The Cell

Darren Goyle's head jerked suddenly. The vehicle had been a less than gentle cradle, its engine coughing a lullaby, and he was surprised that he had fallen asleep. Maybe it was the heat.

Bleary eyes passed sluggishly from the aisle on his left to the stranger on his right, an African male perhaps ten years older than he himself was. The man's heavy face was framed in thick, black ringlets of hair. His dark-skinned neighbour threw Goyle a curled lip. Have I been snoring?

The man turned away to look out between the bars of the window on his right as a discomforting burn drew Goyle's attention to his wrists. His hands rested on his lap like long lost twins brought together after a lifetime apart, and only a key or a saw would separate them. Confusion rippled his forehead, but only for a second. Oh, yes. Damn.

The prison bus shuddered to a stop and the door hissed wide. Moments later the driver yelled, "Boarder!"

There were two guards and a driver for the bus' nine attempted criminals. One of the prison officials looked like he belonged in the WWF and seemed just as dangerous as his colleague who, even though he possessed more regular proportions, cradled a shotgun.

"Bring him on," growled the bigger of the two guards after a stomping progression to the front of the bus. He sounded like an unsuccessful hunting bear, only slightly more pissed off.

Darren Goyle couldn't see who approached, but he heard the scrape of restricted movement in the sunshine realm of freedom beyond the bus' interior. The needle of a shadow preceded its owner, who shuffled into view garbed in a slack grey jumpsuit identical to the one Goyle was wearing, identical to those of every occupant of the bus. Like a sack of dog's bones for burial, the burly guard dragged the newcomer to the back of the bus.

That's where the cage was.

Being on a bench two rows from the back, Goyle could not keep his eyes off the newest passenger. With maybe eight inches to go before reaching six foot and possessing the body of an undernourished eight-year-old it was hard to believe the man could have posed a threat to anyone. Then again, Goyle had watched a documentary on TV some time ago about short men being angry. Perhaps there was more truth in it than he had originally thought.

The prisoner's entire head was so hairless he had obviously shaved recently, his sun-browned skin marred by thin white lines. Goyle's eyes were drawn to those scars immediately. They were far too precise to have been accidental. If he admitted it to himself, Goyle fancied they might make a shape, like five isosceles triangles joined together at the corners of their short sides. If that was the idea of the shape then it was imperfect; the side of one of the triangles was missing.

Goyle's gaze slipped from the top of the man's head and into the empty pits waiting beneath the bald brows, twin dark holes seemingly devoid of empathy. Goyle thought instantly of sharks and pulled his eyes away, heart frantic beneath his ribs. Then guard and prisoner had passed, and Goyle began to breathe again.

"That's Eric Johnson." The words were only a hint of a whisper. Darren Goyle wasn't sure they were directed at him, but he heard them none-the-less. Of course! That's what the scars were. Goyle's heart iced over as the recollection of a news bulletin kicked in the door of his memory.

The Devil's Slave, they had dubbed him. The media, the public. A man so keen on ending lives in such unsettlingly fascinating ways must not have a soul. There was no motive and no connection to each of the man's fourteen victims. Pure randomness seemed to guide his monstrous intent, which is why the police had found it so very difficult to track him down. Each killing had been a bizarre and bloody ritual that had forced more than one detective into another occupation. Every part of every victim, those parts had had been found anyway, had been marked with the same scars the murderer had given himself.

The man's capture had been accidental, by all accounts, caught in the act before it could be completed. That was two months ago. His trial had been held as quickly as possible within the constraints of the law. Nobody wanted this monster getting away on a technicality, but neither did they want something to happen in a police cell either. Goyle found it hard to believe someone had taken on his case. How could you defend a client found with a bag of freshly hacked limbs? It was no surprise the Jury had not deliberated the verdict long.

Goyle's mind conjured the pattern on the man's head and wondered what would happen when - not if; Eric Johnson was on a mission - the self-drawn tattoo was finished.

