away from her,’ Mahmood screamed at Ray-Ray, enjoying the rush of adrenaline. He would make him pay for the dishonour he brought on his family and was going to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget.
Holding onto Ray-Ray, Mahmood could feel he wasn’t as strong as him and if he wasn’t careful he’d soon be overpowered. He quickly looked around for Tariq who was standing back doing nothing, with a look of shock on his face.
‘Tariq, what are you doing? Get hold of him.’
After a moment’s hesitation Tariq grabbed hold of one of Ray-Ray’s flailing arms as his cousin, one of the four of the group his uncle had recruited, held onto the other. Mahmood drew back, clenching his fist before he began to pummel Ray-Ray’s stomach. Over and over again he brought back his hand, until Ray-Ray began to noisily cough up blood, the sound of it drowned out by Mahmood continuing to shout, his eyes wild with rage, ‘You will never see her again. Never.’
Tariq and his cousin let Ray-Ray fall onto the floor. Tariq stepped away towards the door, wanting to go. It’d gone far enough. This isn’t what he’d thought was going to happen. Maybe he’d been naive, but he’d believed his uncle when they’d told him they were only going to shake him up; scare him a little.
He watched as his uncle drove his steel heel sideways into Ray-Ray’s nose, crunching the cartilage down as he groaned in agony, splattering the area with blood.
‘Pour it.’ Mahmood gave the order, passing a small bottle to Tariq. ‘I said, pour it Tariq.’
Tariq froze, staring at the bottle, then looked at his uncle in horror. ‘No, uncle, I can’t. Not this. Stop it, please.’
Mahmood’s face creased into anger. ‘Do not disobey me and bring shame on me boy.’
Tariq felt the bottle being snatched away from his hands by one of the men who’d come in with him. A man Tariq hadn’t seen before. With a smirk he spoke to Tariq. ‘Give it to me. I’m more than happy to do it.’
The agony and the smell of his own burning flesh was the last thing Ray-Ray Thompson remembered.
3
She was perfect. Just perfect. Stroking her head of soft curls streaked with warm browns and honeyed blonde, he smiled warmly at her. ‘It’s not good for you to go without food. Eat something.’ He paused and looked down intently before adding, ‘Please.’
It was no good. She’d no intention of eating the chicken soup he’d spent the past half-hour lovingly making. ‘I suppose you’re on a diet. Maybe I should’ve made you a salad instead. If it helps any, I think you’re lovely just the way you are.’
She stared at him before she turned her head to one side. He wasn’t going to push her. He didn’t want to upset her. She’d eat when she was ready, like she’d talk when she felt able. These things took time; he knew that. Pushing back her curls, he kissed her gently on her forehead.
She coughed, making him look up at her, worried. He couldn’t remember a July as warm as this one but for some reason she was still trembling. It was true the evening’s were cooler, but it worried him the way she was shaking. It certainly wouldn’t do for her to get cold. He turned up the heating before standing up from the small metal-framed bed.
‘Try to get some sleep sweetheart. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’ Heading for the door, he stopped. ‘Silly me, I almost forgot.’ Turning back, he picked up the rope. ‘It wouldn’t do now if I forgot this, would it?’ With a sweeping movement he grabbed both her arms behind her back, making her cry out from the pain. He bound them expertly, pulling the bonds tighter than necessary to secure her incarceration.
‘One more day my beautiful; that’s all it’ll be. Just one more day.’
Putting her gag back on, he smiled. She was ready.
4
Freddie Thompson stood observing the prison’s pool table. He was the wing’s pool champion and nobody had ever come close or ever dared to beat him. This time however, he wasn’t playing; he was watching.
Rubbing his chin and thinking he needed another shave, Freddie saw one of D-wing’s lifers take one of the worst shots he’d ever seen, sending the white ball careering into the top right-hand pocket. Freddie sneered.
‘Hey, are you fucking blind? I bet a ton on you to win. Don’t try to turn me over Craig. You’re taking liberties.’
Forgetting himself for a moment and fed up of being pushed around, Craig snarled at Freddie. ‘Piss off.’
It didn’t need the silence which fell on the prison’s recreational room to tell Craig he’d said the wrong thing. The sick feeling he had in his stomach was real and felt by all the other prisoners as he stood facing Freddie Thompson.
Freddie smiled slowly. He laughed as he spoke to the now-visibly shaking Craig in front of him. ‘I don’t think I heard you right. I thought for a moment there you told me to piss off.’
Before Craig could utter a word, he found himself forced backwards against the pool table with the cue stick being rammed hard on his throat. He wheezed as he tried to catch his breath as Freddie pressed down.
‘What am I going to do with you Craig? What’s that? Can’t quite hear what you’re saying mate.’
As Freddie continued to press down on his throat, gurgling sounds competed with Craig’s gasps as he struggled to gulp mouthfuls of air. The normally pallid Craig started to get some colour as his face and the whites of his eyes turned a crimson red.
Freddie grinned, bemused at the wet patch slowly appearing on the front of Craig’s trousers as he pissed himself with fear.
‘I don’t like rude people and I don’t expect people to be rude to me on my wing. I don’t like your sort; thought what happened to your friend would’ve told you that. Do you know what I do to people like you?’
Craig tried to shake his head, but unable to move, he just closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable.
‘I’ll take that as a no shall I? So let me show you.’
The other prisoners, although hardened by their own life of crime and violence, still winced and turned away at the sound of the cue stick gouging out Craig’s right eye and his screams of fear and pain.
A few hours later, when all the prisoners of D-wing had been questioned by the screws, swearing on their loved one’s lives that they hadn’t seen, heard or even frequented the recreational room that day and had no clue how Craig had sustained his injuries, Freddie Thompson sat in his magnolia-painted cell.
He looked around, curling his nose up. The slop buckets were full to overflowing. The heavily stained sheets – which were supposed to be fresh each week – looked like they’d just been swapped from one dirty set to another. And the cold July evening’s air whirled in through the barred prison window as if looking for some warm sanctuary.
Freddie wasn’t sorry about putting Craig in hospital. Fuck it; he hardly had anything to lose now. And besides, Craig was a friend of Benjamin Bradley. He’d been there that day in
