The doors slammed shut and he was enclosed in the darkness once more. A voice called for them to proceed and the engine purred into life and the van moved forward. A large clap echoed out as the gate slammed shut, locking Sam inside the grounds of the most terrifying location in the United Kingdom.
Sam sat patiently in the darkness, thinking of his son. Jamie had always been so happy, his mood a default positive despite any problem he faced. Sam had watched him struggle with books, but eventually, his son’s keen love of the written word soon saw him reading at a level way beyond his age.
Jamie would have been fast approaching his ninth birthday had he not been taken by the cruel hands of fate.
A moment that had set all of this in motion.
Sam could hear the muffled words of authority outside, and then the crunching of boots gradually growing in volume towards the door.
They swung open.
Before him, a powerful figure stood, his thick arms pointing out like triangles as he rested his hands on his hips. The daylight poured in around the man, casting him in a complete shadow and Sam squinted towards the broad silhouette. After a few moments, the man spoke.
‘Sam Pope. Welcome to hell.’
Chapter Eight
Deputy Warden Harry Sharp had practically licked his lips when the notice of Sam’s impending arrival came through, and while the late hour of it’s arrival was unusual, it had caused a stir of excitement in him. The standard process was for Ashcroft to be notified weeks in advance of a new inmate, ensuring the necessary safety procedures were in place for their arrival and successful transition into the facility.
But he disregarded the tardiness of the request.
Sam Pope was his.
Growing up with learning difficulties had made Sharp an easy target during his youth, something which had etched itself onto his psyche like a vulgar tattoo. With his parents’ dwindling interest in his schoolwork and wellbeing, his poor diet ensured he was teased for both his mental and physical state. Kids are cruel, which is why Sharp had never wanted the family life, cursing the very idea that he would end up like his pathetic parents. His father left when he was eight years old, which Sharp considered a blessing. The man couldn’t hold down a job and didn’t offer anything to society other than a shining example of what happens when you have no control.
He drank too much.
Took as many drugs as possible.
Fucked whoever would let him.
There was a real possibility that Sharp had siblings due to his scumbag father’s promiscuous lifestyle, but he had no interest in finding out. Anything that would tie him further to the man made his stomach turn. His mother, in his eyes, was weak. She allowed his father to sleep around, and she struggled through on a wave of benefits and cash in hand cleaning jobs.
When Sharp made his way to his teens, he filled out. The puppy fat soon converted to taut muscle and while he may not have been the brightest, he soon became the toughest in his school. When he was expelled for beating a former bully to a pulp with a chair, his mother didn’t even realise. Sharp focused his attention on joining the police from a young age, but he didn’t pass the entry exams.
He fared even worse at joining the armed forces.
Eventually, he became a prison guard.
The feeling of wielding power over people who thought themselves above the law was a sensation he couldn’t find in the arms of a woman, no matter how much he paid her. The feeling of slamming his baton into the back of an inmate’s skull for talking back was almost orgasmic.
Twenty years in the game, and now here he was, working as the deputy warden for a secret prison with a very select membership. Every time one of its degenerate population spoke back to him, he allowed the anger and pain of his neglectful parents to flow through him.
The incessant teasing from the kids at school.
The total rejection from the opposite sex.
He had been investigated countless times for excessive force when dealing with inmates, but his peers stood up for him. He didn’t know if it was out of friendship, a concept he was unfamiliar with, or because they were scared of him too. Either one was fine with him.
One hour before Sam Pope’s sentencing was due to begin, he received notification that Ashcroft would be his destination. At first, he thought it was a joke and was tempted to hand out a few backhands to his staff to draw out the ‘hilarious’ prankster.
But with Commissioner Stout’s name on the document, he found his anger morph into unbridled excitement.
Immediately, he got on the phone to Warden Geoff Harris, confirming their new guest. Harris was a meticulous man, who had spent over two decades in the army. Although he ruled with a much lighter touch than Sharp, he commanded double the respect from the rest of the guards and the inmates alike.
It infuriated Sharp how a man who showed such little aggression, held such power. Sharp may not have grown up the smartest man in the room, but he knew to toe the line. What he lacked in diplomacy he made up for by leading the line and with Harris slowly heading towards retirement due to his increasing health concerns, he had his eyes on the throne.
And when he sat there, he would ensure that his iron fist was never shrouded in a velvet glove.
Harris, in his usual, polite manner, insisted on travelling into the prison, deviating from his mandated rest day. Sharp had to grit his teeth in response, wanting to give Sam Pope his customary welcome. That would have to wait.
Diagnosed with MS at a late stage of his life, Warden Harris took Wednesdays and Fridays as rest days, allowing
