The Virus, Lee, Damien [summer beach reads .txt] 📗

all corrupt. Some of us know exactly what Henderson’s like and we want rid of him.”

“Then why don’t you report him?”

“It’s not that easy. He’s got enough people scared of him; he’ll always have an alibi.”

“So what do you want me to do about it? Who the hell is gonna believe a con?”

“Nobody.”

Frank frowned. “So why bother telling me?”

“Like I said, he’s got it in for you. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but he will find a way of getting rid of you. You may want to consider a pre-emptive strike, so to speak.”

Frank looked at the wall, the gravity of his predicament starting to become clear.

“Here,” McAllister said, reaching into his pocket and producing a protein bar. “I doubt you’re going to eat that shit.” He motioned towards the bowl of spoiled soup.

Without waiting for Frank to respond, he threw the snack onto the bed and closed the door. Frank listened as he made his way back down the corridor, stopping every so often to pass a bar to each prisoner.

“It’s about fucking time,” Gus said. “Nice one, McAllister.”

“Oh yes! You legend,” another yelled.

Frank grabbed the protein bar and tore away the wrapping. The sugary aroma barely met his nose before he shovelled it into his mouth. He chewed mightily, savouring its sweet taste. The flavour lingered, and he longed for more, but knew he had to be thankful for the rations. He looked back at the bowl on the floor and pushed it away with his foot. Henderson was a first-class prick, but McAllister seemed to be one of the few screws the inmates could tolerate. He lay back on his bunk, listening to the appreciation of the other cons. Their cheering of gratitude and moans of fulfilment echoed throughout the wing.

A few seconds passed before the inmates became silent once more. Frank despised the still atmosphere. His nightmares resurfaced and with nothing to distract him, they lingered. He ignored his wife’s pleas for mercy and turned on his side. Once again, several scrawls zigzagged across the wall. Some had been written in ink whilst others were carved into the paintwork. Frank read them with interest. Many more sexual statements were present, as were the crude drawings. As he looked closer, he found another gem hidden amongst the trash.

‘1987 Andy Emerson, strangled a prostitute. She charged extra’

‘1988 Simon Reaves, merded a famly, I am sory’

‘1988 Paddy Glover, raped two girls and killed a third. I should be dead.’

‘1988 Jimbo Smith, cut up nine bimbos, they only found three.’

‘1990 Charlie Robson, killed my father and stepmother, God forgive me’

 

The list continued halfway down the wall, all in the same format. It made Frank feel better reading the crimes committed by past inmates. Although he was right in his earlier assumptions, the scumbags who wrote the confessions seemed almost like friends. He read on until he came to the last entry:

 

‘2002 David Anderson, shot four men and two died, I’m so sorry.’

 

The names meant nothing to Frank. The prison housed over six hundred inmates, with countless being transferred in and out since he’d been there. Reading the line gave Frank an uncontrollable urge to contribute. He rose from his bunk and glanced down at the bowl of soup. The lumps of meat swam lazily in the yellow water. He looked in disgust at the green gob of sputum floating in the centre of the soup. He eased the spoon out of the bowl, careful to avoid the phlegm which drifted dangerously close to the utensil. Once clear, he wiped the remaining drops of soup onto his blanket and approached the wall. The paintwork broke away effortlessly, as he carved his line at the next available space. After he finished, he sat back to admire his input. He had made his mark on the prison, and if he ever got released, there would always be a memory of him within the walls.

He grinned as he read his contribution:

 

‘2004 Frank Lee, butchered my wife with a hammer, she deserved every strike.’

7

Cranston was bustling with activity. Everywhere she looked, Amy saw an excited crowd milling about. Police cars made their presence known by the blinking red and blue lights, and it was only as she approached the barricade she found the source of the commotion.

Past the barrier, a multitude of medical personnel were attempting to revive a lone figure in the middle of the road. A bus driver was being questioned next to his vehicle. The underside of the bus was dripping blood. A crimson trail also glistened on the road; a sign of how far the huge vehicle had dragged the body. Amy tore her gaze from the scene as a police officer motioned for her to perform a U-turn. She complied, and drove back the way she came, taking an alternate route home.

The detour only added a couple of minutes to her journey, but Amy was glad when she arrived home. She swung the car door wide and stepped out into the warm summer air. A pleasant smell of geraniums and daffodils shrouded her as she neared the house. Norman Collins stood in the neighbouring garden spraying a multitude of flowers with a hosepipe. He raised a hand in greeting to her as she approached her front door.

“Afternoon, Amy.”

“Good afternoon, Norman. The flowers are coming along lovely.”

“Why, thank you.” He beamed. “They always smell beautiful during early summer.”

“I must pay you to do my garden sometime,” she said as she retrieved her door keys. “By the way, how’s your dad? Is he feeling any better?”

She watched as Norman’s smile faded.

“No, he’s getting worse,” he said. “He can’t keep anything down. I’m waiting for the doctor. I called a few hours ago, but nobody