy. He could smell excrement from a plastic bucket at the rear of the cage. Barton winced when he saw a deep gash that ran from the boy’s elbow to his shoulder. The congealed blood had not yet scabbed. Barton followed the wound with his torch and stopped at a blemish on the shoulder. Lights flashed in his mind. He recognised a pinkish birthmark on the boy’s shoulder. It was shaped like the African continent. “Simon!” he hissed. He had to see his face. The boy curled up tighter still. The chain around his neck clinked. “Simon!” His anger coursed through his veins making his blood boil. He couldn’t think straight. The urge to shout and call for help was overwhelming but he couldn’t. He had to tackle Ryder. He needed the keys and then he needed to take Simon back home where he belonged. “Simon, it’s me, Uncle Peter!” he hissed again. He shook the gate as hard as he dared. “Simon!” He had to be sure that it was him. Could it be Simon? “Simon!” He had to quell the urge to shout. “Simon, it’s Uncle Peter!” The boy stiffened and tilted his head. “Simon!” The boy turned slowly and squinted at the light. Barton recognised his blue eyes although the life that used to shine in them was gone. There was a spark or recognition in them. Just a glint in his eye. “Simon, it’s me, Uncle Peter!” The boy cowered away from him, his face frozen in fear. “Don’t be afraid. I’m going to take you home,” he said in a whisper. The boy shook his head and shut his eyes tight. “I’ll get you out of here.” The boy began to shake uncontrollably and raised his index finger. “Don’t be afraid.”
