Left After Freedom Street

Cream-coloured paint covered peeling walls, walls that hadn't been cleaned in decades and walls that wouldn't be cleaned for decades more. At twenty-metre intervals, small windows rested below a lofty ceiling, windows that were barred and unable to be opened, their only purpose being to let a minimal amount of light in to save using electricity during the day. The floor was grey and industrial, and sported abhorrent, plastic panels that contributed to the shivering temperatures experienced in the corridor; it also needed to be cleaned.

Tom Fisher was being escorted down 'Freedom Street', the longest corridor in the compound, a walkway that stretched 100m and was named as such for it was the corridor that led either to the exit of the prison or to the visitation room. He'd been alone in his dreary cell when a burly guard had called for him and demanded he ready himself at once and prepare to be escorted. No other information had been proffered.

The taciturn guard had remained reticent throughout the four-minute journey from his cell to Freedom Street and when he asked about their destination, Tom was met with silence and a cold shrug, the sort of gesture that implied it was best he kept the questions to a minimum.

“Come on, Boss, you gotta give me somethin’” said Tom, turning to face his escort, shrouded in confusion by the guard’s spontaneous demand that he join him.

“I don’t gotta give you nothin’, Convict. Now face forward and keep to walkin’.” Mitchell had been a correctional officer for almost fifteen years and was one of the least revered officers at Hare Lane Prison. He was a giant, six-foot-seven tower of a man and only garnered respect from the inmates due to his unnerving physical stature; nothing in his behaviour gave even the most benevolent of prisoners any reason to favour him. He continued his poor form that afternoon by failing to offer Tom a single puzzle piece with which to begin assembling a picture of what might be going on.

“But my parole isn’t for another eight months.” Tom continued, ignoring Mitchell’s previous instruction, curiosity overpowering astuteness.

“Read the room, Fisher, I won’t tell you again.”

Tom got the hint and said nothing for the remainder of the journey.

Had they chosen to bring his parole forward? Since beginning his sentence three years ago he had caused no trouble and generally kept himself to himself. He knew few of the other inmates and had worked hard to keep it that way so as to avoid conflict and the potential for an extended sentence. He knew how corrupt the prison was and knew it wouldn’t take much for them to lengthen his stay if he gave them reason to.

He wasn’t expecting Lori either, she would have written to say she was coming and even if she had come unannounced, the guards wouldn’t have hidden that from him, they weren’t the types to play fun and games with the prisoners. It was true that his wife had missed her fortnightly visit two days ago and had left Tom in an addled state. She had done this once before though and had put it down to being busy with her work; even then, she’d still written to inform him. She hadn’t written anything this time.

The inmate and his escort reached the end of Freedom Street. Left was the exit, the dream for every inmate, fresh air, freedom, a new life. To the right was the visiting room. The CO looked to Tom and saw him gazing to his left, hopeful. Mitchell, two hands on his prisoner’s upper right arm, gave Tom a light nudge towards the exit. Tom stepped towards the door and looked back towards the officer.

His wide eyes met a smirk across Mitchell’s face.

“You gotta be joking, Tom. Think you’re getting out already? Ha. Not quite.” Mitchell laughed as he gripped tighter hold of Tom’s arm and dragged him toward the visiting room.

“If only my hands weren’t tied together. You wouldn’t be quite so clever then.” Tom thought, the words dangerously close to his tongue. He knew the guards were weasels and brutes, but up until now they had largely left him alone and with only eight months to go until parole he was grateful that they had, for he knew that one slip up could extend his sentence and he couldn’t bear that.

As Mitchell signed him into the visitor’s room, Tom scanned the room for Lori. All the tables in the room were occupied but he couldn’t see her. She was the only person he could think of that might visit him, though if she did there would be no discretion involved. He remained bewildered and apprehensive.

“Sit down, Convict.” came a booming voice over the tannoy.

“Where?” Tom snapped, lifting his shoulders and turning to the guards. He had become irritable, he didn’t know what he was doing here and Mitchell’s dirty trick had angered him.

One of the other guards walked over and ushered him to a table in the corner. At the table sat a white, middle-aged man, wearing what looked to be an opulent, tailored suit. He wore a large silver watch, round glasses, and there wasn’t a single hair on his head that was out of place. Neat, tidy, practised, a businessman if Tom had ever seen one.

“Sit down, Tom.” A lifeless tone addressed the prisoner from the seat below.

Tom obliged with caution, studying the man opposite him who still hadn’t looked him in the eye yet. Tom waited for him to speak.

