Luke Delaney: The Network

As he looked over the balcony he saw about fifteen prisoners below, most in prisoners’ uniforms, but some like him, in their own clothes — those there on remand. He scanned them all, trying to see them in his peripheral vision instead of searching hard for them like a cop would. Some were watching TV, others reading newspapers and one group of five men sat at the central table playing cards. They behaved slightly differently from the others — a little louder and more at ease with their surroundings. Sitting in the middle of the group, saying less than the others, but somehow dominating them, was the man Sean was here to befriend — John Conway. Over six-foot-tall, slim and athletic looking with short blonde hair cut like Steve McQueen, his angular face gave him a harsh, threatening appearance.

Sean forgot his training, forgot not to be seen searching the faces of the men around him. His head was flooded with the images Chopra had shown him of young boys and girls being systematically abused. The ugly nakedness of the men contrasted grotesquely with the beauty of the strange animal masks they wore — exquisitely handmade and painted, feathers streaming from the peacock mask, long thin horns rising from the gazelle, a real fur mane for the lion — all leaping and rejoicing as they did unspeakable things. But the thing that had disturbed Sean most had been the acceptance of the children. There was no crying, no pleading for the abuse to stop, just a cold, lifeless performance of the terrible tasks they’d been given, even when they were told to do things to each other. Their occasional smiles when the adults praised them made the scenes on the film all the more nightmarish — as if for the children this had become normal.

Sean’s belly was a tight knot as he fought the desire to fly down the stairs and drag Conway to the nearest cell, gripping him by the back of the hair and drowning him in the small toilet. Conway lifted his head to look up directly at Sean and smiled — a small almost flirtatious smile, but threatening at the same time. Sean gave a slight nod and retreated back into his cell. He sat on the bottom bunk and listened to the sound of his heart punching inside his chest, fury and doubt a heady, intoxicating cocktail. Did Conway know something? And even if he didn’t, would Sean be able to control his anger or would he pour his bloody revenge onto Conway — the revenge his father had cheated him out of by choosing death instead? He closed his eyes and calmed his breathing, allowing the anger and hatred to sink back into the black water, a sense of who he was and what he was there to do returning. ‘Just get the job done, ‘he whispered to himself. ‘Just get the job done and get the fuck out of this hell-hole’. He inhaled deeply and lay down on the mattress, pushing Conway and his past from his mind and allowing thoughts of Kate in.

***

Three uneventful days later and the prison block was almost beginning to feel normal for Sean — the daily routine of up at six-thirty, a shower for those who wanted one, breakfast, TV and games, lunch, TV and games, dinner, TV and games, lock-down. He’d spoken briefly with some of the other inmates — all of whom swore they were innocent of crimes that ranged from minor sexual assaults to sexually motivated murder. He’d let it be known that he stood accused of sexually assaulting a child, although he’d been deliberately sparing with the details and had of course proclaimed his innocence. He knew it would only be a matter of time before the more influential inmates came calling, eager to vicariously re-live his crimes for their own gratification. All he had to do was bide his time and keep teasing the other inmates with his secrecy. If he approached Conway directly he would almost certainly be treated with mistrust, and infiltration would be all but impossible.

He’d walked from his cell to the shower area in his boxer-shorts, his towel over one shoulder and wash-bag in hand, trying to ignore the looks of admiration some of the inmates gave him. His slim, muscular body not the norm in the block reserved for those on Rule Forty-Three. Two other men were already in the shower as he removed his shorts and hung them and the towel on a peg provided. He was careful not to make eye contact with either of them for fear of provoking a reaction, and stepped into the hot water, washing himself as quickly as he could without appearing to rush, using his body-wash just as sparingly as the other inmates, closing his eyes to rinse his face — a dangerous time for any prisoner, Rule Forty-Three or otherwise. When he opened them again the other two men in the shower had left, taking their towels and wash-bags with them before they’d had a chance to dry themselves. He sensed a presence behind him — watching him.

He spun round instinctively, betraying his anxiety and fear, adrenalin suddenly pumping into his body. Through the slight steam of the shower room he could see a tall, slim figure moving towards him, fair, naked skin marking him out from the dark, clothed figures that hung back as the spectre came close enough to be recognized — John Conway, drifting closer and closer. Sean slowly turned his back to the nightmare vision to hide the terror in his eyes, caused not by any fear of Conway, but by the horror of what he might do when he felt the touch of Conway’s hand on his own body.

The breathing too close behind him made him turn and try to head for the exit, but Conway’s hand gently pressed against Sean’s chest with just enough force to prevent his escape. Before he could think, his hand coiled around Conway’s wrist, ready to bend his arm up behind his back then take hold of Conway’s scalp and thrust his face repeatedly into the metal taps. Somehow he managed to stop himself, allowing his fingers to relax around the other man’s wrist.

‘Leaving so soon?’ Conway asked in an accent-less, soft, but seductive voice — the voice he used to reassure and persuade his young victims.

‘I’m all finished here,’ Sean told him, swallowing the bitterness in his mouth.

‘Are you sure?’ Conway persisted.

‘I’m sure.’

‘Shame,’ Conway snapped back, ‘because I’ve been watching you ever since you arrived and I could have sworn you’ve been watching me.’

What did he know?

‘No,’ Sean lied. ‘It’s just that I know you. I know who you are.’

‘And I know who you are,’ Conway countered. ‘I make it my business to know everybody in this happy little holiday home of ours.’

‘Then who am I?’ Sean asked, heart racing, the sound of blood torrents deafening in his own head.

‘Don’t you know who you are?’ Conway asked with a smile. ‘You’re Justin Cramer, aren’t you?’

‘I am,’ Sean answered, staring hard into Conway’s eyes, looking for some sign Conway might know who he really was. But his eyes were like a shark’s — lifeless. They betrayed nothing. ‘And you’re John Conway.’

‘So you know my name,’ Conway said with a shrug. ‘Everybody in here knows who I am.’

‘But I know you from the outside,’ Sean continued, Conway’s hand still on his chest as his minders looked on through the steam, unable to hear their conversation above the sound of the shower. ‘I know you from The Network.’ He peeled Conway’s hand from his chest and waited for a reaction.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Conway answered with a smile. ‘I’ve never heard of any Network.’

‘My Network key is The Unicorn — check it out, and when you come to my cell later, I’ll have something for you — to see you through for a while.’

‘And what would that be?’ Conway asked, his lips swelling with excitement, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, but also anticipation.

‘You’ll see,’ Sean promised as he pushed past him, Conway’s fingers curling around his bicep to stop him.