Goyle turned to watch Johnson as the big guard fastened him into the cage. There was a certain haste in the guard's actions, one that had nothing to do with keeping to a deadline. A short length of thick metal was lifted from one side of the cage, its pincer-like end clasped over Johnson's forearm and bolted shut. A similar bar on the opposite side pinned the convict's feet in place also. Then the cage door was closed and padlocked. Through it all, Johnson remained a patient crocodile, those empty eyes inspecting his nearest captor with unwholesome hunger, as if he had found the one that would provide the last line of pain upon his scalp.

Once the cage had been checked and rechecked, the prison bus choked into life and rattled off to its grim destination. Goyle dared to look around. Everyone had become a bit more still, a bit more silent. The guard at the front of the bus rested the butt of his shotgun on his hip, and his large companion occupied a seat further away from the cage than he was probably supposed to.

An hour later the bus fed its living insides into a throat of stone and metal. Shuffling as quickly as their manacled ankles would allow, nine prisoners were ushered off the vehicle and channelled toward incarceration. When released from his cage, the last would be brought out amidst armed escort; Darren Goyle overheard the guards mention it.

The summer sun was unforgiving, and Goyle welcomed the relative cool of the prison hallways. He marched slowly along the bleak grey walls, the white stripes above shedding an entirely uninviting illumination on those passing beneath. Not surprising, really. Prison wasn't supposed to be a holiday camp.

So, this will be home for the next few years, Goyle mused. I'll be twenty-four when I get out. Still young enough to have a life. Thoughts of his parents broke through then, but Goyle held back the tears.

A particularly uncomfortable hose down with lukewarm water left Goyle shivering in the cool air, which was paradoxical bliss. Afterwards followed a quick restock of clothing and an unspoken invitation to a wide corridor full of doors possessing a trend toward bare metal bars. A rank of cells stretched toward darkness at both sides on two floors.

"Gentlemen!" boomed a voice from the left. Goyle repressed the urge to urn his head. A man with more jowls than was surely humanly possible strode purposefully in, flanked by two guards that made the guy on the bus look small. His grey suit must have cost more money than Goyle's entire wardrobe, and it fit the man's bloated frame paint-perfect. His coal black shoes were highly polished, glistening like oil, and probably could easily have fed a small country had they been sold. Goyle's stomach flexed involuntarily. This was a man who would neither mess about or be messed about with.

"I," came the man's powerful, nicotine-ravaged voice, "am Marcus Larson, although you will all address me as 'Sir'. I own this facility and therefore own you. Whatever you were before you came here, mass murderer, multiple rapist, serial killer, I don't care. You are the scum of the Earth and you are here because nobody else wants you, not even your bitch whore mothers. This is your last stop. Welcome to the end of your lives as you know it."

Goyle began to worry. The end of his life as he knew it? All he had done was breaking and entering. It had been a cop's house, fine, but Goyle hadn't known that until the owner had come downstairs with a pistol leading the way. The judge had handed out a four-year sentence for his efforts. End of his life as he knew it? That didn't seem right.

The man known as Larson swept a hawk's eye over every one of his new inmates, looking for - well, Goyle didn't know what. But whatever it was, the large man had evidently found it. Larson's gargoyle eyes fixed upon Darren Goyle. The inmate's throat instantly collapsed and he repressed the desire to take a step away from the approaching official.

The foulness of the man's breath washed over Goyle as his backbone turned to jelly. There was a faint whiff of something being burnt and Goyle winced as if his eyes had been stabbed by hot pins. Larson's scrutiny did not help, and Goyle began to feel as if his skin was being scoured by an acid-soaked wire brush. Long moments passed before the man gestured with his head, a sharp, jerking sideways motion that sent his face flab wobbling. Larson's eyes looked disappointed as one of his guards clutched the young convict's arm with fingers that would likely leave white marks and maybe a bruise, and dragged him away from the line.