“My name is Smith. You don’t need to know anything other than that about me so don’t ask, it will be wasted breath.”

Tom sat in silence, weighing up the situation and trying, with little success, to work out who the man was. Before Tom could ask if he was a lawyer, Smith spoke again.

“We have something for you to do, Tom.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Tom spoke for the first time. He stared into the man’s eyes with a burning curiosity but it was like trying to read a book filled with blank pages.

“You don’t need to speak, Tom. In fact, I’d much rather you didn’t. You don’t need to know who we are, you just need to do as we say. I’ll explain more in a moment.”

Tom curled a fist underneath the table. He didn’t like this at all and as he looked around to see how close the guards were, he found only two of them were on watch in the room, three fewer than usual and both with their backs to him.

Smith continued, “As I said Tom, we have something for you to do.” He paused. Small beads of sweat had begun forming on Tom’s forehead and his palms were perspiring in equal measure. Smith spoke calmly. He intimidated Tom with his self-assured demeanour; not a syllable was out of place, nor did he seem at all nervous. Just firm, stern, and trying his hardest to hurry to the point of his visit. Tom scanned the room again, trying to gain the guards’ attention, though they remained unmoved, their backs turned still.

“Sean Daniels.” Tom’s attention averted as the man in the suit spoke. “You know of him?”

He did know him. Sean Daniels was dangerous. The sort of prisoner you didn’t toy with. He was in for homicide and had been an inmate at Hare Lane for two decades. As far as prisoners went, he ran the place. He had eyes and ears around almost every corner and it was well known that he continued to conduct his business from inside, the same business that got him sent here in the beginning. Tom had stayed clear of him so far, purposefully so.

“He’s another inmate here.”

“Yes, he is. For now, all I need you to do is remember that name, Tom, can you do that for me?”

Tom merely nodded. He didn’t like being spoken down to though didn’t think it wise to begin showing that just yet, there was so much he didn’t understand, and knowing what he did of Daniels, if this was one of his men then beginning a battle with a crowd like that was something he knew he couldn’t afford to do.

Smith continued. “Good. It’s all rather simple, Tom, so don’t worry. Now, the next step. At six o’clock tonight you’ll finish your duties in the kitchen, is that right?”

Tom nodded again. He longed to know how Smith came to hold that information.

“Good. I assume you’ll then walk straight back to your cell. On your walk back through the quad, you will need to take a minor detour. Do you know the electrical box toward the back of the quad? Well, there’s a small gap where it doesn’t quite connect with the wall. Do you know where I mean?”

Another nod ensued.

“When you arrive there, Tom, a small package will have been left for you, in that gap between the box and the wall. A drone will have dropped it off at around three minutes past six so make sure you’re there shortly after. Once you open the package, what we need you to do will become abundantly clear, so we need not explore that further. Just remember the name we spoke of earlier, that’s all you need to do. And for God’s sake don’t open it until you’re back in your cell. Do you understand, Tom?

Tom didn’t. He didn’t understand any of it; why he had been chosen, who this man was, or what it was ‘they’ needed him to do. His head was ringing with confusion, though he nodded again anyway, simply out of fear.

“Almost there then. Now I would rather this next bit were not necessary, I would just like to make that clear, but it is and you must know that it is. It is necessary, I assure you. I imagine you’re confused, though I daresay all will become clear in the future, and you’re wondering what I am talking about, why you have been chosen, and so on and so on. Am I right?”

Another nod.

“I cannot provide those answers for you. Please don’t ask why, again, it will be wasted breath.” Smith stopped talking for a moment and his hands fell to a bag he had left untouched on the floor. He delved into the pocket and brought out a handful of photographs, laying them flat and upside down on the table.

“We need this doing, Tom, I cannot stress that enough. And for that reason, and that reason alone I might add, we have had to take a couple of extra precautions, just in case you decide that you don’t want to help us.” He placed his hand on the corner of one of the photographs. “Before I turn these over, Tom, I’ll do you a favour and warn you not to react, it’s in your best interest if you don’t. Yes?”

This time Tom didn’t nod. He glared at the cold man across the table and waited for the photos to turn over. As the first one turned, Tom noticed the driveway at once, he saw the swing on the porch and the dirty, white curtains in the window. He recognised the overgrown hedges out front, for they were the hedges he had himself trimmed not a week before being incarcerated. Two more images of his house were flipped over. Then an image of a bedroom he recognised as his own. He could even see his own clothes laid out on the bed.

