Authors: Adam Millard
'Okay,' she said, 'I'm going to give you some pills, take some blood, the usual.'
Cyrus Clay wondered whether the
usual
involved putting his dick between those beautiful pert breasts. The funny thing was: he
could
, if he so desired. With a hand tightly pushed against her mouth, he could do what he wanted to her; he could fuck her seven ways from Sunday, and the guards wouldn't even know about it until he let go of her. He was a lifer, anyway; what could they
do
? Add another life sentence on? If he was going to die in jail, then he may as well get his dick wet while he was doing it.
She started to take the blood. Cyrus watched the top her head while she did it. He had an urge to just clamp down on her scalp and bite as hard as he could. For a moment, he thought that he might do it, and then she spoke, which distracted him just at the right moment.
'Are you having the pains right now?' she said.
He looked away, suddenly aware that he was going to bite her fucking head off; where had that come from?
'Constantly,' he replied. 'Feels like somebody's poisoned me. That dirty fucking dago must have been really fucked up.'
It was true. The pain that Cyrus was feeling was enough for him to sympathise with Carlos Silva. Last night, in the cell, Cyrus had raped the spic so hard that his dick had been covered with blood. Clay wasn't the kind of guy to feel remorse, but he understood now why his cellmate had simply accepted his fate.
He hadn't the strength to fight back.
'Must be some sort of virus going around,' Marla said. 'Let's just hope it doesn't spread through the whole system. I haven't got the time to test everyone.'
Cyrus Clay bit down on his tongue as the doctor drew his blood. 'Good job I got in here first,' he said. Again, he felt the inexplicable desire to lean across and tear a chunk off the doctor's face. Her ear, in particular, suddenly looked rather tempting.
When they finished, Marla called for the guards, who had been standing guard just outside, yet seemed to take forever to show up.
'Is he done?' Michaelson asked. 'You didn't hurt him too much, did you Doc?' He was grinning.
Marla smiled; Cyrus didn't. 'Officer, it's not in my best nature to cause unnecessary pain to your prisoners.' She said this, and then thought back to Tyler and the way he had squealed as she cleaned his wound.
Not in my nature,
she thought,
but sometimes, it's in my best interests...
'That's a shame,' Michaelson sniggered. He pulled Cyrus to his feet and began to cuff him. Cyrus felt the pain again; his stomach seemed to wrench, deep down, as if he was going to be sick but there was nothing to bring up.
'Don't you
dare
be sick,' Michaleson said, noticing the strange way that his prisoner was bent over. 'And don't be getting no ideas, either. Just because you
say
you're ill doesn't guarantee you easy treatment. You've got shit to do, boy, and if she says that you're well enough to do it, then you're well enough to do it. In my book, the best thing for sick pricks like you is work. It'll help take your mind off the pain.'
It wouldn't. Cyrus didn't think that
anything
could take his mind off the pain. He tried to recall when he had ever felt so bad, and couldn't. This was terrible, almost to the point that he wished for death.
'I wouldn't say that he's well enough to do anything just yet,' Marla said. 'He's running a really high fever, which means that he isn't lying, and he seems to be in substantial pain.' She began to scrawl in her notes; the sound of the pen scratching the paper was the only sound for a few seconds. When she was done, she tore off a piece of paper and handed it to Officer Michaelson. 'Make sure you come and pick these pills up for him later on today. He needs to take one every four hours until the pain subsides.'
Michaelson wasn't happy. He practically snatched the script from her. 'Do you want me to wipe his ass for him as well?' he snarled. Marla suddenly felt uncomfortable. She sat down behind her desk and glared up at the officer, who was obviously perturbed.
'I think you should make sure that he gets those tablets every four hours,' she said. The officer seemed to nod along with every word that she said, but deep down he had no intentions of taking orders from a fucking
doctor
. 'I will need to see him again tomorrow, check his progress. If he informs me that you haven't been providing the pills, then I will make a formal complaint and hand-deliver it straight to Warden Dean. Do I make myself perfectly clear?'
Michaelson didn't know what hurt the most: the way she was speaking to him, or the fact that she had every right to make a complaint if the prick didn't get his medicine. As much as Charles Dean hated the prisoners, he didn't piss them off for no good reason.
'He'll get the
fucking
pills,' Michaelson grunted. 'Do you hear that,
Nancy Boy
? You'll get your
pussy
medicine to make your tummy-ache go away.' He was pushing Cyrus Clay towards the door as he spoke. 'The nice doctor here will tell on me if I don't give you what you need.'
He left the office, slamming the door so hard that the entire room appeared to tremble.
Marla leaned forward in her chair. She picked up the phial of blood and stared at it. 'Let's get you sent off,' she said.
Officer Michaelson could be heard cursing all the way down the corridor.
*
The prisoners were finally allotted some yard-time, which was good news for a few of the ones who had already started to go stir-crazy. Four walls
did
that to a person, especially when those four walls were all that you were going to see for the rest of your natural life.
It was overcast, and as Shane made his way out onto the basketball court, a few drops of rain had already hit him. Small flowers of water bloomed on the shoulders of his coveralls.
'Decided to let us out and we're gonna get fucking pissed on,' Shane said, accepting the basketball from Billy Toombs. 'Should have
known
there would be a catch.'
'Just be grateful we're out here at all,' Billy said. 'From what I heard, the guards took a vote. I don't care if it's hailing golfballs so long as I can stretch my legs.'
