Dead Cells - 01

First Published in the UK 2011

This edition published 2011

Copyright
©
Adam Millard 2011

Cover Illustration
©
Chris Taggart 2011

The Moral right of the author has been asserted.

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-4478-5035-9

ADAM MILLARd
DEAD CELLS

For all of those people that had faith in me; you know who you are.

And to Zoe, my wife, my everything, who keeps me firmly grounded for all the right reasons.

Thirty days. Thirty more shitty, wasted days, and he was out of there for good – he hoped; there was very little chance that he would make the same mistake ever again, although most prisoners had the same dreams whilst they were lying in jail, only to emerge into the real world and end up criminals once again.

Shane Bridge sighed. His mattress, dirty and in need of replacement – although he had never seen a replacement issued in his three years frequenting cell 101 – creaked beneath him. He wondered if Billy heard the creak.

Billy Toombs, the man lying on the upper-bunk
of the bed in cell 101, had protected Shane throughout;
Shane would have been nothing more than just another
dead man in jail if it hadn't been for the giant sleeping above him now. Trained in some weird martial art that Shane had never heard of before, Billy was half American-Indian, half Irish. Fuck knows how that happened –
and Shane didn't care in the slightest – but the man was a giant, and Shane had just been grateful that the ogre had not been a rapist or a murderer.

'You having a wank down there?' Billy asked, a little snigger following.

'You'd like that, wouldn't you?' Shane said, smiling to himself. 'If I were,' he continued, 'I know that you'd be peeking through that fucking mattress, checking if it was true what they say.'

'What do they say?' Billy asked, still sniggering.

'They say,' Shane smiled, 'that white men, pure Americans like me, have the biggest penises on earth, and that half-Tonto-half-Paddies, like yourself, have the smallest, and that even though you're great with a tomahawk, and even better with a pint of Guinness, you're absolutely shit when it comes to handling your primary weapon.'

Shane laughed, and so did Billy.

With a change of tone, one that indicated sincerity, Billy asked: 'Is it her?
Holly
?'

'Of course it is,' Shane replied. 'I haven't, you know, been with her for so long. I just can't
believe
that I'm finally going home.'

There came a silence, and it wasn't unwelcome; Shane actually enjoyed the lack of questions. Billy had a way of pushing his questioning a little too far, and Shane always had an answer for him.

'I wish I was you,' Billy said, a sigh accompanying his statement. 'Not because you're getting out in less than a month, but because you have people on the outside that love you more than possible.' A slight pause. 'I
envy
you, Shane Bridge. You're everything that I should have been.'

Shane, at that moment in time, felt a pang of guilt. Was he leaving his comrade? Was he a deserter? Billy had another ten years to serve, if his appeal actually came to fruition – and Shane had his doubts. In how many different ways was it possible to claim innocence when the axe was still bloody, in your grip, when the Sheriff turned up to investigate a “loud noise”?

There was no way – not a cat-in-
Hell's
-chance – that Billy Toombs had chopped up his wife's lover; there was more chance of ordering ice-water from Hell, and having it hand-delivered by Lucifer himself.

Incarceration, though, had been the most spiritual journey that Billy had ever been on; the man was a believer, through and through, and he had kept Shane sane for almost three years. Shane had been one of the lucky ones; others had been beaten to death in their own cells, raped for nothing more than a cigarette, tortured for information on who had put them inside, Life, for Shane Bridge, had been much better than most, and he was more than aware of his good fortune.

'You on the court tomorrow?' Shane asked, changing the subject surreptitiously. 'I think I need a little practice against someone as silly looking as you.'

Billy laughed. 'I'll be on the court. If it's a tussle you want, little Bridge, then you're gonna get it.'

Shane smiled, and fell into a deep sleep.

*

'Son, you don't have to talk to me, but I'm
going
to talk to you, and what you hear might not be polite, but I don't give a rat's ass what you think of my vernacular. You're a
cunt
, and you deserve to be here. You've disgraced this country, and this world, and you have warranted a place in this here jail, one of the toughest jails you could ever get yourself trapped in....' A breath, a sip of water, a bite on an apple. 'You're a very
lucky
fucker...I would have executed you on the spot, but there you go, yet another sign of your fortune. I'm not the judge, but in here, I am the jury, and I am the executioner, and you'll be a lucky motherfucker if you survive the next ten years with all of your limbs intact. You see, I have a, how shall we put it? A certain way of convincing other inmates that,
well
, certain people need despatching of, and
you
, my friend – I hate calling you that, you prick – fall under the category of notification. I bid you good day, Carlos, and wish you the best in my jail. You're going to need it.'

*

'They brought him in today,' Rooster smiled. 'I swear to
God
, that prick's on his way down here right now.'

Dennis Hart grinned. 'Well, he's in for a treat. I don't suppose that he knows we're here?'

Rooster grinned even wider. 'He has no fucking
idea
what's coming to him, boss. He's all over the place.'

'What,
drunk
?' Dennis asked, and then thought about it. It didn't matter; the grass was in, that was all that mattered. Carlos was a dead man now that he was within grasp.

'We'll have him by lunchtime tomorrow, the little prick,' Rooster said. 'We'll get rid of him.'

Rooster grinned.

This was finally it; nobody liked a grass, especially Dennis Hart. By lunchtime tomorrow, Carlos Silva would be a dead man.