Goyle wanted to ask where he was being taken, but he wasn't sure if he would be ignored or slapped or have his arm torn off, and so didn't bother. He wouldn't get an answer.

Eventually, a solid metal door with a small square for a window was before him. The guard opened it and Goyle was pushed, not ungently, inside. The door closed.

Goyle frowned. The door had not been unlocked before it had been opened, nor had it heard the clink of keys or mechanism after the door's closing. Even so, Goyle didn't feel safe simply walking out.

The room was small. Whitewashed walls smelt strangely of hospitals. A single bulb hung naked from the ceiling, bathing the entire area with a brightness out of place in the otherwise dark building. The bunk against the wall was the only piece of furniture in the room; there was no bucket or toilet here, which gave Goyle a mixed feeling. Was he supposed to 'go' in a corner, or were facilities provided elsewhere. Is that why the door was not locked? As Goyle rubbed his aching arm to get the blood circulating again, he slowly became aware that he was not alone.

"They call me Mister." The voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere near the ceiling.

Goyle knew he shouldn't ask, but he couldn't help himself. "Why?"

A hairless head, this time free of disfiguring marks, appeared over the edge of the top bunk, a deflating balloon barely keeping itself aloft. This was a face with more lines than a ruler. Goyle wondered what his roommate was in for. The old man's lips peeled back, showing more teeth than Goyle felt reasonable for a man of such advanced years. "Because."

Goyle didn't press the issue, feeling futility claw the conversation to shreds. Instead, he sat down on the creaseless grey sheets covering the mattress of the bottom bunk, ducking to avoid grazing his scalp on the metal bed frame.

The bunk creaked as Mister moved invisibly above. "You don't know what this place is, do you?"

"A prison?" Goyle regretted his sarcastic tone immediately. Somehow it seemed like the old guy didn't deserve such rancour.

Lifting his feet off the floor, Goyle felt the mattress mould comfortably to the lines of his back. Maybe prison wouldn't be so bad after all.

"This is not just a prison," Mister hissed. "Do you know there used to be six hundred and seventy cells here? There was a riot back in '66, you know, left fourteen cells uninhabitable."

Goyle didn't know. He didn't much care either, but he remained quiet.

Mister continued. "Government funding was made available to repair the damage, of course, but the money was exhausted after just nine cells. Of the remaining five, four were so badly damaged it was easier to just knock them down and make the entryway wider. That left just a single cell unfinished."

Goyle had always been good at math. His brain had started counting as soon as mister mentioned numbers. The figure he was left with, the number of cells left in the prison block, caused his heart to stutter.

"Five attempts were made to repair that last cell and five builders lost their lives in apparently freak accidents. The sixth, and final, attempt finished the cell, but it was always kept locked and, supposedly, empty."

"Supposedly?" Goyle whispered without meaning to. He was beginning to wish he had been put in with someone else.

The bunk's frame rocked as Mister's body moved across the mattress overhead. His quiet voice sounded louder than thunder in the still air. "They don't have gas here, you know. Or chairs, for that matter. No needles, no bullets." Mister paused. "Ask yourself a question, Goyle. I know you want to."

When did I tell him my name? Goyle pushed the thought aside and did his sums again, but came up with the same regrettable answer. He tried to raise some moisture in his dry throat. Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe?

"This can't be Death Row, can it?" Why am I on Death Row?

"That's not the right question, Goyle."

What kind of Death Row has no gas chamber, electric chair, lethal injection, or firing squad?

"Keep going, Goyle. You're nearly there."

Goyle's mind put it all together and asked the right question. He could almost hear Mister smile. But that was impossible, wasn't it? Surely there was no such thing. Goyle remembered the heat of Larson's breath, the way his proximity gave chills so deep it seemed the bones of his body would freeze solid.

"You're not supposed to be here, Goyle," Mister stated.

"What, in prison?"

"Well, this prison."

"Why not?" Goyle's voice shivered.