The final image was the one that almost broke him. Again taken in his bedroom, though with one significant difference. There lay a body in the bed, a woman with jet black hair and peaceful features, led flat on the right side of the bed as she always did, causing no harm to anyone.

“You son of bitch.” For the first time throughout the conversation Tom was rattled.

“She’s only sleeping, Tom. Nothing has happened to her. She doesn’t even know the photo exists, or that we do. But if you don’t do what we need you to do then she will.” Tom went to stand up.

“Don’t react, Tom. It’s in yours and Lori’s best interests if you don’t.” Tom simply stared at the man with a loathing he hadn’t before known, not even for the man whose fault it was he was in here.

Smith gathered up the photos and stood up himself. “Well that’s all from me, Tom. I think you know what to do so I won’t go any further. Remember the name, collect the package, and do what we need you to do. Oh, and you have until midday tomorrow to do it. We will know as soon as it’s done.” Smith nodded at Tom and turned briskly away and walked toward the exit, seemingly unaffected by the meeting that had just taken place.

Tom stared after him, dumbfounded and lost, a confused hatred burning through him from heel to crown.

Later that evening, having finished his work in the kitchen, Tom left alone to make the short walk across the quad and back to his cell. Having been an inmate at Hare Lane Penitentiary for almost four years, and having caused no trouble in that period, he had built up a sound reputation that afforded him the luxury of walking to and from the kitchens in solitude.

The package was in the exact spot Smith said it would be. Tom was quick to scoop up the miniscule box and pocket it all in one movement; he remembered Smith’s command that he not open it until he had returned to his cell, and despite Tom’s ill feeling toward the man, he had no issue respecting that sentiment.

The package seemed to be a small, rectangular box, wrapped, rather haphazardly, in brown parcel tape to secure it, and weighed about as much as an empty water bottle. He was anxious to open it yet waited until the lights had gone out in the cell block before doing so. Unaware of its contents, though having a fair idea of what its purpose would be, his hands shook as they quietly pulled the tape apart to reveal an old matchstick box, weathered and seemingly devoid of matches.

He carried the box over toward the edge of his cell where there was a faint stream of light and slid the inner box out of its cover. His head turned away sharply as a ray of light struck his retina and when he turned back lost his breath at the sight of a sharp, well-trimmed, silver blade, and he retched as it dawned on him what it was that Smith and ‘they’ required him to do. There was nothing else in the box, his instructions were clear enough.

Tom caught his breath, tucked the blade away into its box and hid the box under his mattress. He sat on his bed with his back slumped against the wall, motionless and defeated. All he could think about was Lori and what it’d mean for her and him if he did what Smith was demanding. If he didn’t do it, then he was risking the life of the only person he cared about and the only person who cared about him. If he did do it and got caught, he couldn’t think of any way to avoid that outcome, then he put himself away for another fifteen years at least. He also left himself open to manipulation, for if Smith knew he had him by the balls once, then who’s to say he wouldn’t do it again and again. Calling Smith’s bluff was out of the question, they’d entered his house and photographed his sleeping wife, he couldn't take the risk.

Tom needed to speak to Lori, before midday tomorrow and not in person. How? It was almost midnight now, which gave him seven hours to come up with a plan to contact Lori in time to get her to safety. The guards wouldn’t listen, despite any pleas he may conjure for them. No. He was on his own.

For the next half an hour he sat in the same spot, eyes transfixed on the wall, trying to figure out what he should do. It was almost twelve yet he was wide awake, his mind couldn’t settle, though he had stopped shaking.

As he turned the blade over in his hand he heard shuffling below and more than a dozen pairs of leather boots hitting the floor. “Lights!” Within three seconds the block was flooded with white light. “Everybody up! Cell search, now!” The tannoy thundered as the guard repeated his message.

Tom panicked. He had contraband, the sort that would see him add months to his sentence and it was in his hand. He erratically fumbled the blade back inside the matchbox and went to throw it out of his cell; if it landed in the middle of the block the guards wouldn’t know whose it was and he wouldn’t be caught.

His right arm was behind his head ready to throw when he halted. Lori. He couldn’t do as Smith said without the blade. He couldn’t get caught with it either, it’d be confiscated within a half second and he’d be sent to solitary for days. Could he possibly hide it? Tom stood still, his mind empty. He didn’t know what to do.

At that moment on Freedom Street, CO Mitchell was escorting another inmate, a man waiting for midnight for his turn to make left, his turn to taste liberation. Tom simply stared through the bars of his cell, paralysed, the sound of stomping leather boots growing louder, and louder, and louder…