“Come on, hurry up,” Scarface said, waving me forward and instantly shredding the brief hope I held. With the pit of my stomach falling to the floor and my arsehole now puckering up, I stepped forward and held my things out. This was one situation I couldn’t get out of.
Scar took my milk carton as the other one snatched my bag. A couple of officers approached the gate and were ushered through by the gatekeeper, some jovial banter exchanged between them. I eyed off Scarface as he carefully opened the flap of the carton and peered inside.
The other screw rummaged briefly through the bag and pulled his hand back out as Scar simply stared into the carton, then at me.
“Anything?” the other screw said, handing me back my bag. I nearly dropped the bag; my fingers were trembling so bad. I watched him give the carton a slight shake, turn it a little and shake it again.
“No, all clear,” he suddenly said, closing the flaps back up and holding the carton out to me. “Hurry the fuck up back to your unit,” he said. I hesitated a moment, my stomach feeling on fire. He just stared at me with blank eyes. “Want it back?” he said when I didn’t take it.
“Yes, sorry,” I said, grabbing the carton. There was the briefest exchange between us, our eyes meeting and revealing what the other knew. It only took a split second to register. He worked for Frank.
I turned and hurried through the gate, not looking back. As I heard the gate snap shut behind me, I looked up at Yellow Block on my left, a lonely figure standing in one of the windows on the top floor. It was Frank, watching me walking towards the unit gate. He didn’t wave, smile or give anything away, simply standing with his arms folded across his chest, waiting for his delivery.
8.
A few of the lads were madly rushing around the common area before lockdown. The officers must have already called for muster when I stepped through the airlock. I didn’t hesitate, climbing the nearest stairs to the top tier.
“Moody, lockdown time,” one officer called to me, but I pretended not to hear, reaching the top in 3 quick jumps. Frank’s door was 4th from the top of the stairs and his door was open. All 3 screws were down stairs still, only the one watching me. “Moody?” he called again.
“One sec,” I called back, holding a finger up, as if to point out how long it would take. Without waiting for an answer, I stepped into Frank’s cell, the man already standing in the middle of the room, patiently waiting for his visitor.
He didn’t speak, nor move, as if waiting for me to serve him his delivery on a silver platter. The prick had a look of expectation on his face. I held out the carton and he paused a few seconds before taking it.
“You did well,” he said as he peered inside the carton and pushed the cloth aside. I nodded and waited for him to excuse me. He didn’t immediately, putting the delivery under his pillow as an officer yelled for muster outside.
“Here,” he said, picking up that day’s newspaper and holding it out to me. “I finished with this. Feel free to take it.” I did just as a screw stuck his head into the cell.
“Frank, sorry. I need to lock up.” It was Petrie, another one of Frank’s hired help.
“All good,” Frank said, waving me away. I took the paper and walked out, the screw following me down the stairs. I looked up to the tier as I reached my own door, Frank already locked behind his door. Something felt very wrong and it scared me not to know what it was.
9.
It felt good to finally lay back on my bunk after the screws locked my door. Evening count was always the easiest one of the day, regardless of whether the muster was right or wrong. I threw the paper on my desk and fell into my pillow, briefly closing my eyes. Unexpectedly, I fell asleep almost immediately.
10.
I didn’t wake for four whole hours, the light still burning brightly above my bunk when my eyes finally opened again. I groaned as I realized the error of my ways. It was hard for me to return to sleep after that length of a nap. I knew I’d now be awake half the night, then walk around like a zombie the next day.
Once I’d taken care of my full bladder, I decided that some hot noodles would be good and boiled the kettle. As it was heating, I flicked the television on and skimmed through a few channels, before deciding on an episode of Stargate.
The noodles were good, despite the bad rap they often received from health experts. At 25c a packet, I figured they were probably made from plastic, but the seasoning was delicious, the chicken flavouring reminding me of my mum’s chicken roast. I devoured the noodles within a few minutes, drinking down the remaining juice before washing my bowl in the sink.
I relaxed on the bed and tried to lose myself in the Stargate episode but it didn’t work, my mind repeatedly returning to the gun I’d just delivered to Frank. I couldn’t make sense of it. It was highly unlikely that he would use it for anything in the unit. A weapon like that served no real purpose in the prison, not unless it was used to…
“Holy shit,” I cried, sitting upright. “That’s it.” I knew what the gun was for, the only true purpose of a weapon like that in a place like this. It would be used to hold guards up during an escape attempt. It was the only thing
