“So, Haran, looks like it’s just us. Anything you’d like to say?”

He cracked one knuckle with the other hand, and shrugged.

“Thanks for saving me time, guys.”

He didn’t wait, throwing himself at the nearest, wrapping his huge hands around his throat. As he squeezed, he felt the first blow land on his back, and his smile widened. If that was the worst they had to offer, this would be quick. The shit he was strangling had given up trying to get his hands away and was kicking him instead, his boots slamming into his shins. It hurt, but not enough to stop him from digging his thumbs in.

The kicking stopped and his eyes rolled back. When the body was limp, he spun around and used it to hit the guy behind him, swinging it across and slamming it into him, both of them falling in a heap. Haran realised that the third one was hanging back, watching. His eyes had widened as he realised his mate was dead, but he still hadn’t stepped up, which suited him just fine.

The one he’d knocked over, got up and came at him, quicker than he expected and then it was a fist fight. Haran never bothered much with the finer details, but he could block ok, and did so now, fending off the blows as best he could, then leaning in to land the occasional jab, or hook. Each time he got him, his attacker swayed, but he came back and went at it again.

Haran got him into the corner and went to work, ignoring his blows now and concentrating on punching him as much and as hard as possible. The stupid twat put his hand in the way and Haran felt it shatter as he punched through it. The guy screamed and the next punch took half of the teeth from his mouth. That brought the blood, streaming from his wrecked jaw and onto the floor. He pulled back for another, when he felt the blade slip into his side.

He let fly anyway, but the power was gone and the guy staggered. He was far too busy worrying about his mouth to do anything, anyway. Haran spun around, feeling the blade dig in sideways as he pulled it from the guy’s hand. He put his own hand to it, grabbing the handle. It felt deep, pulling it out might not be the best plan. Fuck it.

It came out as easy as it went in, and he winced, then felt the warm flood of blood as it soaked his shirt and ran down into his waistband. Knife guy was smiling at him, like he thought it was over. How did these guys manage to kill Mohamed? Then again, the little man probably didn’t put up much of a fight. He held up the knife, watching his blood drip off it, then moved his eyes to the face of the smiler, waiting for the look to change. It did, quick, and Haran went for him.

Things were so much simpler with a knife. Haran slashed, cutting his knuckles open as he tried to block, then jammed it between some ribs. The pain in his side was getting worse, and the haze came down again. He stabbed again, and again, dimly aware that he was now covered in blood, and that the third guy was very much dead.

He stood up from where he had been kneeling on him, and turned to look at the cell. The first man, the one he had strangled, was open-eyed, on his back like a fish. The second was in the corner, eyes wide and hands held out in front of him. He grabbed one of them and yanked him to his feet, then slammed him against the wall.

“Where’s the book?”

The man just shook his head, eyes getting wider.

“Where’s the fucking book?”

He banged his head back against the concrete, leaving a red hand mark on his forehead.

“Uhh, uhh, I think he stashed it in his cell, I think.”

“Who?”

The man nodded down at the blood-soaked body on the floor. Haran nodded, then looked back at the man cringing before him. Why stop at two, when you could have the whole set? The knife slipped in easy enough, between the ribs, then out and in the eye, just for good measure.

He was sat in the corner when the door opened, absent-mindedly wiping his fingers with a piece of the strangled man’s uniform. Mathis’ eyes widened, then he stepped back and the door closed again. Iso lasted a long time, and when he came out, the book was gone, stuffed into a bag with the other belongings and sent off to the loved ones.

When he got back to his cell, the sight of piggy lying, somewhat foolishly, on the bottom bunk, brightened his mood.

Final Installment, Friday 2nd August (Tomorrow is publishing day!!!! Woop)

He laid in with his fists, every thud and slap making his blood boil even more, his teeth grind harder. He thought whaling on the piggy would help him feel better, but it was doing the opposite. Maybe it was ‘cause the fat fuck didn’t make noise anymore, just grunted quietly and got on with it. With a hiss, he landed one more, on the fleshy part of the shoulder, and was rewarded with a squeak, then stood back, leaving him to weep on his bunk.

He turned and looked out of the bars, at the grey wall opposite. The prison was quiet today, no one in the mood for talking. Lucky for them. Why was he so pissed?

It had been a deal, a fair deal, done the way these things were. They should have accepted that, moved on, let it be. Now an innocent man was chilling in the morgue, three prisoners were in isolation, and the book was gone, hidden somewhere waiting for when those three fuckers got out.

