The Inheritance by Christopher Fulton

Author:Christopher Fulton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Trine Day
Published: 2018-09-24T19:46:09+00:00

– 29 –

Knocking At The Door

Prison Time

I was approached by the Middle Eastern detainee I had sat beside while talking to the lawyers. He had cropped grey hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and a British accent. “Hello, my name is Amir, nice to make your acquaintance. Christopher, isn’t it?”

Over the next week, Amir and I spoke often and developed a trust. He was a worldly man of means and had been given the best formal education. When we spoke, I felt I had stepped out of my surroundings; I wasn’t locked up in a nightmare. Amir didn’t belong here, like I didn’t belong here, and that helped me keep my sanity.

My cellmate Dietrich and I had also become friends; close quarters tend to make you friends or bitter enemies, and becoming enemies with a cellmate is very dangerous. Dietrich possessed a moral compass, and was easy to get along with. I can’t say we were friends in the traditional sense; we watched each other’s backs. It was strength over isolation.

One day, as Dietrich and I sat at one of the metal tables on the ground floor, a man in his fifties walked over to us and sat down. I had seen him before; I’d heard he was dangerous. He had a reputation as a psychopath’s psychopath; everyone feared him and kept their distance. He looked at Dietrich and said, “Take off,” with authority. Dietrich looked at me before he moved a muscle; I gave him a nod that said I would be alright, so he got up and left.

“What do you want?” I said.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“No.”

“They call me the Baker. I’m a professional problem solver; I take care of people for the right price.”

“You murder people,” I said, with neither malice nor acceptance.

“No, no, that’s too harsh,” he said with a smile. “I make them disappear, like magic, for a fee. I’m very good at it.”

“I’m sure you are, Mr. Baker, but I have no interest in your line of work.”

“Listen,” he said, his smile gone. “I know you’re smart; I need you to do me a favor.”

I didn’t want anything to do with him, but I thought in this place doing him a favor might not leave me in a bad position, whereas not doing him one might.

“What do you want from me?” I asked.

“Not much, I just want you to write a letter.”

“Ok? Can’t you write your own letter?”

“I want you to ask for a typewriter; if you ask they’ll give it to you, and I know you’ll use the words I need to get what I want.”

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll help you.” I would word it and type it, and then he would be indebted to me.

“Good,” he said, “it’s good to have friends here, and later when you get out…”

Jesus. This was the last man I wanted to see if I ever got out. “Look,” I said, “I’ll do this for you now, but that’s it.”

I put in a request for

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