The End of Alice by Homes A. M

Author:Homes, A. M. [Homes, A. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, Mystery, Fiction, Crime, Adult, General, Horror, Contemporary
ISBN: 9781847087935
Goodreads: 17232895
Publisher: Granta Books
Published: 1996-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

Random swearing in the hall. Things overheard.

“Walk me down. Walk me down. Why my woman always walk me down? Bitch, whore, fucking cunt. Why you look at me like that? Oh, the humanity. What for lunch?”

“You can’t run and you can’t hide, where you gonna go, death row? Ha, ha, ha, ha.”

• • •

Prison. Bells. Fourth of July. The pyrotechnic plot. Rumor swirls, the rooster crows, something is up, word is passed down, around, we are due for a visitation; a reward or a shakedown? Nervous with anticipation, the men surreptitiously do a late-spring cleaning, disposing of all illicit stock. When the rising timbre, the tidal wave’s roar, the fiery flush of industrial-strength toilets becomes so violent, so self-determined as to threaten the septic system, an investigation is instigated. The men, well rehearsed, claim the culprit is something served for dinner the night before, if not the fish sticks, then the tartar sauce. The doctor—the man of my so recent acquaintance—is called, and we are ordered to bare our butts, bend over at the cell door and let his proxy’s latex fingers slip us bullets to bind. But as soon as they are gone, the tiny torpedoes of Compazine are fired out the ass, medicating only the toilet water. You can lock us up, but you can’t keep us down.

Due to the overload, the water is shut off for several hours. At 4 P.M. we are given the word that despite the surprising epidemic of gastrointestinal upset, our nearly riot level of anxious activity, despite the stoned and sedated state of those men who were not quick enough to squirt their suppositories—the evening’s events will go on.

In a grand gesture of community relations, of seemingly selfless sacrifice, the denizens of the town nearby have switched the site of their planned pyrotechnics so that we might passively participate. This year they will fire their fanfare due south so that we behind the walls might have something to see. Snacks will be served. Attendance is required.

Eight P.M. Out of our cages and into the hallway. Men hesitant to leave the luxury of home are pulled from their cells by guards in riot gear. We are handcuffed and hobbled, arms and legs joined in giant ropes of chain. Twelve men form a line. The guards, even though they’re getting time and a half for holiday service, aren’t happy. Scared shitless is more like it—they’ve never taken us out at night. Like a conga line we move through the maze, threading through the tunnels and traps, the same old hallways painted battleship gray. With the chink-a-chink-a rhythm of so much chain, the tragic dance of the bound and tied, the shimmying shake of a tambourine, jingle bells, we wind down and around. Right to left, side to side, whatever you do you do it together, in concert with the man in front of you. The extension of the chain is short, and in order not to be pulled and pained, one has to learn the way.

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