Street Life (Idol) by Rupert Thomas

Author:Rupert Thomas [Thomas, Rupert]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780753543115
Publisher: Ebury Publishing
Published: 2010-09-29T14:00:00+00:00

*

Paul stumbled forward into a large room, its bare walls painted the same bland, pale green as the rest of the place, with nowhere to sit. Men – there must have been about thirty of them – stood about, staring into space, or glaring savagely around them, or not lifting their eyes from the floor. All were dressed in the same uniform grey. Paul looked around their ranks, and wondered how many of them had been put through the initiation he’d just had. Could he tell from their faces? Could they tell from his? He felt as if the burning in his arsehole was somehow written all over him.

He couldn’t tell. There were too many other emotions written on those faces. Muscular, scowling thugs, all muscle, tattoos and scars, scanned the crowd like predators. Paul locked eyes with one of them, held the killing gaze for a second, then dropped it. He swallowed hard. For the first time, he felt scared.

Others in the room looked petrified. One, a slender, blond pretty-boy with big, round girl-eyes – almost certainly a batty-man – was sniffing, trying to stifle tears. Others looked furtive and scared. One or two just stared about, wired like space cadets, as if they didn’t quite know where they were.

One guy stood out. Not just because his face was cut and swollen. The bloke – he must have been in his late thirties – stood perfectly still. Beneath his bruises, his face was peaceful. Serene. He looked as if he was in fucking church.

They must have waited there for another hour and a half. The tension didn’t ease. Eventually the door opened again. Two new guards walked in. ‘All right,’ one barked. ‘Single file, turn to your left, follow the officers. Move.’

They did as they were told, some reluctantly, some numbly, along a corridor and through three sets of locked doors. Finally, they filed into a room with rows of seats, all bolted to the floor, facing a podium and a large TV screen. Guards – at least twenty – lined the walls. The prisoners sat, and a uniformed figure rose to address them.

‘Inmates,’ he said, ‘welcome to the Cairncrow Hilton. Some of you have been inside before; others are new to our strange little world. So, for the benefit of our newcomers, I’m going to run through some of our quaint customs. I am Senior Officer Craigie. This is D wing – your new home. I control this wing of the prison, which means I control you. The governing principle of this wing is, you obey me and my men to the letter, and we all get on OK. I am trusting you to do this, for all our benefits. If you betray that trust, my men and I will make you wish you were dead. It’s that simple.’

His accent was Scottish. He must have been in his late thirties, swarthy skin, his nose hawklike, his face deeply lined, a cruel smile and penetrating blue eyes. He looked like he worked out, too.

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