They reached an open doorway and Truant shoved Bunny in the back again, causing him to stumble through. A tall, broad-shouldered man with tightly cropped hair and a moustache that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a member of the Village People grabbed his arm to steady him. The grip was firm. The man was powerfully built in the old-fashioned sense. He didn’t look as if he’d ever been inside a gym, but if you needed someone to lift a girder off you in a collapsed building, he was the kind of guy you’d want showing up.
He gave Bunny a warm, gap-toothed smile. “Oh, careful there.” He glanced back at Truant. “Officer Truant is being a little over-eager, as always.”
The moustache turned, and only then did Bunny notice the middle-aged woman sitting behind a desk, regarding them nervously.
“Could you give us a moment please, Diann? I just need to make sure our guest is comfortable before we go and meet the boss. Maybe grab yourself a coffee?”
“Sure, Commander Blake. Can I get anyone anything?”
“I’d murder a cup of tea,” said Bunny.
Blake’s moustache widened into a broader grin. “We’re all fine, thank you, sweetheart.”
The woman nodded and quickly departed.
Blake looked at Truant and then at the door.
Then he did it again.
Truant looked back at him blankly.
“How’s about one of us closes the damn door?”
“Oh, right, boss.”
Blake rolled his eyes.
“Ye just can’t get the staff these days,” observed Bunny.
“Ain’t that the truth,” replied Blake.
Bunny heard the door click closed behind him and Blake took a step back, looking Bunny up and down.
“So, Mr Rourke, welcome back to the loving embrace of the Nevada penal system. My name is Commander James Blake. You can call me Commander Blake. I’m the lead officer for this whole institution.”
“Congrats.”
Blake gave a broad smile. “Well, thank you very much. We’re very pleased with it. It has a zero-escape record thanks to some of the most sophisticated systems in the world and, despite the impression Officer Truant here gives, a superb staff.”
Bunny felt Truant bristle at the shot. Blake’s eyes remained fixed on him.
“So, tell me, Mr Rourke – are you going to be trouble?”
Bunny shook his head. “No, sir. I’m looking forward to a peaceful life. Might catch up on some light reading, maybe learn how to paint.”
“Ah, you have a sense of humour. Isn’t that great? I love comedy, don’t I, Officer Truant?”
“Yes,” answered Truant, unsure whether it was the correct response.
“Indeed, I do. Observational – that’s my favourite. So, Mr Seinfeld, is there anything you notice about this room?”
Bunny knew where this was heading. “The carpeting is different.”
It was. Outside the room had been a light blue. In here, it was a deep red.
“That’s right,” said Blake again. “Also …”
Even knowing it was on its way, Bunny had to admit the shot came fast. Blake must’ve boxed in his younger days. Bunny crumpled to his knees as the air exploded out of his lungs.
“… there’s no camera in here. You enjoying that close-up of the carpet, Rourke?”
Bunny wasn’t quite at the point where speech was something he could comfortably achieve.
Blake took a knee, grabbed Bunny’s hair, and pulled up his head so that he could whisper in his ear. “You mess with me and I will fuck you every which way. I’ll make your life an everlasting hell. We clear?”
Bunny croaked out something unintelligible.
Blake stood up, his cheery tone returning. “Excellent. Officer Truant, please assist the prisoner to his feet. The warden would like a word.”
Chapter Eight
Nobody said anything.
Bunny stood there, with Commander Blake stiffly beside him, and they watched as the man behind the desk studiously read and then signed various sheets of paper, twirling the pen between his thin pianist’s fingers in between signatures. Bunny concentrated on looking at the man and studiously ignored what was behind him. Its entire purpose was to unnerve people who were standing where he was.
Bunny had been unnerving people since he was a kid, and as far as he was concerned the man behind the desk was an amateur. You didn’t need props. You didn’t need affectations, such as making someone wait. It was all bad theatre, and he wasn’t going to dignify it with a response. He briefly considered farting but decided that given the situation, keeping his head down and getting through this pantomime was the sensible thing to do.
As for the man behind the desk, he was thin and so was his head of brown hair. So much so that his scalp was clearly visible. Bunny guessed that when he looked in the mirror each morning, the man believed he was hanging on to a decent coif, but that was because he didn’t get the view of the top of his head Bunny was enjoying. The man also possessed the unusual habit of opening and closing his mouth as he read, making soft popping noises reminiscent of a fish out of water, albeit one who had adapted remarkably quickly to the change in circumstances.
The desk was neat. Fastidiously so. Even the paperwork he was reading and signing. After each page was signed, it was placed with precision on top of the last. There were no framed photos in the room, and the walls held no certificates. A nameplate in gold lettering positioned on the desk identified its occupant as Warden Dean Hanzus. Given that his name was also on the other side of the door, it seemed unnecessary, but Bunny supposed you needed a paperweight. None of this was to say the room lacked distinguishing features. For a start, on the corner of the desk sat a glass box containing six live mice. They seemed edgy, and not without reason.
As the result of a thorough, if otherwise almost entirely useless education in Latin given to him by the Christian Brothers, Bunny happened to know that the plural of vivarium is vivaria. He was really hoping for a chance to slip that into the inevitable conversation that was to follow. There aren’t many