With visiting on the afternoon, Billy had nothing else to look forward to. He had had, as far as Shane could recall, no visitors since they had been celled up together. When Shane had questioned Billy about it, he'd simply said, 'I have my friends right here,' and pointed to the pile of books on the table in front of him. For a man to discard the people in his life – or in this case, accept that they had discarded
him
– and turn to literature was a tough thing to do. To Billy, though, words were all that he needed to get through the day. As long as he had a constant supply of reading material, he was happy; the days simply rolled into one another.
'Is Holly coming to see you today?' Billy asked. He tossed the ball across to Shane, who leapt up and guided it between the chain net. 'Nice shot.'
Shane scooped up the ball. 'She
said
she was,' he said. 'I
hope
she does, but I'm not sure I want her turning up here if there's some kind of nasty virus going around.'
Billy received the ball from Shane. 'I heard Cyrus is pretty bad with it,' he said. '
Whatever
it is, I don't want it. People have been talking all kinds of crazy shit. You know how it is in here, the way stories get out of hand. The last I heard, Clay was pissing blood and praying to God. That fucker's the least religious person I've ever met, so if it's true, then he must be in all kinds of pain.'
'Who did you hear
that
from?' Shane asked. He stopped jumping around, his breathing was laborious.
'That new kid, the one working the spoon. I don't think he's the type to start rumours.'
'He's the type to believe any old shit he hears,' Shane said as he held out his hands. Billy bounced him the ball; he grabbed it and launched it in the direction of the net, and it almost fell in. After three bounces on the wire, it hit the backboard and bounced off to the side.
The rain was now hitting the ground and jumping back up.
'Fucking typical,' Shane grimaced.
The yard was emptying; the prisoners had stretched their legs and were heading back inside. Family and friends would be along shortly to bullshit about the outside world. Shane would be seeing his wife again, possibly for the final time before his release.
'Let's get back inside,' Billy said. 'You look like a drowned rat.'
*
Warden Dean was pissed off so badly that he wanted one of his officers to make a mistake just so he could
fire
their sorry ass.
He loaded the remains of Carlos Silva into Old Bessie, and searched the control panel for the button that took care of the fire. He was expecting to see a big red switch, or even a button with a picture of a flame on it – like a gas cooker – but there was nothing of the sort. Whoever had designed this piece of shit had not taken into consideration that somebody without a PhD in engineering would occasionally need to use it. Warden Dean was a smart man, at least he thought he was, so how could an Austrian, or German, or
whatever
the fuck Strauss was, operate the machine with such finesse? It was almost embarrassing.
'Sick my ass,' he muttered under his breath. 'He'll be sick when he gets back to work; I'll make pretty damned sure of that.'
There were laminated instructions nailed to the wall at the side of the incinerator, but they might as well have been written in hieroglyphics for all of the good that they were. There was something about pressure-checks, and then something else about temperature gauge. In the end, Charles Dean decided that it would be best to wait for the mortician to return. It was not a good idea to play with fire in his own prison; might end up nuking the place.
He decided to leave Carlos Silva's body in the incinerator, though, mainly because he couldn't be bothered to get it back out. What would it hurt? He wasn't going to stink the place out; not if the door was kept shut.
After making sure that everything was securely locked, the warden headed back upstairs.
'Fucking visiting,' he grumbled. 'I hate fucking visiting.'
*
They were led out into the room by Jenson and Tyler. The latter was limping still from his leg injury, and with every step that he took the pain was visible on his face. Shane almost felt sorry for the guard, but not quite.
There was a loud siren, which meant that the half hour visiting had begun. Shane hadn't even taken his seat.
'How's life treating you?' Holly asked. The gorgeous smile that stretched across her face lit up Shane's insides. It was a smile that said,
Everything will
be fine soon.
Shane pulled the seat out from the table and sat. 'You look beautiful,' he said. 'I wasn't sure if you would come, you know, the weather being so shit.'
'It would take more than just the weather to keep me away from you,' she said, gripping his hand across the table. In the corner of the room, Officer Tyler watched like a hawk, making sure that no contraband had exchanged hands, although he knew Shane Bridge and had never had an issue with him. The man was coming to the end of his term, so the chances of him trying to smuggle into the prison were slim, unless he was
really
stupid.
'How's Megan?' asked Shane. 'She still doing well at school?'
The last time Holly had visited, Megan had been named as class-prefect, which Shane thought was odd for a seven year-old, but everything was different now. They even had there own prom...at
seven
!
'She's doing great,' Holly nodded. 'She misses her daddy, but she knows that you'll be home soon.' She laughed. 'She gets really excited when she talks about it. Sometimes I have to tell her to calm down.'
Shane grinned. 'Really?'
'I swear,' Holly said. 'She's written songs about it, and everything.'
In that moment, Shane forgot that he was in prison; to hear that his daughter was already celebrating his release was amazing, and he couldn't wait to get home now, and hold her, the way he should have been holding her for the last three years. He had missed her growing into the girl she had, but he could at least be happy that she didn't detest him for it.
'How's your mother?' Shane asked.
'She's not too well at the moment,' Holly replied, the smile dropping from her face. 'The doctors think that she may have emphysema. I told her she should have quit smoking a long time ago, but would she have it? No, and
now
look.'
This was the first that Shane had heard of Holly's mother's problem, but it came as no surprise; the woman smoked thirty a day, and had done since she was twenty. It was only a matter of time before it caught up with her.
'She'll bounce back,' Shane said, although he doubted it.
'Shane, she's sixty and has to inhale steroids. What do you think she's going to do? Start yoga?'
He shouldn't have, but he laughed. The sight of Holly's mother bending into unnatural positions with a fag in one hand and a glass of wine in the other was too much.