‘I bet she enjoyed that, didn’t she? Mind you, she’s probably had plenty of other blokes do it to her before. I bet she’s slept with loads of men. I wonder if the others were married too.’
He gritted his teeth and pulled her closer to him.
Hailey looked into his eyes. Her own were clouded with tears.
‘Why did you do it, Rob?’ she whispered. ‘You knew how much I loved you. I would have gone to the ends of the earth for you. Why did you want to hurt me?’
‘I didn’t want to hurt you.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Go back to sleep,’ he soothed.
Hailey gripped him firmly by one wrist, sliding his hand down her flat belly towards her tightly curled mound of pubic hair. She parted her thighs and pushed his index finger between her moist lips, allowing him to feel the slippery warmth there. Then she raised his compliant hand to his face and pushed his index finger between his lips, allowing him to taste her.
With her other hand she enveloped his stiffening penis and squeezed gently, kneading the flesh and muscle.
‘Not now, babe,’ he said softly. ‘It’s late.’
‘You wouldn’t have refused her, would you?’ she said, rolling away from him.
Rob opened his mouth to speak, but then merely shifted onto his side, his back to her.
Within moments she heard his low breathing again. Low, even breathing.
Contented?
Hailey lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. A single tear rolled from one eye.
It was a long time before she slept again.
Retribution
THE AIR INSIDE the recreation room was thick with cigarette smoke.
It was a large room that could comfortably house more than a hundred men at a time. And on this particular evening it seemed to David Layton that even more bodies were crammed into it.
That was fine with him. More men, more noise, more cover.
‘Dave.’
He heard his name, but didn’t react.
‘Oi, Layton.’
Still he didn’t respond. Merely sat there, his eyes scanning the room and its occupants.
There were more than a dozen tables set up throughout the room, groups of men huddled around them: talking, playing cards, or other games the prison provided.
Two men were attempting to play chess with six of the pieces missing. Scraps of rubbish had been used to replace them. A balled-up piece of chewing-gum foil had just taken a bishop, and was moving in to put a matchbox in check.
A heated game of dominoes was in progress at another table; the men gathered around it were shouting enthusiastically as it progressed.
On the far side of the room stood a small television.
Several rows of plastic chairs had been set up in front of it, and a number of men sat watching the flickering screen.
Layton could see that one of those men was Peter Morton. Early twenties, tall, almost gangling. He had, Layton noted, large ears that stuck out almost at right angles to his head.
He was sitting undisturbed, watching the television, puffing contentedly on a roll-up, occasionally leaning to one side to mutter something to the man sitting next to him.
Layton reached down and touched the hilt of the blade that he had earlier stuck in his boot. It was hidden by the blue prison overalls he wore.
‘Are you going to show those fucking cards, or what?’ a voice close to Layton said.
Finally he looked up, as if stirred from his musings by the tone of the voice.
There was a powerfully built black youth sitting opposite him, gesturing towards the cards he held.
‘Sorry, Midnight,’ said Layton, ‘I was miles away.’
Paul Doolan glanced at his cellmate, then over at Morton, perhaps able to understand his companion’s distraction.
‘Seventeen,’ said Layton, laying his cards on the table.
‘Gutted,’ chuckled Midnight, snatching at the cards. ‘I pay nineteens.’
The other men around the table added a chorus of groans.
‘That’s two hundred thousand you owe me,’ said Midnight, scribbling something down on the pad next to him. He prepared to deal again.
‘Fuck it,’ said Layton. ‘I’ve had enough.’ He got to his feet, watched by his companions. ‘I think I’ll watch some telly.’
Paul Doolan nodded slowly and inspected his cards as they were dealt.
Layton wandered through the recreation room, past the other tables. Past the three uniformed warders gathered close to the door to watch the inmates. Two other guards paced unhurriedly back and forth from one end of the room to the other. One, an older man with grey hair and a pitted complexion, was standing close to the pool table in the far corner of the room, watching the game under way.
Layton fixed his eyes on the back of Peter Morton’s head and sat down in the row of plastic seats behind him, crossing his legs.
He could feel the knife pressing against his ankle.
Paul Doolan glanced across at his cellmate, and saw that he had taken up his chosen position.
It was then that he overturned the table.
Cards, chairs and men all overbalanced. The cards flying into the air, men and chairs tumbling like building bricks.
‘Fucking cheat,’ shouted Doolan at the top of his voice, lunging at Midnight, who raised his hands into a boxer’s stance.
All hell broke loose.
All eyes had turned towards the noisy eruption.
Peter Morton spun round in his chair to see what had caused the disruption.
For fleeting seconds he and Layton locked stares, and Morton briefly wondered why this man was staring at him so intently.
He didn’t even see the knife.
Layton struck quickly and expertly.
The first blow caught Morton across the left cheek and laid it open to the bone. A gout of blood spurted from the wound, almost spattering Layton.
He lashed out again with the knife, this time catching his prey on the nose.
The tip was sliced off effortlessly by the razor-sharp blade, and an even more violent eruption of crimson spouted from this fresh wound.
By this time Morton was screaming, but his shrieks of pain were drowned by the din still coming from the other side of the recreation room.
The third cut severed most of Morton’s right ear, slicing through flesh and cartilage easily. The lump of flesh fell to the floor and lay there in the puddles of blood that had already formed.
Morton kept trying to escape, but he only managed to fall backwards over the plastic chairs.
Layton was on him again in a second.
As Morton lifted a hand to protect his face from the slashing metal, the razor-sharp weapon sheared through the tip of his right middle finger. It cut effortlessly through the pad of his finger and the nail, driving