They’d go back to court, but they were scum, they weren’t going anywhere, anyway. Why steal the book if you knew what your future was gonna be? He pushed away from the bars, his face pulled in a grimace, then punched them, the sharp pain cutting through the haze.

They would need to be punished. It was his deal. If they started to think they could get away with queering, things would become difficult, very quickly. He turned away from the door and pulled his phone out. Maybe Thomas could help with this as well.

The buzz took longer to come this time, but when it did, his grimace rose into a smile that carried no humour, and plenty of intent. When lights-out ran around the prison, and the darkness descended, his door slid open, revealing Guard Mathis with his hat pulled down over his face. Haran spoke in a whisper.

“Good evening, Mr Mathis, fancy meeting you here.”

The guard replied with a grunt, then nodded with his head down the corridor and set off, Haran in pursuit. The trip to isolation was short, and involved more stairs than he’d done in a while. It felt nice to move around the prison, like he owned it. He could squint and imagine the guard in front of him was a figment, that he was prowling the corridors alone. They arrived before the first door and the guard began to tap on the pad.

“Who is it?”

Mathis looked at him, his faced closed off.

“Does it matter. It’s one of ‘em. I’ll give you five minutes.”

The door slid aside and he stepped in, flexing his wrists. His work on piggy that morning had got him warmed up, given him a taste for it. The door slid shut behind him and he stood for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Then the light flicked on, and he squinted in the brightness. His grin got wider. This was the big iso room, and stood in front of him, wearing smiles nearly as big as his, were all three of the scum that had killed Mo. Mathis’ voice came through the door.

“What, you think we wouldn’t take this opportunity, Acuna? You’re bad news.”

He heard his feet stomping away down the corridor, leaving him and the three men. He clenched his fists.

Next installment, Wednesday 31st July

Thomas had it. The gift of the gab, the sweet talk, whatever it was that made people believe, and convinced them to part with their hard-earned. Haran had been surprised that he hadn’t wanted the book himself, but it turned out he agreed with him on the not knowing your future thing. It didn’t matter though. The auction was in full swing, and there were plenty of buyers lining up.

They weren’t actually lining up of course. A series of apparently random taps on bars, and bangs on walls sent messages flying around the prison, the secret language of the in-mates. The guards knew, some of them even knew what it meant, but they also knew how to make the best of a bad situation. Much like him.

He lay on his bunk, phone in hand, smile widening every time the buzz informed him that the bid was rising. Pig was asleep, for now, though he’d soon settled in to his role in this place. He wasn’t someone who knew how to make the best of things. He was too small-minded, too set in his ways. Things in here were fluid, and you either went with them, or cracked. Every now and then, someone snapped. It was fun to watch. Good reminder too, helped everyone else remember how important it was to be flexible.

Now, him, he’d been flexible, then he realised that it was the weight above that made you bend. Once that was clear, it was just about becoming the weight, being the pressure, instead of bowing beneath it. Everyone here felt the pressure, guards, inmates, cooks, it didn’t matter, they all bowed beneath it. Thomas applied it using money, the language he spoke in. For Haran Acuna, the language was violence, though these days, just the threat of violence normally worked. It wasn’t as much fun, but far easier in the long run.

They were up to two hundred quid, and assorted favours, duties, cigs and so on. It wasn’t as much as he’d hoped for, but it wasn’t far off either. The next buzz made his eyebrows rise and a slow chuckle to emerge from his throat. It had just gone up to two fifty, and come from the only prisoner everyone agreed was actually innocent.

Mohamed came in on murder charges, killed his wife and daughter apparently. Two minutes talking to him and you knew it wasn’t true. Six months after he arrived, another guy came in on aggravated assault, started telling stories about this family he knifed and got away with. Funny how those things turned out. Mohamed had already forgiven him, but Haran, and some of the others, felt that things were a little unbalanced. The other guy had left now, paroled and sent out into the world. He imagined life was tougher with no thumbs and little fingers. Mo was still here, still innocent, and left alone for it.

Now he wanted to know his future, maybe discover if he was ever gonna be let out, and what the hell he’d do if he was. Well, on the plus side, he probably had the cash. No one else was gonna go higher than that, not now. He tapped in a message, then rolled over and went to sleep.

The exchange was due at dinner, the cash handed over then, the rest later. Smile in place, he swaggered across the dining hall, ignoring the glares as he went. Someone had to win, everyone else had to deal with it. He sat down next to Mo, giving him a grin.

