Banged Up.

Two book projects well on the way. Who needs another one? Tell that to the story that’s erupting from my head just lately. Yes, a new one and a story that excites me with its possibilities. 12,000 words, so far, much more to come. Here’s a taste.

The narrow corridor was gloomy, two floors below ground and dingy. Damp hung in the air. Not a pleasant place at all, which I imagine was the intention. They’d taken off the shackles now, but my bare feet were cold and I could taste the blood again in my mouth where they’d hit me with the sticks. I’d lost a tooth, could feel the broken edges with my tongue, but there wasn’t much likelihood of seeing a dentist any time soon.

The guard pushed me against the wall, held me there with his bulk while he fiddled with the keys. Two more guards were just behind me, biding their time. I knew they’d wade in again if I gave them reason to do so. They didn’t like me and I had the bruises to prove it.

The metal door had a small hatch with a sliding cover, on the outside. He swung the door open revealing a cell lacking any windows; lighting being provided by overhead fluorescent tubes behind metal grills. A low metal bench, just about wide enough to lie on if necessary was fixed to the rear wall, riveted in place. A stainless steel toilet, no seat, jutted out from the wall alongside the bench.

No bedding. No creature comforts. The walls were whitewashed brick with numerous obscenities, names, expressions of defiance scratched into their surface.

I was all set to walk in, but he pushed me anyway, sent me staggering across the tiny space into the far wall. I sat on the hard bench, looking at him. I could have used a blanket, but there was no point in even asking. The floor was cold. They’d taken my shoes and socks, not returned them. Add that to the list of things it wasn’t worth mentioning.

He was still there, filling the doorway. ‘I’ll be back, arsehole,’ he said. ‘Suicide watch.’

I laughed at him. They must have known how unlikely that was.

‘You remind me of someone,’ I said. ‘A taxi driver I killed a few years back. God, he took some killing. That fat neck, see. Just like yours.’

He balled his fists but stayed his ground. It would take more than that to tempt him inside this confined space. I wasn’t concerned. I’d be seeing him again. I had plenty of time.

He left, slamming the door. It was cold. No shoes, no socks, just my underwear. No blanket. I didn’t expect anything different. Killing the doctor had annoyed them all. I hadn’t intended to kill him. Not that day. I rather liked him, actually. He shouldn’t have mentioned my mother. That annoyed me. Annoyed me enough to stick his ballpoint pen in his eye. It went in a long way. I held his head, tightly, even when they were hitting me across the head with their sticks, kept on pushing. He never made a sound, but when they finally dragged me off him I could see he was dead. I know what dead people look like.

He was number forty-one. It should be forty-two, but the cleaner I thought I’d killed last year is still in a coma. I wanted to go to the hospital, shout ‘pull the fucking plug,’ but she’s still alive. Technically. That’s annoying.

Annoying and untidy. Spoiling a perfect record. One day soon, they’ll end it. Switch the power off. Make it right.

Just for now though, I’m sticking with forty-one.

The fat bastard in the corridor. I’ll think about him tonight. Make a plan. I don’t often make a choice, but he’s worth making an exception. What use is he anyway?

Three years since they caught me. Locked me up. Three years in this place. It’s not so bad. Regular food. A decent night’s sleep.

Most of the time.

Not tonight though. I pissed them off today. Not for the first time.

I like killing people. That’s something none of them understand. Especially the doctors. They want to find a reason for my behaviour. I keep telling them there’s only one reason: killing people is fun.

I was stuck on thirty-seven when I came here. I always thought I’d find opportunities to add to my score and so it proved. Four extras, counting today. That’s good going. I’m pleased with that.

What else can they do to me? I’m certifiably insane, or so they say. Not responsible for my actions. That’s what they said at my trial. So, here I am. Locked up, never getting out.

I’m not sure about that. I’m thinking about it. I’ve got plans and this place is so restricting.

Forty-one dead people. So far. Forty-two if they switch the power off for that bitch in a coma. That’s all I’m admitting to. There are others; of course there are. Family members, people I know personally, friends – they’re on a separate list. Thirteen, so far, but the people here, they don’t know about the other list.

That’s my secret.

The fat guard. He’ll be a squealer. I hope so. I’ll gut him, when I get the chance. Open him up, let his intestines drop out. Oh, he’ll squeal and carry on then. It’s an easy job. Any sharp implement will do. I’ll be on the lookout for what I need, as soon as they let me out of here.

This cell and I are old friends. Five times I’ve been here now. The guards, they have to watch me. Look after me. Make sure I come to no harm. It’s their job. I’ll get clothes, a blanket, a hot meal. In good time. That’s their job: keeping me safe. They needn’t bother with keeping a suicide watch, but that’s part of their job too. Regulations.

I’d never kill myself.

Not when there’s all this fun to be had.