tops of the bottles with tinfoil.
The pillowcase in which the Styrofoam cups had been transported was torn up by him into strips which he dipped in petrol. He folded the strips into an empty, clean and dry baked-bean tin which he covered with a square of tinfoil.
‘ Yeah, good, I’m right,’ he said, bouncing as he surveyed his handiwork with a gleam in his eyes. ‘Let’s get this stuff back to the kitchens.’
He had brought along another pillowcase which he folded carefully around the bottles; then he placed them into a sports bag which he zipped up and hung over his shoulder, keeping it level.
‘ You’re sure the cell next to Blake’s will be empty?’ he questioned Coysh again.
Coysh nodded.
‘ Right, good. Once we get back, you look after this gear in the kitchens, then when I give you the nod, take it up to that cell and shove it underneath the bunk, got that? Think you can do that?’
‘ Yep,’ said Coysh.
‘ And you know what you’re doing?’ Trent turned to Vic Wallwork.
‘ I know.’
‘ Good. Right — let’s go.’
Wallwork led them uneventfully back to the kitchens where Coysh placed the sports bag in a cupboard underneath a sink.
Trent went back to his cell. He knew it would be empty because his stupid cellmates always watched Fifteen-to-One on Channel Four at 4.30 p.m.
It was now 4.20 p.m. They always got there early for the front-row seats.
He stole a pillowcase from one of their beds and tore it into fairly wide strips. After this he filled the wash- basin with cold water and dropped the strips inside to soak them.
Next he helped himself to a pair of trousers and a shirt, both prison issue, belonging to the cellmate he judged to be more or less the same size as himself. He put both items into the water and made sure they were waterlogged too.
From the waistband of his jeans he popped out the pills he’d bought on his spending spree around the prison the day before and dribbled them out into a nice pile near the pillow on his bed. Just for the hell of it he wolfed a few of them down, even though he did not know what they were. They tasted foul, but did nothing for him immediately.
He was nearing readiness.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed he rolled up his shirtsleeves and exposed both forearms. The skin was criss-crossed with old scars, poor attempts at previous suicides.
Time for the knife.
He reached into his foam pillow, pulled out the bung and extracted the knife from its hiding place.
It looked, and he knew it was, shiny, sharp and deadly.
Firstly he ran his thumb down the sharp blade, just to test it. He smiled maliciously, knowing if he pressed harder his thumb would have been sliced in two halves.
Next he placed the blade against the soft skin on the inside of his left forearm, just above the wrist. He applied a little pressure, the blade indented the skin. He pressed a little harder and slowly, deliberately, drew the knife across the skin which parted easily, leaving a thin red line. Breath escaped through his teeth. The pain was almost unbearable pleasure. He pulled the knife away and stared at what he had done. Nothing happened for a few seconds… then little blobs of blood appeared down the line of the cut. They burst and began to trickle.
He inspected the cut and clenched his fist, tightening the muscles and sinews of his forearm, forcing more blood to seep out of the wound.
Trent’s face had an expression of grim satisfaction on it.
It had been a finely judged cut.
Just deep enough to draw blood, not too deep to do any real damage.
He placed the blade a further two inches up his arm, gritted his teeth and sliced the skin open. A sensation went through him that was almost sexual.
Again, the cut was perfect.
It bled, but was not serious.
Trent was enjoying himself.
His heart was pounding.
He had a sudden urge to do more, in a less controlled, more frenzied way… and in fact he could not stop himself as half a dozen more times he slashed the razor-sharp blade across his forearm, each time gasping orgasmically as the skin opened.
Suddenly, breathlessly, he knew he had to get a grip and stop.
He looked at his arm and licked the blood from it with a slurping, drain-like noise, tasting the hot, salty liquid on his tongue, covering his teeth with it. It tasted good and he groaned. ‘I’m good, yeah, good.’ He shook his head, crossed the knife into his left hand and quickly repeated the process on the skin of his right forearm, leaving eight slash-lines across the lily-white skin, but not one of them deep enough to cause him any problems.
He rolled down his shirtsleeves and buttoned them at the cuffs. He stood up and walked smartly out onto the landing, his arms folded across his chest. He went to a point which overlooked the association area.
Coysh and Wallwork were sitting huddled over a chessboard.
Coysh looked up, saw Trent and nodded.
He moved a bishop. ‘Mate,’ he said, and stood.
Trent walked quickly back to his cell where he immediately stripped naked, bar his footwear, and re-dressed in the cold wet clothes which had been soaking in the wash-basin. He took the torn pillowcase and squeezed out some of the excess water.
Before leaving the cell he grabbed the knife.
He knew from experience that the chances of meeting other prisoners or maybe even a screw were pretty scarce at this time of day. Most people were down on association or beginning to form an early queue for the evening meal. Screw activity was focused on those areas with the occasional officer prowling about… or, as Trent knew today, in a cell with a drug dealer sampling some wares. Trent’s luck would have to be pretty low for him to meet anyone who mattered on the journey between his cell and level two.
He saw no one.
Quietly he mounted the metal staircase which led up to level two, peering ahead of him down the walkway in front of the cells, checking the all-clear.
A second later he was on the landing. Level two. Home to Blake et al.
The cell Trent was interested in was the fourth along.
The other cell which interested him was third along.
He crept quietly, hearing Blake’s raucous laughter and voice from the fourth cell. There were other voices too. Trent recognised them all. They belonged to his tormentors and the black rapist, and because of what they had done to him, they were all going to die.
He sneaked into the third cell — empty, as promised — knelt down by the first bunk and reached for the sports bag which had been placed there by Coysh just a few minutes earlier. Trent dragged it out, unzipped it and carefully unwrapped the pillowcase from around the milk bottles. He placed them side by side on the cell floor, removing the tinfoil tops.
He picked out the petrol-soaked strips of cotton from the baked-bean tin and pushed them into the mouth of each bottle.
Last, but not least, he found the Zippo lighter which he had previously ensured was safely stored in the side compartment of the sports bag.
Before lighting the strips, he wrapped several of the water-soaked strands of torn pillowcase around his head for protection against any possible backdraught.
The lighter flared first time. He moved the flame towards one of the bottles.
‘ What the hell y’doin’?’
Trent dropped the lighter, spun round and saw the shape of the large black man standing at the cell door; it was the one who had raped him. He had been involved in the card-game next door for almost two hours and had
