A Song for the Dying. Stuart MacBride

And all plans to stay upright disappeared in a wave of raw throat-tearing agony.

      Like being shot all over again.

      My right leg gave way. The granite-coloured floor rushed up to greet me.

      Curl up. Make a ball of arms and legs, protect the vital organs, cover the head …

      Feet and fists battered into my thighs, arms, and back. Kicking, punching, stomping.

      And then, darkness.

      …

      ‘… in’t de … with …?’

      ‘… bloody n … se, f …’

      …

      ‘… n, he’s coming roun …’

      A sharp jolt to my cheek.

      Blink.

      Blink.

      Cough … It was like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my ribs, and every jagged heave from my lungs just made it worse.

      O’Neil stood over me, grinning down with his blood-smeared face, nose skewed off to the left. Voice all bunged up, like he was doing an advert for decongestant. ‘Wakey-wakey, princess. Bet you thought you’d never see me again, eh?’

      Taylor had a mobile phone to his ear, nodding while he explored the gaps in his teeth with his tongue. ‘Yeah, I’ll put you on thpeakerphone.’

      He pressed something on the screen, then held the thing out towards me.

      Fancy new phone. Definitely not allowed in prison.

      The screen flickered, going from washed-out brightness to a close-up of someone’s face, the features all blurry. Then whoever it was moved back and the whole thing slithered into focus.

      Mrs Kerrigan. Her brown hair was piled up in a loose bun on top of her head, the roots showing streaks of grey. A pinched face, with bright red lips and sharp little teeth. A crucifix floating in her cleavage. She pulled on a pair of glasses and smiled. ‘Ah, Mr Henderson … Or should I be calling yez, Prisoner Henderson now?’

      I opened my mouth, but O’Neil placed his right foot on top of mine and pressed. Shards of burning glass dug into the skin, turning the words into a high-pitched hiss between clenched teeth.

      ‘Here’s how this works. Mr Taylor and Mr O’Neil here will be payin’ yez a little visit every now and then, and batterin’ the livin’ shite out of ye. And every time yez are coming up for review – ye know, when they’re thinkin’ of lettin’ yer sorry arse back out on the streets? Every time that happens they’re goin’ to give ye another doing and tell everyone ye’re the one who started it.’

      O’Neil’s grin got wider, a dribble of bloody spittle snaking out from the corner of his ruined mouth. ‘Every time.’

      ‘This is what ye get for sticking a gun in my face, ye wee gobshite. Yez’re now my pet project, I’m going to screw with ye till I get bored of it, and then I’m goin’ to have ye killed.’ She leaned forward, out of focus again, till her red mouth filled the screen. ‘But don’t worry, I don’t bore that easy. I plan on screwin’ with ye for years.’

Eighteen Months Later

       3

      ‘Sadly, we continue to see a deplorable level of violence perpetrated by Mr Henderson.’ Dr Altringham rapped on the table with his knuckles, as if it was a coffin lid. He blew the floppy grey fringe out of his eyes. Adjusted his glasses. ‘I really can’t recommend release at this date. He represents a clear and continued danger to the general public.’

      Twenty minutes of this and I still hadn’t climbed out of my seat, limped over to where he was sitting, and battered his brains out with my cane. Which was pretty good going, given how ‘dangerous’ I was. Perhaps it was Officer Barbara Crawford’s calming influence? She stood at my right shoulder, looming over me in my orange plastic chair, her thick knot of keys an inch from my ear.

      Babs was built like a fridge freezer, tattoos sticking out from the sleeves of her shirt, wrapping around her wrists and onto the backs of her meaty hands. Barbed wire, flames. ‘FAITH’ on one set of knuckles, ‘HOPE’ on the other. Her short hair stood out from her head in tiny grey spikes, dyed blonde at the tips. Very trendy.

      They’d done their usual and arranged the furniture so the big table faced a single chair in the middle of the room. Me and Babs on this side, everyone else on the other. Two psychiatrists; one threadbare social worker with big square glasses; and the Deputy Governor, dressed as if she was on her way to a funeral. All talking about me as if I wasn’t even there. Could’ve stayed in my cell and saved myself the aggro.

      We all knew where this was going anyway: release denied.

      I leaned forward in my chair, ribs creaking from yesterday’s beating. Every time, regular as clockwork. The only thing that changed was the cast and crew. O’Neil got himself shanked in the showers four months ago. Taylor got released after serving half his term. Then it was two different Neanderthal bastards ambushing me in the corridors and delivering Mrs Kerrigan’s ‘messages’. And two more after them.

      Didn’t matter what I did, I always ended up back here, bruised and battered.

      Release denied.

      Even managed to track down the guy who replaced O’Neil. Caught him on his own in the prison laundry. Broke both his arms, left leg, dislocated every finger he had, and his jaw. Mrs Kerrigan just got someone else to take his place. And I got an extra, unscheduled, arse kicking.

      The Deputy Governor and the psychologists could hold all the review meetings they liked, the only way I was getting out of this place was in a body-bag.

      I closed my eyes. Let it burn.

      Never getting out of here.

      The walking cane was cold between my fingers.

      Should’ve killed Mrs Kerrigan when I had the chance. Wrapped my hands around her throat and throttled the life right out of her. Eyes popping from the sockets, tongue swollen and black, hands scrabbling against mine while I squeezed and squeezed. Chest heaving on air that wasn’t there …

      But no. Couldn’t do that, could I? Had to play the good guy. The bloody idiot.

      And what did that get me? Stuck in here till she got bored and had someone slit my throat. Or stab me in the kidneys with a home-made chib, sharpened on a cell wall and smeared with shit for a nice infected wound. Assuming I survived the blood loss.

      No more stupid review meetings, just a trip to the infirmary, then on to the mortuary.

      At least I wouldn’t have to sit here, listening to Altringham’s lies. Telling everyone how violent and dangerous I was …

      I ran my fingers up the cane till they got to the handle. Tightened my grip. Pulled my shoulders back.

      Might as well live down to his expectations and remodel his smug lying face a bit. Could do some serious damage before they dragged me off. Had nothing to lose anyway. And at least I’d get the satisfaction of—

      Babs’s hand landed on my shoulder, her voice barely loud enough to count as a whisper. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

      Fair enough.

      I let my shoulders slump again.

      Dr Alice McDonald – psychiatrist number two – held up her hand. ‘Now hold on a minute: the murder charge was dismissed.’ Her curly brown hair made a loose ponytail at the back of her head, a few stray wisps breaking free to glow in the overhead lights. Pale-lilac shirt cuffs poked out