Four months later
METAL DOORS SCRAP through metal tracks, revealing the red dirt yard and hundreds of incarcerated bastards with no one to impress but each other. That’s a sad and dangerous fucking reality. The stale heat is thick as I stride through it. Some men glance my way with stiff nods while others cast their eyes low.
Some of them laugh and mock and beat their chests because there is fuck all else to do and it feels good to be noticed. They would never admit it, but it’s the lingering feeling of neglect they feel behind these walls that slowly dissolves their person. It’s the world of free people so fucking close their presence can be heard – their cars, their horns, their music. It’s fucking psychological warfare. These ‘badarse’ men are reminded every day that they have been left behind.
‘Don’t let Butcher hear about him.’
At the mention of my name, I stop in my tracks and narrow my eyes on the sack of shit who spoke. ‘Explain.’
‘New guy,’ Jones says, gesturing towards a slender rake-looking dickhead with his head hanging low. He’s clearly weak as piss. I bet he’s a snitch.
‘Rat,’ Jones confirms, chewing on tobacco with his mouth open.
I crack my jaw, knowing that Jones just wants my permission to start a fight. ‘Anyone would think your last name is Butcher, Jonesy, with the way you fucking want vengeance for us. Do you wanna suck my dick? Is that what this is all about?’
The six men around him snigger. The belittling sounds make me smile. The lot of them sit casually around their table as though they are out for a drink with the lads after a hard day of making minimum wage. These guys call themselves The District Crew. They’re all in here for crimes that took place under our management and orders, but that doesn’t mean they matter to me anymore than the wife bashers, paedophiles, and snitches.
There are maybe four men in here that I would consider my friends, a handful that I have a use for, and the rest are lucky I want to get out on good behaviour.
All lucky, except one.
Jones’s face falls, the cocky expression he usually throws around faltering. ‘Just don’t like people ratting on us.’
‘Us?’ I scoff with a shake of my head. There is no us, dickhead.
Scowling over at the new rat, I massage my fingers along my tense jaw. He’s going to have a hard enough time guarding his virginity; he doesn’t need a warning from me.
Catching sight of Lars from across the yard, I make my way over to him. He’s near my age, but we don’t share facts like that. If we talk at all, it’s to say something important. We both have a healthy respect for silence; watching and listening are far more powerful skills to foster.
I suppose, most women would think Lars is a sharp looking man despite the jagged gash running the length of his left eye. The iris is cloudy-blue and redundant but that disability doesn’t hold him back.
I stroll straight past him, and when he falls into step beside me, we navigate our way down the hall. The predictability of incarcerated life is treacherous for anyone who finds themselves with a target on their back. I can anticipate with great accuracy where half the pricks in here will be at any given time.
Which is how I know we have seven minutes to get the deed done from the moment we stride into the toilet block to the moment we leave.
My pulse quickens with the onset of adrenaline.
We pass one of the female guards, her cheeks pinkening when I grin at her. The door is in view, and like fucking clockwork, Mathews strolls out after his morning wank.
We step inside, ducking into a cubicle each. We wait. The pipes creak, the taps drip, the cleaning lady switches her vacuum on in the adjacent room, and I smile.
Reaching into my green scrubs, I draw out a plastic pen. It’s red. I didn’t notice the colour when I snatched and stashed it three weeks ago. There was a crazy search squad trying to find this fucking pen. For nearly seven days we were in lockdown, but then they found it. They found a pen. A black pen.
This one is red.
I love you.
Ripping off the plastic plug, I draw the ink tube out with my teeth and thread it down the drain. I don’t want it to be red. Now with only the clear plastic column, I squeeze it in my fist. The piece of shit we are stalking has one week left before his release, after serving nearly thirteen years of hard time. Fuck, he was so excited when he told me. ‘Heading straight out to find my little girl,’ he said. ‘She’s a knockout.’
I grin to myself.
We wait.
The door opens and we both jump out like fucking animals. I clasp my palm over Donavon’s open mouth, silencing the break of his imminent howl. Lars grabs his arms, pinning them to his sides as he helps me manoeuvre the heavy bastard. Donavon’s feet shuffle, trying to stay balanced, in control, upright. We drag him into a cubicle.
Lars presses his back to the door as I force Donavon to his knees. Slamming his cheek onto the lip of the bowl, I press him into position. A good position to get drained by a Butcher. Tilting his head down, I brace his neck with my grip and stab the plastic column an inch below his ear.
The whites of his eyes scream at me.
Stab.
His body convulses violently.
Blood pisses out and into the bowl.
Stab.
My arm vibrates as he thrashes around beneath it.
Stab.
I bend to his level, making damn sure he can hear my voice as I snarl, ‘Konnor Butcher says congratulations on getting parole.’
Stab. Stab. Stab.