“So, you wanna know the future, do you?”

The small man looked at him, his eyes still empty, still lost. Haran knew he wasn’t a reflective man. Life happened one day at a time, and as long as you got to the end in a better shape than you were in the morning, then that counted as a victory. But the innocent man next to him had made him think. Haran knew why he was here, and he deserved it, ‘cause whether he liked it or not, there was a law, and he broke it, plenty of times. But this guy, he’d been in here for four years and in that whole time, he never looked anything other than pathetic and sad. How did he do that? Why was he still alive?

“Don’t you?”

His voice was quiet, thoughtful. Haran shook his head.

“Nah, what’s the point? What can I change?”

Mohamed nodded slowly.

“Yes, there is that, I suppose. Would you not…”

He paused, then looked at Haran again and shook his head.

“Of course you wouldn’t, this is your home. You belong here more than you do outside.”

Haran nodded. He could get angry at that, and from anyone else perhaps he would have, but it was true, and what was truer was that he had it pretty sweet. He was about to get the cash that meant hot, luxury showers for the next year and all the TV time he wanted. Mo’s head was down, staring at his food.

“Mo, what are you gonna change, really?”

“Suicide is forbidden by my religion, and even were it not, I would remain alive.”

Haran waited, but the little man wasn’t going to say anything else. He shrugged, then dug into his pocket.

“You got the cash?”

They exchanged, one packet for another, and he slipped off the bench, leaving behind the little African, and his sad eyes.

Next installment, Monday 29th July

He was crying again, but it was quieter now, just a steady whimper. Haran flicked through the book, picking out the simpler words. There was a few things he didn’t understand, but he got the gist. Looked like fat boy had been telling the truth, though how and why he had no idea.

Books were funny like that, he’d never trusted them, and now he knew why. Why the hell would he want to know the future? Would reading through twenty years of sitting in a cell make any difference?

He sniffed and shoved it under the mattress. Other people would want it though, people who didn’t get how plain stupid it was to know what was gonna happen next. This was something, fat boy had been right. He could make serious cash with this, and when you had cash to make, you went to the people who carried.

The lunch hall was rammed, as always, overcrowded and sweaty. He found his table, nodding to the others, then scanned the room. The bankers were in their normal spot, but the one he wanted wasn’t there. He came in at the last minute, grabbing a tray and the crappy remains of the lunch, then scampered over to his mates, face red. Haran gave him a minute to get comfortable, then sauntered over, exchanging more nods on the way. Lots of people attentive today, they must know he got himself a new bitch. There were lots of ways he was gonna make in the next few weeks.

“Hello, Thomas, how are you?”

He sat on the bench, ignoring the creak as his weight strained the bolts that held it to the floor. The tiny man sat next to him nodded quickly, shoving food into his mouth before they were kicked out.

“I have a proposition for you. You exercising this arvo?”

Another nod.

“I’ll see you then.”

He sauntered away, figuring out the pitch.

It was sunny and the yard was lazy, the normal shouts muted, the aggression stifled by the warmth. He fell into step next to Thomas, making tiny mincy steps just to stay slow enough.

“Can’t you walk any faster?”

“Can’t you get shorter legs?”

He whistled, but kept walking. He liked Thomas, that was why he could get away with the mouth. That and he had his fingers in every pie in the prison, including the guards’.

“I’ve got something.”

The little man pricked his ears up, glancing toward him, then back at his feet.

“Yes?”

“Yeah. I might be a hard sell, but it’s worth it.”

He paused.

“The piggy brought something with him. A book. Turns out, my entire life is in it, including the bits that haven’t happened yet.”

Thomas stopped walking, just for a second, then caught himself and jogged to get back into step. He glanced up again, his eyes lingering on Haran’s face. Then he dropped them again.

“OK, why does anyone want to read about your life?”

Haran shook his head.

“Nah, it’s not like that. Once you own the book, it changes, it’s your life then.”

He could hear the cogs turning. Thomas was a smart man, way smarter than he was, and he’d seen the world, if the stories were to be believed. He might buy the idea, he might not, but the silence was about how he could call Haran a liar, without getting a knife in the back. The big man sucked his teeth, then decided to make it easy for the little man.

“Don’t worry, Thomas, I know you wanna call me a bullshitter, don’t blame you. I’ll let you have a look, how about that?”

Thomas nodded, slowly.

“Yeah, ok, that would help.”

Another hesitation, then he chattered quickly.

