He had a very strong opinion that anything that stopped when it started raining wasn’t a sport. It was basically sunbathing with accessories. He’d once played a game of hurling in a torrential downpour when they’d spent ten minutes trying to find the ball after it’d got buried in the mud on the rain-soaked field. There’d been a few digs thrown and some proper banter before one of the lads found it – a fact that only became evident when he’d raced on and scored a goal, the opposition goalie having nipped under a tree for a relatively dry smoke. This had resulted in a full-on set-to, not least because the ref had gone for a smoke as well. That was a proper sport.
The diamond was empty, as it had been every other time he’d been out in the yard. Now that he thought of it, it didn’t seem the most sensible of sports to encourage in a prison. He guessed at least a few of the inmates were here because of the amount of damage they could inflict with a baseball bat. Mind you, the weights area was permanently bustling, and there were plenty of big, nasty bits of metal knocking about there. At least the ball on the basketball court couldn’t cause much more damage than maybe a broken nose and some hurt feelings.
Bunny didn’t like being out in the afternoon heat but, fingers crossed, he wouldn’t be here long. Part of his mind was convinced he could hear a low-level sizzle as Irish skin met desert sun. Aside from some decent grub and a bar of soap he couldn’t lose in his belly button, Bunny needed sunscreen in the worst way. Much longer and he was going to have to form his own gang – the Tomato-faced Burners. They’d be easy to spot and their reputation would be fierce – kicking off if anyone so much as breathed on their sunburn.
Again, he resisted the urge to look up. He needed to focus on the ground and trust that something was about to fall from the sky. He had to stay alert so that he could nab it without anyone noticing. He scanned the ground once more. Maybe he could find some interesting rocks out of which he could carve a chess set? Although, given that Shitty Whiteside and his big mouth were getting out of solitary in two days’ time, he’d need to find rocks that already looked remarkably like chess pieces.
A shadow appeared. “You Rourke.”
It wasn’t a question. Bunny looked up to see a large, shirtless white dude doing his best to tower over him. He had a cross-eyed look to him, as if he’d possibly strained too hard while lifting and had never been right again. His tattoos were a depressing array of bad life choices. His entire body was a questionably spelled hate crime.
“That’s me, alright.”
“Satan wants a word.”
Bunny tilted his head. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”
“Satan wants a word.”
“Right,” said Bunny, aware of the irony that he was waiting for something to fall from heaven. “Where is he and I’ll be right over?”
“Follow me.”
“I can’t just now.”
“He isn’t asking.”
“Right. What I meant was, I’m being watched by the guards. How’s about you start walking, and I’ll follow a few feet behind you.” It was the best he could come up with at short notice.
The guy considered this for a second and then turned around grudgingly.
It said something about the kind of week Bunny was having that when the thing fell from the sky and hit his wannabe guide right on the back of his bald head, it felt somehow inevitable.
The guy turned back around and looked at Bunny. “Did you just throw something at the back of my head?”
“I did.”
“Why the fuck did you do that?”
Bunny opened his mouth, hoping something would come out. “I like you.” Even his own voice seemed shocked that that was where he’d ended up.
The guy took a step back. “What?”
Bunny stood up. “I just wanted to say something before we go over there and meet Satan. Seriously, is that really what he calls himself? Ye know what, never mind. I just wanted you to know …” Bunny took a step forward. “I like you.”
The cross-eyed glare intensified a couple of notches. “I’m gonna beat your ass.”
“Alright. But buy me dinner first.”
“You—”
“Is everything alright here, gentlemen?”
Bunny had been so focused on the haymaker he was fully expecting to be heading his way that he hadn’t noticed Commander Blake approaching.
“Absolutely, boss,” said Bunny.
Satan’s little helper made a grunting noise.
“This was just the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” said Bunny.
“I can imagine,” said Blake. “Still, Guber, how about you head along back to the weights station and get your lift on.”
This raised another grunt, but no movement.
“I’m sorry,” said Blake. “Were you under the impression that was a request? Move your ass or no yard privileges for a week.”
Guber nodded and turned away. “I’ll be seeing you real soon.”
“I look forward to it,” said Bunny. “FYI, my favourite flowers are carnations.”
Bunny and Blake watched him walk off. “So, Mr Rourke, you are still a person of interest to the Aryan Brotherhood, I see.”
“Oh,” said Bunny, “is that who he works for? He told me he worked for Satan.”
“Ivan Stanyavitch. Satan for short. Head of the Aryan Brotherhood. At least since Braden’s untimely demise. They recruiting you or just pissed over you fighting with Whiteside?”
“I didn’t fight him,” said Bunny. “He jumped me.”
“Sure he did.”
“Can I ask,” said Bunny, “are there any non-racist white prison gangs? I’m really looking for something a little more open-minded.”
“Absolutely,” said Blake. “There’s the Harvard Alumni Society. They go boating on Tuesdays and hold poetry readings on Thursdays.”
“I’m not a big fan of poetry.”
Blake shrugged. “Then I’m afraid you’re stuck with Satan.”
Bunny shook his head. “His mummy must be so proud. Isn’t right,
