His only other attempt to drop it into conversation had been when he’d taken the St Jude’s Under-12 hurling team on an ill-judged trip to Dublin Zoo many years ago. Bunny had known one of the zookeepers, who had sorted them out with a trip in exchange for All-Ireland semi-final tickets. If memory served, Bunny had been about to drop some Latin wisdom on the group but Phil Nellis had got bitten by a snake. It had actually only been one of the other lads messing about with a rubber one, but Phil fainting meant he still had to deal with it. The moment had been lost. Between that and Larry Dodds throwing his own poo at a monkey, the group had not been asked back.
The vivaria took up most of the wall behind the warden. It was a variation on the classic wannabe-hardman trick of owning a vicious-looking dog. Bunny always felt sorry for the pooch in those situations. People thought bull terriers were vicious animals, but in their defence, you’d be in a bad mood too if you were forced to hang around with the kind of dipshits with whom they were all too often required to spend their days. What was that phrase? There are no bad dogs, only bad owners? Bunny could see that. He wasn’t sure if the same principle extended to snakes. The lights in the various enclosures were low, so you could only see the occasional languorous movement behind the glass.
Warden Hanzus placed the final sheet of paper on the “done” pile, and looked up for the first time since they had entered the room. His mouth was small and tight, as if he were afraid that if he opened it too wide somebody would nick his teeth.
“Are you squeamish, Mr Rourke?”
“I don’t like clowns.”
Hanzus raised an eyebrow and looked around. “That seems like an unlikely issue to come up in a prison.”
“True, but then again, snakes are fairly unlikely too, so I thought I’d just put it out there. Nice vivaria by the way.”
If experience had taught him anything, it was good to get your vivaria references in early doors.
“Ah, you know snakes?”
“No. Latin.”
Hanzus nodded appreciatively. “We don’t get many scholars in dead languages within these walls.”
“I can imagine.”
“You are incorrect, by the way. It is actually one massive vivarium, with interconnecting enclosures.”
“Potato. Solanum tuberosum.”
Hanzus arched a confused eyebrow.
“’Tis the Latin for potato.” Other circumstances notwithstanding, there was a small part of Bunny that was thrilled he’d managed to get two of his three favourite bits of the Latin he could remember into the conversation. If he managed to get “Te future et caballum tuum” in somewhere, this was going to be a red-letter day. It seemed unlikely, unless the warden really did ride in on a horse and he and it had a frankly inappropriate physical relationship.
Bunny felt Blake’s grip on his arm ratchet up slightly, the subtlest of warnings not to push his luck in the chattiness stakes.
“How interesting,” said Hanzus. “I do hope that during your time here at Longhurst you can rekindle your enthusiasm for education.” He gave a smile that looked as if it caused him actual physical pain to part with. “Last time you were a guest of the Nevada penitentiary service, you escaped. The state prison in Carson City, was it not?”
Bunny said nothing, not sure if any response was required, and guessing they were in a sensitive area. He assumed wardens of prisons took a dim view of guests checking out early.
Hanzus leaned forward and picked up the glass box containing the mice. Jesus, this was classic Bond villain. He looked in on the mice, tapping the glass as he did so.
“Rest assured, a lot has changed during your time away. This institution has never been broken out of. Admittedly, it is only five years old, but that’s not to say there have not been attempts. Vincent DeGoya, June of year one. Mr Blake?”
“Shot dead while attempting to escape,” Blake answered in an even tone.
Bunny guessed this wasn’t the first time they’d played out this little routine.
“Phillip Moss and Randy Everett. January, year three.”
“Fell off a wall and died. Both of them.”
“And Mark Waznowsky? October, year four.”
“Shot dead while attempting to take a guard hostage.”
Hanzus didn’t look up. “I know you left your previous place of incarceration via a laundry truck. Rest assured we do not have those here. No trucks enter the area at all, in fact.” He stood and carried the box of mice towards the vivarium. “Do you know much about rattlesnakes, Mr Rourke?”
“No.”
“No, I don’t imagine you do. They’re very misunderstood creatures.”
Hanzus leaned across and turned up a dimmer switch. The increase in the light in the vivarium was met with several rattles. Now it was illuminated, Bunny got a better look at the set-up. There appeared to be six medium-sized enclosures containing snakes sitting over one very long one that stretched the entire length of the back wall of the room. Beneath it, a couple more enclosures sat empty.
The warden stepped to the side and motioned towards the vivarium like one of those cringeworthy “beautiful assistants” who used to point at things on gameshows. “Rattlesnakes are not encouraged to be kept as pets. They are, in fact, rarely bred, because they do not have a warm and cuddly reputation.”
“Hard to believe.”
Blake’s grip on Bunny’s arm went up a notch again.
Hanzus continued as if he’d not heard the remark. “While they do not seek out opportunities to attack humans, they can do, and there are challenges in keeping them contained, not to mention the even greater obstacles to breeding. This complex enclosure is my rather – if I may blow my own trumpet for a moment – ingenious solution to that problem.”
Bunny gave a yelp, which caused Hanzus to turn around and look at him.
“Sorry. Commander Blake keeps squeezing my arm, and it’s getting painful. I think he
