Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

The last of the inmates file out. They both get a couple of shouted words of thanks. She gathers up the cups. Listens as Karen bustles back in, jolly and windswept, asking whether the afternoon had been a success.

And she hears herself asking Rufus Orton, her favourite author, if he would like to stay the night.

FIFTEEN

Cox pushes himself back against the cold black railing: a bear scratching a tricky spot with a rough tree. He’s trying to find the perfect spot to apply pressure. His back is agony. Pain is a constant companion but usually it is no more than a dull ache from which he can distract himself with activity or imagination. Today it feels as though somebody has inserted a chisel between his vertebrae and struck it repeatedly with a hammer. In Cox’s case, such comparison is not a flight of fantasy. Though he has never experienced such an act of brutality, he has witnessed it up close. Has felt the screams reverberating through his own naked flesh.

He ruminates upon the day. Assesses his achievements and considers the moments that could have been improved. Cox is always seeking to be the best he can be. He has never imagined himself finished. Apex predators reach perfection before they cease to evolve and Cox, though he knows himself to be very dangerous, remains afraid of man’s capacity for arrogance. He runs the day’s events through his head over and over, each word perfectly recalled, each glance clear as if he were watching a recording. He traps a laugh behind closed lips as he remembers the look on Harris’s face as she looked at his page and saw the item he had doodled just for her. Remembers with true pleasure the way he had steered the writer towards the cliff edge before allowing him to step back. Things had been going almost exactly as he had foreseen. It was the coppers who risked spoiling things. The coppers who turned up at reception and made swift arrangements with the wing governor to be granted access to an interview room, and Griffin Cox.

They had something real, this time. Wanted to talk to him about the one thing he’d always hoped they wouldn’t: the thing that has kept him awake at nights and stamped great knots of tension into his lower back. They’d wanted to talk about his relationship with Bronwen Roberts. He does not allow himself to think upon her. Fast-forwards through his memory: the tiresome interview with the two cops. Detective Constables Daniells and Neilsen. A plump, friendly chap and a fit-looking, handsome guy with a shaved head and nice clothes. He’d given it ‘no comment’ in every language that he knew. Faced down their every attempt to persuade him to incriminate himself, from gentle persuasion to outright aggression. He hadn’t budged. He believes he played things correctly, but he cannot help but replay the handsome detective’s parting words.

‘You’ll be here forever, Cox. Here, or somewhere much worse. They’ll find her, and your DNA will be all over her. I swear, you’re going to be here forever.’

Cox pushes back against the bars. Sucks his cheek. He does not doubt the police officer. They will find his first victim. They will find her soon. And there is a very good chance that there will be forensic evidence on her and in her that will ensure he is never released. But Cox doesn’t plan to stick around for any of what is to come. Cox intends to be free before things get much worse, and certainly before the press start sniffing around.

Damn this back, he thinks, irritated. He intends to enjoy his first night on a proper mattress. Can already taste the Tournedos Rossini with rosemary-and-salt roast potatoes that he intends to devour with a deep glass of blood red Amarone. He won’t let Bronwen Roberts tell him he can’t have what he wants. He certainly didn’t afford her that luxury at the end.

‘Practising for the Olympics, Coxy? Or is this a suicide attempt? Never heard of anybody jumping off backwards.’

The voice belongs to Travis Parton, who has endured the nickname ‘Dolly’ for as long as he can recall. He’s on the wing for amassing an unforgivable amount of debt to some of the hard cases on B-wing. Likeable though he is, he’s due several serious kickings and he’s reluctant to endure them. He’d rather be safe with the paedos and rapists than getting his cheekbones crushed to dust among the general population. He’s not alone in that regard. The VP wing offers some form of sanctuary to those considered at risk of violence. Ex-cops, ex-wardens, grasses, informants, pad-thieves who’ve done the unforgivable and stolen from those with whom they share a cell. The sex offenders are a minority, but they are the ones for whom there is no hope of rehabilitation. They will never rejoin the general population. They will serve their entire terms in danger of reprisal. Most of the men inside have been victims of abuse themselves. Men like Cox will always be the focal point of their rage.

If Dolly has a problem with Cox, certainly he doesn’t show it. If anything he seems a little in awe of him. Treats him like a minor celebrity, though whether he is awed by Cox’s life of relative privilege on the outside or his connection to a string of unsolved but well publicized crimes, is open to debate. He’s late twenties. Chatty. A cheeky sort. Hard to dislike. He has a tattoo on his neck that he swears is a flying eagle, though to Cox’s eye, it resembles a dead chicken.

Cox lowers himself to the ground. He’s on the landing, enjoying a change in air. He does not detest his cell the way some other prisoners do, but he takes pleasure in the rare moments between the evening meals and lights out, when he can stand on the passageway outside his cell and take a breath