Dean Foley closed his eyes. Tried to relax. Or relax as much as he ever could. Sentries were posted, screws paid off, no one could get to him. No one would dare. But still, the rational part of his brain was telling the other half that this would be the perfect opportunity to attack him. With his guard down. With everything down. The other half of his brain told him to chill. Enjoy it. He tried to listen to that side of his brain. But it didn’t really matter. Because at present, a completely different part of his anatomy was doing the thinking.
He opened his eyes, looked down. Kim was doing a grand job. Working his cock with her mouth and hand like a pro, head bobbing up and down like she was nodding to the beat of something only she could hear. She was half in, half out of her prison officer’s uniform, enough that she could pull it together if she needed to, but also enough for him to see her magnificent tits as she worked.
Or magnificent for in here. Maybe on the outside he wouldn’t look at her twice. A five or a six, probably. But in here everything changed. In here she was a ten. Prison did that to people.
He felt his legs stiffening, breathing becoming harder, harsher. He was coming. Kim sensed it too, bobbed, pulled quicker. Building him up until he couldn’t hold it anymore.
He came, gasping and grunting. Kim tried to pull away, get her face, her mouth out of shooting distance, but he was having none of it. He forced her head down onto his cock, pushed his body up towards her as he bucked and spasmed.
Eventually the wave passed and his body eased, moving his hand from her head. She fell backwards, red-faced, gasping for breath, chin and mouth wet. He looked down at her, slumped with her tits hanging out, anger, shame, self-loathing in her averted eyes. Christ, what did he see in her? Was she really the best he could do?
He knew the answer to that one.
She stood up, crossed to the sink, rinsed her mouth out, began to gather her uniform around her.
‘How’s Damon doing?’
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Did you get him into that special school?’
She nodded. ‘Thanks,’ she said, eyes not going anywhere near his. ‘For the money.’
He sniffed, sat up. Wiped himself off with a tissue, pulled his jeans back up. ‘When you next on?’
‘Got two days off. Back on Thursday.’
‘See you then.’
She crossed to the closed cell door, knocked. It was pushed inwards from the outside. She stepped over the threshold and was gone.
Foley stood up. Got his breath back, sniffed once more. ‘Baz.’
The door opened and a young man stepped inside. In another life he might have been good-looking but not in this one. His face looked like it had suffered severe punishment. His nose had been broken so many times it looked like a useless appendage. His skin was flecked with healed cuts and scars and there was a strange symmetry about his features, like one side was a perfect but unnatural mirror of the other. Despite the damage his once handsome features could still be glimpsed underneath. His face was a roadmap of where he had been, the underlying handsomeness the path not taken.
‘Close the door,’ said Foley, sitting down in a wooden chair.
The cell was well-equipped. A large screen TV in the corner, curtains at the window. The mattress and duvet were a long way from standard prison issue and there was framed artwork on the walls. It wasn’t very good art, all landscapes and sunsets, but it was original and it was all signed in the bottom right corner: D Foley.
Baz stood, waited.
‘Everything alright out there?’
‘Yes boss.’
‘No problems while she was in here?’
‘No boss.’
‘Good.’ Foley relaxed. But only slightly. Baz was the best right-hand man he’d ever had. But in prison everyone was vulnerable to attack. ‘How’s business?’
Baz crossed to the table the TV stood on, emptied his pockets. Grubby, creased, screwed-up bank notes fell out, a few coins. He straightened the notes out, piled up the coins. Foley looked across.
‘Hardly worth bothering. But every little helps. The next shipment should be in a couple of days. Keep it quiet, I don’t want anyone getting tipped off again. Hopefully we’ve scared off the opposition.’
Controlling the supply of drugs in a prison was like controlling the air they all breathed. Everybody wanted it so there was a demand, which was good. But nearly everybody had a way of getting it, which meant there was more than one method of supply, and that made Foley’s job even more difficult.
Supply was easy, especially with drones cutting out the hassle of the mules, no longer running the gauntlet of sniffer dogs and body searches, but as he knew, it meant anyone could do it. So if he was to hold on to his monopoly he had to do it the old-fashioned way. Put the fear of God into them. God being him. And Baz his representative who carried out the Lord’s work.
When he arrived he had let it be known that he was in charge. And if anyone didn’t like that they could challenge him. But he came inside with money and favours owing and challengers were few and doomed. Now it was well known that no drugs entered the prison without his say so. But that didn’t mean everyone stuck to that rule: he still had to get his foot soldiers to teach a lesson or two.
He looked at the pile of money. It was dwindling, no doubt. It always got like that before a new shipment came in. And then it was boom time again. The fact that the prison was privately run helped Foley immeasurably. The entry requirements for these officers were lower than state ones and they consequently attracted a lower quality of officer. Easier to manipulate, bribe. Corrupt.
It was no bother to have a hole cut in a security fence and send one of his runners to the perimeter to pick up packages droned and dropped there. The private officers didn’t have the training or the pride in their work. It was easy to get them to look the other way. Or just to have stuff droned right to the cell window. Even better.
Foley had contacts all the way up the North West to Manchester, which meant he was able to source and supply high quality product. Demands and tastes changed. He was happy to accommodate them. Where it would have been heroin and weed a few years ago, now it was spice, black mamba and the bastard daddy of them all, annihilation. Super strong synthetic cannabis, that didn’t just mellow you out, it sent the user on a psychotic trip. True escape for the mind, even if it was often difficult to come back from. They weren’t called zombie drugs for nothing.
Yeah, it fucked people up, but so what? Foley only cared about profits. And that was something he needed now, more than ever.
A knock on the door.
Both Foley and Baz turned. Foley stayed where he was but Baz moved to the side of the doorway, fists ready. They shared a look. Foley nodded.
‘Yeah?’ said Foley.
‘Someone to see you.’
‘Who?’
A pause. ‘Says his name’s Clive. Got something for you.’
Foley frowned. Did he know a Clive? He searched his memory. Clive . . .
The only Clive he knew was some greasy little scrote from Oldham.
Foley sighed. ‘Send him in.’
The door opened and a hunched little weasel of a man entered. ‘Hello Mr Foley,’ he said, hands wringing as if holding a cap in Dickensian times, ‘how are you?’
‘All the better for seeing you, Clive. What d’you want?’
Clive smiled, missing the sarcasm. Then he noticed Baz. Frowned, trying to look beyond the ruined face. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
Baz stared at him. Unnerved, Clive turned back to Foley.
‘I’ve . . . I’ve got something for you, Mr Foley. Something you’re going to like very much.’
‘What?’ A statement rather than a question.
‘Well. You’ll never guess who I’ve seen coming into this prison . . .’