“So, if the book works, and I’m not saying it doesn’t, what are you thinking?”

“Auction?”

Another nod

“Yes, that could work. They get excited though, bid what they haven’t got…”

“Then we cut through the bidders ‘til we find one who can. You’d be amazed how quick some people can find cash when their pinkies are on the block.”

He grinned as Thomas shuddered next to him.

“I’ll bring it to dinner, we’ll have us a look, then you can set up the auction, OK?”

The bell rang and they trooped indoors. He could already smell the cash, and feel it between his fingers.

Next Installment, Saturday 27th July

The pig was crying again. He’d been at it half the night. Fucking tiring’s what it was. With a grunt, Haran surged up and swung his hands over the top bunk, grabbing the fat man and dragging him off and on to the floor. He landed with a fleshy thump, and the crying got louder.

“Would you shut up, you little shit.”

He kicked him in the gut to make it clear just how serious he was. The pig rolled over onto his back, gazing up at him through red-rimmed eyes. He shook his head, mouth flapping like a fish, trying to speak but only managing to blub instead. He shook his head, spat on him, then sat on his bunk. This guy was a policeman? How the hell had he handled, like, anything in his job? How had he got himself in here? They said he was a cop-killer, but god only knows how.

Haran grinned as the fat man rolled into his side and struggled to sit up, still gasping and panting. Fucking pathetic is what it was. Finally the piggy got upright and shoved himself across the floor, away from Haran, until he bumped against the far wall and sat there, hugging himself. Haran stood and he quivered, putting his hands over his head. He chuckled, then sat back down again.

“Are you gonna stop crying now, little piggy?”

His whole body was shaking when he replied.

“I’ll try, really, I will, just, please, stop, stop hurting me!”

He burst into tears again and Haran sighed, shaking his head.

“You don’t get it, which is strange for a pig. Why should I stop hurting you? Your arse is nice and tight and you’ve got nothing else to give.”

He gave him a broad smile, then stood up again. The pig’s face went pale, then he waved his hands frantically in front of his face.

“Wait, wait, stop, I have got something, I have.”

Haran paused, then watched as the fat man scrambled up and reached up onto is bunk, then triumphantly pulled a book from under his pillow. He started to laugh as it was shoved in his face, then stopped abruptly, enjoying the look of terror on the fat man’s face. He raised an eyebrow, looking at the book, then at the man’s scared, tight eyes. He spoke slowly, like he was talking to a child.

“I thought, you said, you had something.”

The man looked at him blankly, then at the book, then nodded furiously.

“I do, I do, I mean, this is it, this is amazing.”

He stretched out the last word, putting everything into it. Haran snatched the book from him and leafed through it, then tossed it behind him onto his bunk.

“Amazing. Really?”

“Really, it tells the future, it tells your future.”

He raised the eyebrow again, then lashed out, his fist slamming into the puffy bit above pig boy’s eye. He went down and he grabbed him, throwing him face first onto the bunk.

Next Installment, Thursday 25th July

He woke late and scrambled to get ready, pulling on his crappy trousers and running for the tube. He remembered the book at the last minute, shoving it into his bag with his badge and a packet of Orios. As he slumped into the train seat, he wiped the sweat from his head, breathing hard. Damn job, damn night shift. He sniffed, then leaned back in his seat, smiling broadly as he remembered the last passage he’d read.

Another quiet night and he sat behind the desk, picking at the cookies and flicking through the book. He found another pay out, a few pages after the first. The insurance scam the other fella he’d managed to track down this morning went well, and he had another chunk of cash sat in the bank. He was flicking idly, when he saw something else, something that made him stop, crumbs dropping unseen from his protruding lower lip.

He was woken by a banging on the door, and the shouts of his eager comrades from the station. He hadn’t thought for a second that they hated him, but as he heard the fierce joy in their faces as they threatened to break in, he understood just how deep their loathing ran. He was found out, and there was nothing that made coppers angrier than a fellow policeman breaking the law… 

He slammed the book shut, eyes flicking back and forth, like a fly in a hot room. They couldn’t know, not yet, he had only started it that morning. But they found out. How did they find out? He pored back through the book, eyes flashing across the lines far more quickly than before. His head began to thump, and he grabbed for the cookies, stuffing sugar into his mouth. There was nothing, nothing! They found out, but he didn’t, so it wasn’t in the book. He slammed it again, then picked it up and threw it at the desk, watching it bounce off and onto the floor.

He stormed down the corridor, kicking the wall as he went, huffing and cursing.