*

It was after seven when Carlos Silva was led into his cell. He staggered, mumbled something inaudible, and was pushed onto the bottom bunk of the bed. After a fit of coughing, he tried to sit up, but couldn't.

'I'd stay down, if I were you,' Officer Michaelson grinned. 'I've heard that Clay goes easier on you the less of a fight you put up.'

With that, the cell-door was slammed shut. The sound of rattling bars disappeared down the block. A few voices called out, informing the noise-maker that “
People are trying to fucking sleep, here
.”

Carlos coughed; this time, though, there was blood. It came from his nose, his mouth, and he felt his pants become suddenly wet, as if he'd manage to piss himself, but he knew that it wasn't piss.

The bed above creaked. Carlos managed to open his eyes momentarily. Long enough to see two massive legs –
tree-trunks
– swing over the side of the top-bunk. It was dark in the cell, but it was the sweat in Carlos's eyes that made the shape almost impossible to focus upon.

The legs dropped down, revealing a tattooed back; perhaps some sort of gang sign, it was hard to tell. The figure – Carlos managed that much – grunted as his feet touched the floor. The man must have been almost seven foot, maybe more. He had a long, dark ponytail, and although Carlos was almost blind, he could just make it out as it swung back and forth between those hulking shoulder-blades.

'P – please,' Carlos said. 'I don't want any trouble.'

The man turned and crouched next to the bottom-bunk. His face, although blurry, could only be described as “
damaged
”. His grin revealed only three teeth, and even those were chipped. Carlos didn't need his eyes to smell the stale breath as it hit his face, making bile rise in his throat along with fresh blood.

'Be a good little boy,' Cyrus Clay grunted, 'and there won't
be
none.'

That was all Carlos could remember before the consciousness drained from him, like the last few drops of water escaping from a hosepipe. The final thought in his mind before passing out was:
Please, kill me now. I'm ready for Hell.

*

There she was, as always, the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon. This was the way the dream always started, and he liked this part of it. The calm before the storm, so to speak. She always strode into the room, that skimpy, silk nightgown – the one that he'd bought her from London – leaving hardly anything to the imagination. She was delightful. Her lips glistened from something that she used to apply just before bedtime; it made them sticky, but Shane didn't mind as it made her look so fucking fine.

'Megan in bed?' Shane whispered, not taking his eyes from his wife.

Holly nodded. 'She had a big day at school today,' she said as she brushed her hair in the full-length mirror at the foot of the bed. 'Something about an animal-man, and how she got to stroke three cute, little rabbits.'

Shane smiled. 'She'll be wanting one of her own now.'

'Well, she'll have to go without,' Holly said. 'We're on the brink as it is without further expenses.'

She was right; she always was. Shane didn't deal with the bills, or the taxes, or the groceries; he just provided the money the government gave him, which was next to nothing. He had never been too good with figures, and they had both agreed that Holly was in charge of the incomings and outgoings.

Although, Shane thought as he lay on the bed staring at her as she brushed her long, brown hair, it turns out that neither of us have been very good with the money.

'I'm working on getting a job,' Shane said, sighing. 'It's this fucking recession; there's nothing about at the moment.'

'I know,' Holly said, turning from the mirror. 'It's not your fault. It's just that,' a pause, 'I don't think we're going to be able to hold on to the house for much longer. Momma says we can always go stay with her for a while, until we get
—–
'

'No way,' Shane said, rising from the bed. 'It won't ever come to that.'

There was no way in Hell that Holly's mother, as nice as she was, would be the one to put things right this time. It wasn't solely Shane's stubbornness; his pride had always refused charity from anyone. If he was unable to do something by himself, then he went without.

Though, this time, it wouldn't be just him that went without. He had Megan to think about. Would he be so stubborn if it really came down to it? Would he be able to put his daughter to bed at night in the back of the car, still in her school uniform?

He doubted it.

'I promise, I'll sort something out in the next few days,' Shane said as he put his arms around Holly's silky shoulders. 'Just let me deal with it.'

Holly didn't have a choice. What could he possibly do, anyway? He'd been searching for a job for months. What were the chances that now, when the shit was really about to hit the fan, one would suddenly manifest?

'Okay,' she sighed. She nuzzled gently at his knuckles. 'But if it comes to it, we're going to my mother's.'

Shane sighed. 'Okay.' Yet he knew that he wouldn't allow that to happen.

Ever.

*

His heart raced so fast it was all he could do to not pass out. Sweat dripped from his forehead and nose in rivulets. The car radio drowned out the sound of his panicked breathing.

Was he really going to do this? Could he....?

He had been sat in the car for almost an hour, an empty bottle of water and a full ashtray served as a reminder for the time elapsed.

The sun was pouring through the windscreen, and although he had the windows down and the sunroof fully opened, the heat was unbearable.

He had contemplated a walk, maybe to take a closer look at the store, but decided against it. The only time he would leave the car would be to do the job.

He was parked a hundred feet or so away from the liquor store, and he was sure that nobody had really noticed him sitting there for so long. He had watched as couples, clearly under-aged, had wandered into the store and left with bottles of booze, no doubt for a college keg-party, or some seedy house do that would leave the parents with one hell of a repair bill. He had seen scores of middle-aged men, fresh from the day's loss at the bookies, enter and leave with whatever battery-acid was the fucking cheapest. He had smoked almost twenty cigarettes whilst building up the courage to do what he was about to do.