"An administration error somewhere. It happens from time to time - you aren't the first. Maybe someone misread the bus number on your papers, who knows? That's why I'm here. I take care of what he can't have."

Goyle's skin iced over. "What do you mean, he?"

"Larson. He can't have everybody. You heard him; he only gets what isn't wanted. That's the deal. That's why he can't have you."

"So I'm wanted?" Goyle wasn't sure he understood.

"What did you do when that cop found you in his house?"

Goyle was thrown momentarily, the sudden change of topic causing his brain to malfunction. "Erm, I surrendered?"

"Anyone else in here would have tried to overpower the cop first chance they got. They would have murdered him, taken advantage of his wife, his sleeping kids. You didn't try that because you're basically a good guy who made a bad choice. It happens. Everyone else here is just evil. That's why they're not wanted. That's why your not 'not wanted', if you see what I mean."

Goyle didn't really see what Mister meant, but to avoid looking stupid he said nothing. Even so, Goyle got the impression that his silence was condemning him just as easily as any answer might have done.

The next day arrived. Goyle was given a bowl of cereal and a piece of toast for breakfast. The milk was thin and tasteless, white water, Goyle felt, and the toast was dry. Not exactly Heaven, Goyle decided.

Nothing was brought in for Mister, who had not moved from his bunk. Goyle wondered if he were still there, for he had heard nothing from the old man since their conversation when he, Goyle, had been brought in.

From somewhere out of sight came a sharp cry of pain, a scream that ended with a gurgle and vocalised turbulence of other inmates. The hard claps of multiple speeding rubber soles echoed along the walls. Goyle rushed to the small window, his head bobbing to see the impossible.

"That'll be your friend."

So, you are still here. Aloud, Goyle asked, "What do you mean?"

"The bald man on the bus with the dodgy tattoo."

Goyle swallowed hard. He was talking about Eric Johnson. "He's not my friend." Goyle didn't mean to sound so defensive.

"Of course not," Mister agreed with an amiable snicker. "He doesn't have any friends. He killed them all, that's why he has that tattoo."

Goyle wanted to ask how Mister could know that, but stopped the words coming from his lips. He wasn't so sure he wanted the answer.

The disturbance continued for minutes until the booming command of weaponry brought order by force. Still Goyle hovered beside his tiny frame of vision, aching for some hint of what had just happened.

"Goodbye, Darren. See you later."

Goyle turned around and was about to ask what the Hell mister was talking about when the sound of oiled metal sliding span the young man back to the door. It yawned wide and a guard stood beyond it. "Let's go, Goyle."

Goyle did not argue.

The guard led Darren Goyle back down the passage he had been brought to not twenty-four hours earlier. When the guard came to a sudden stop and told his charge to wait, Goyle remained obedient.

Three figures moved across the passage, two guards carrying - Goyle couldn't believe it. It was Eric Johnson.

The prisoner's hands were cuffed behind his back and attached to his ankles by chains. His mouth moved obscenely, a wet line of redness streaking across his forehead to complete the last part of his grisly tattoo. The guards took their burden to a solid metal door, opened it, and threw the small man into the shadows behind. The sound of knees cracking, of jaw slapping, of teeth breaking under the force of impact was lost in the metal roar of the slammed door.

Goyle knew the guard he was with had told him to do something, but he could not move. Could not take his eyes from the frame of the door Eric Johnson had just been hurled through. It was glowing red, as if a furnace had been lit in the room beyond. Goyle's heart raced, his breathing quick through parched lips, and he didn't even feel the five hard points digging into the flesh of his left arm, forcing the continuation of his passage to wherever it was he was being taken. All the while, Goyle strained to turn, drawn inexorably to watch the intensifying red light turn into a terrible, dancing orange, to become a searing white light before vanishing into sudden darkness.

A stunned Goyle found himself recalling Mister's words. You're a good guy who made a bad choice. He would have to make sure it was the last bad choice of his life.