He would need to be ready, have his defence worked out. He could go back, tell them not to worry about it. It was too late for that, they’d seen him, they could identify him if anything went wrong. Shit, damn.

There was a gun, in the evidence locker. He could take that, then he’d be safe. They wouldn’t break in if he had a gun. No, they’d just call AR and then they’d break in, and shoot him. He booted the wall, hard enough for his toes to feel broken and he slumped against the other wall, sinking down and resting his head against his knees, eyes burning. It wasn’t fair!

Screw it. He had some holiday due. He’d take the gun, just in case, and go home. If he didn’t come out again, they wouldn’t be able to finger him when they got caught. He stomped back upstairs, and re-read the passages before they came for him. According to the book, he went about work as usual, checking up on his money-makers and readying himself for the incoming cash. So if he went home now, and stayed there,  things would have to happen differently. Maybe he should quit, get away from the station altogether.

He headed for the locker, pulling out the sawn-off shotgun they’d picked up last week. Why didn’t pikeys use nice guns? He shoved it into his bag, along with the book, and stared at the wall. The night went slowly, every noise in the station making him jump, his nails the turning the crack of his arse raw where he scratched. After what felt like forever,  the day shift came in and he ran out the door, sprinting to the tube.

He was stepping in through his front door, when it struck him. He’d taken the shot gun. That was catalogued, they knew it was supposed to be there. They’d check with him, of course they would. He couldn’t take it back though, not now, how the hell was he supposed to explain it? He slammed the front door, putting every ounce of force into it, and leaned against it. He went in his bag for the gun, but came out gripping the book to his chest like a shield.

That was how he slept as well, the shotgun on one side, the book on his chest, his open laptop on the other side. He woke late afternoon and opened the book, then a loud thumping came on the door. He read, feverishly, swearing under his breath, as his stubby finger ran along the lines.

The police was knocking, knocking at the door, and even though James knew they couldn’t have found out about his money-makers, not yet, he still clutched his shotgun and prepared for the worst.

Did he really write like this? It was just so…wanky. But how had they found out, why were they here? The voices got louder, ringing around the flat.

“Open up, James, we know you’re in there. Come on fella, don’t be daft.”

He pulled the sheets up, but the pounding continued and he realised with a chill that ran down his back and made his balls shrink, that there was no hiding from this. Throwing them off, and pitching the book and laptop into his bag, he crept into the hallway, then knelt, the shotgun braced against his shoulder. He sighted at the middle of the door, as it shook under the strains of the hammering.

“James, you need to let us in. This isn’t too serious, but it could become so, stop being stupid, we can look after you.”

He spat, shaking his head, unaware of the thin laugh that escaped his lips. They wouldn’t protect him, not in a million years, not after what he’d done. He lined up and took the shot. The shotgun slammed into his shoulder, throwing him backwards and making him shout with the pain. The noise was deafening as the front door exploded. He heard shouts from the other side of it, someone screaming and others yelling ‘christ’ and ‘what the fuck was that.’ Then the same voice cut through the hollering.

“He’s got a shotgun. Sam, call an ambulance, then get armed response. The rest of you, get away from the door.”

There was a pause.

“I don’t know why you did that, or where you got the shotgun from, James, but it was a really stupid thing to do. Assaulting a prisoner doesn’t look good, but we could have claimed self-defence, or bloody anything really, what do expect us to do now?”

His shrunken balls tried to climb up into his body as the sweat broke over his forehead. Assaulting a prisoner? Then he remembered the mace, and the drunk with the poncey voice. He stared down at the shotgun, then back out into the hallway. He could see nothing beyond the remains of his door, his fellow policemen vanished and waiting for the big boys with guns. They’d shoot him, they’d actually shoot him.

“Wait, guys, I’m coming out, I’ve put the gun down.”

He placed it on the floor, watching as his hands shook. Then he turned the handle, and pushed the frame full of splintered wood out and stepped through. They came for him and he went face down on the floor, one knee in his back and another resting on his neck. The floor was covered in blood and all could smell was the rich scent of iron. He could hear someone whimpering, then he was dragged out and shoved in the car.

He was sharing a cell. He’d always felt big, but the other guy was huge, six six maybe, and covered in muscle. As the gate slid shut behind him, he stood motionless, working on keeping his knees still and his face calm. His cell mate took the two steps it took to cross the space between them and smiled down at him.

“I heard you’re a copper. That right?”

The smile widened.

Next installment, Tuesday 23rd July