It took a summit of will to begin the reluctant trudge back to the Square. Still, the escapade into the night had not been useless. He had discovered the ultramarines kept no guard. He would be able to make nocturnal explorations, building up a mental map of the whole prison territory, counting paces in the daytime, remembering little details like posts or culverts that could be touched in the darkness. It was peculiar in the extreme that the ultramarines did not maintain any guard. There must be a good reason for it.
Back up on the first floor, the dormitory door was shut. Rather than risk getting surprise-attacked, he passed on to the toilets, reasoning that the toilet floor would get him through the first night, if not very comfortably.
A couple of minutes later he drifted back, dazed. The toilets were alive with nudity, bodies wrapped around bodies, legs in the air, stifled cries of ecstasy. He hung about outside the dormitory, feeling like a spare prick at a party. Finally, he rammed down the handle and threw the door wide open. To the whole dormitory, he announced:
“This is the return of Value Big Stak. Do not fuck with my arsehole, or I will fuck with their head.”
“Get to bed and sleep,” groaned a weary Spiderman from the darkness. Lawrence felt his way back to his bunk, where he found the mattress half off and the bedding scattered up and down the aisle. He gathered enough of it for a pillow and a blanket and got back in. The dormitory was cold now, his numbed hands and feet barely thawed and his ear tag ached, despite all of which he was soon fast asleep again.
Chapter 7
The morning bell yanked Lawrence into Day Two of the rest of his life. For several minutes he lay holding off the world with his eyelids, without enjoying his alternative sheltered life. An awesome thought dominated his mind: I spent yesterday unloading drowned bodies and then dismembering them, yet I got a good night’s sleep…
My name is Lawrence Morton Aldingford and I was born on 8th May 2079. Sarah-Kelly Cressida Newman was born in North Kensington basin in Old Greater London on 2nd Feb. 2080. Her name is anglicised from Nowakovski, an ancestor who fled Poland to fight with the British army during the Second World War of the Public Era. My brother is Donald Bartleigh Aldingford and he is a sleek rabbit. My father is Morton Fraser Peter Aldingford and he is a bombastic narcissist. My mother was Agatha Marcia Kay Harrison. She rotted to death from diabetes. My stepmother is a bitch… What else must he remember? He had to start the habit now to minimise the loss.
Someone jabbed his leg. He opened his eyes on the ankles of Spiderman, who was stooped over with his face just a foot away.
“On your feet, lazybones, or you’ll miss all the fun!”
When Lawrence lifted his head, his ear unstuck with a jab of pain, having become glued by dried blood to the pillow. He entered Day Two believing it would only be as bad as Day One. He was wrong. Confronting him in the toilets was a naked man hanged from a pipe over the urinals.
“Who’s that?” Lawrence asked Gnasher, who was taking a piss.
“It was Zeta505, undead prick. Now he’s a dead prick.”
Blood had collected in Zeta505’s hands and feet, blackening them. It had collected in his penis too, which was erect with a black bell end.
“Is he fucking happy in heaven?”
“No idea,” said Gnasher, hitching up his pants. “Most I’ve seen are like that.”
“Should we get him down?”
“Nah. The ultras will take it over to the Pig Farm.”
On returning to the dormitory, Lawrence spotted Tricky Fingers, Ugly Toes and Yip-Dog gathered by one of the bunks. Serial Sidney was the focus of their attention. He was the value Lawrence and Yip-Dog had loaded onto a cart the previous morning. Serial Sidney’s face was cement grey. He lay with his eyes shut and his mouth slanted, half open.
Tricky Fingers said: “There’s barely a pulse.”
The three stood in silence for some seconds. Finally, Yip-Dog said: “I’ll do it.”
But Ugly Toes stepped forward.
“No. I’m his section leader. I’ll do it.”
Ugly Toes pulled the straw-filled pillow from under Serial Sidney’s head and laid it over his face, pressing down hard, so hard the veins bulged at his temples. The value nearby turned their backs or stared at their feet.
Tricky Fingers felt for a pulse.
“He’s gone.”
More lessons awaited at parade. First, a couple of ultramarine heelers disappeared into the stairwell and a few minutes later returned with the body of Zeta505 sagging between them. They swung the cadaver onto their cart. Master Sergeant Ratty snipped off the tag and dropped it in his pocket. Serial Sidney’s corpse arrived a few minutes later and was similarly de-tagged. The heelers dragged the cart off clattering towards the Pig Farm.
Now SMS London ascended the steps outside the office of The Captain. He waited. Silence fell over some eighteen hundred head of value. The wind hissed across the roof tiles, a seagull squawked from a chimney pot, then, with a simplicity that broke Lawrence’s heart, spread its wings and flew away. SMS London rapped on the door. After a few seconds, it swung inwards. The towering, superhuman outline of The Captain stood against the glare of a chandelier. He stepped forward, right hand resting in his pistol, surveying the air above his population with an expression of bored contempt.
“Commence parade.”
This triggered SMS London’s bark: “All master sergeants count and report.”
And so the routine ran. After the count, the master sergeants gathered around SMS London. At length he turned around and confirmed to The Captain that all was in order. After this, The Captain addressed them in his hoarse,
