“Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”
“At the risk of stating the obvious,” said Cuts, “guards come up here every half-hour, or there’s a panic button on the wall over there.”
Bunny shook his head. “No. Can’t do that.”
“Ah, man, you really going to let some stupid bullshit pride get you killed?”
“’Tis not that.” Bunny glanced back into the cell where Breida was reading one of his comic books. “For what it’s worth, Commander Blake is a stone-cold killer.”
“I guess.”
Bunny looked Cuts in the eye. “No. I mean, I’m telling you he told me that he’s killed several inmates. Told me how he could do it and get away with it. That escape last year – those two guys whose names I can’t remember? He said that was just his excuse to kill them.”
Cuts squinted. “Why the hell would he tell you that?”
“I think he got a kick from sharing it. And be honest, you aren’t sure you believe me, and I’ve got no reason to lie. Imagine how someone from outside will view it? Also, it was part of his way of telling me that if ” – Bunny nodded back at Breida – “y’know, he’d kill me. I’d rather take my chances with the gangs.”
Cuts scratched at his chest. “That is fucked up.”
Bunny nodded. “You should move inside. Keep out of the way.”
“I should,” said Cuts, staying where he stood.
Bunny gave him a long look. “Last request – what are you in for?”
Cuts gave a soft, humourless laugh. “It isn’t what’s on the piece of paper, but I’m here because I wasn’t strong enough to stop an innocent man getting killed.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’m not loving the idea of watching it happen again.”
Bunny shook his head. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“I get that.” Cuts kicked irritably at the frame of the door.
“I’ve been meaning to ask – why do they call you Cuts?”
“Would you believe I used to be a barber?”
“Really?”
Cuts smiled a sad smile. “Another life.”
“Some skills never leave you,” said Bunny.
Cuts said nothing for a few moments as he drummed on the bars. “Look, when they come, it won’t be one guy. The gangs aren’t subtle – not when they know that you know it’s coming.”
“I’ve faced worse odds.”
“Not to dent your confidence, but didn’t you get the crap kicked out of you by a racist short-ass a few days ago?”
“Actually, I didn’t. That was fake.”
“Seriously,” said Cuts. “What the hell is going on here?”
“I don’t think we have that kind of time.”
“You might be right,” said Cuts, looking up at the clock up on the wall. “I don’t want to worry you, but the guard patrol seems to be running late.”
“No prizes for guessing why,” said Bunny.
Bunny recognised the two chatty mountains from Vatos Locos who had escorted him down to see their boss a couple of days before, as they reached the stairs to landing six.
“Shit,” said Cuts.
“Sorry about this,” said Bunny.
“What are you apol—”
Cuts was interrupted by a punch from Bunny to the side of his head, sending him sprawling back into his cell.
“Mind your own business, arsehole,” Bunny hollered loudly as he followed him inside.
Harsh pulled off his headphones when he felt Cuts thump against the bed. “Cuts? Cuts? What the fuck?”
Bunny took a quick step further in and lowered his voice. “Harsh, keep him here. Don’t let him do anything stupid.”
He looked down at Cuts, sitting on the floor, looking like a drunk who couldn’t understand where his chair disappeared to. “Sorry fella.”
Bunny stepped out onto the landing. The two massive men were moving quickly towards him. The guy with the neck tattoo took the lead, the beard lumbering up behind him. Bunny noticed a glint of metal in the lead guy’s right hand.
He moved nimbly backwards into his own cell. Trapping himself in there was not ideal, but it was that or else he’d have to deal with both of the incoming monsters simultaneously. Better to fight in the phone booth.
Breida was sitting up on his bunk, his expression wide with terror. “Bunny?”
“Whatever happens, stay down,” barked Bunny.
He looked around the room, just in case there was a trapdoor or a gun he hadn’t noticed up until now.
Bunny looked at the TV. “Sorry about this.” He wrenched it out of the wall and held it at his shoulder with his right hand, like a shotput, the power cord in his left. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but beggars can’t be choosers.
The two men reached the cell door, blocking the light from outside.
“Howerya, lads. Are you here to fix the broken telly?”
Neck Tattoo squeezed through the door, with whatever improvised piece of prison weaponry he’d brought with him held out in front. He didn’t look like a man who had experience in wielding a blade. He looked more like the break-your-neck-with-his-bare-hands type.
Bunny feinted throwing the portable TV at his head, and the man raised an arm in a pre-emptive block. Bunny spun the power cable in an arc and then fired the plug directly into Neck Tattoo’s nuts. Direct hit. The first thing that’d gone right all week.
The man doubled over, leaving his compatriot exposed to an unexpected and unwelcome telly straight in the face, spreading his nose over a wider area than doctors recommend. That was the second thing.
Bunny tried to capitalise on his momentum by delivering a knee to Neck Tattoo’s face, but the big guy blocked it and barrelled forward, ramming his shoulder into Bunny’s stomach and tackling him messily to the back of the cell.
All the air in Bunny’s body was expelled as he slammed into the wall, the back of his head thudding against it sickeningly. His vision went blurry and nausea washed over him. Even so, his hands scrabbled about, knocking toiletries off the sink to his left.
Neck Tattoo reared back and drew back his right hand to slash with the shank. It sliced into the left side of Bunny’s stomach – not that deep, but a wound that would bleed a lot. He pulled it back
