The line of prisoners shuffled along the grey corridor and the sound of their footfalls echoed off the concrete walls. Jack knew three guards would be following closely behind them. At the end of the hall, several inmates turned left into the small television room and another dozen or so walked towards the library.
Jack always looked forward to this part of his week. Being trapped in this living hellhole meant there was never much else to look forward to. There were only two sessions he considered a pleasure, one being a solid two hours of television. Not that there was much variety to watch as the TV was either stuck on Channel Ten or nobody could figure out how to change it.
The other session Jack enjoyed was the weekly hour of rehabilitation therapy. It wasn’t actually the therapy that he welcomed, but the woman who conducted it. She was more masculine than he was, with very hairy arms, and could probably have broken his neck with a flick of her hand. But she used the same perfume Candice had, and that meant she smelt like the sweetest creature on earth.
The prisoners ambled towards the plastic lounges, each of them trying to appear cool as they jockeyed for a seat in the uncomfortable chairs. None of them showed any interest in the only single chair and Jack casually strolled towards it. He eased himself onto it and the chair groaned under his weight as he leant back to get comfortable. Being one of the longest-serving prisoners did have its benefits. Jack scratched his bald head. It was only after several years inside that he began to shave his hair off. At first it was hard to get used to feeling his bare scalp but bald was definitely easier. He thought it made him look mean, too. Over the years he’d seen his share of inmates come and go, and the ones who looked mean were pretty much left alone. Jack liked being left alone. He went out of his way to avoid trouble.
The television hung high on the wall, secured within a metal cage. At present it was showing reruns of The Simpsons. Although Jack could almost repeat the dialogue word for word, he continued to watch, allowing himself a brief escape. After ten or so minutes and several advertisements promising gadgets and enjoyment that were well beyond his grasp, the program switched to E! News.
The screen flicked to a full headshot of a blonde woman with extremely long eyelashes and brilliant red lipstick. She was talking into a fluffy microphone. Her voice was a delicious blend of sensuality and authority, and Jack imagined she was speaking to him. He focused on her pink tongue that danced about her mouth as she spoke.
“The sudden death of Jacques Delacroix was a shock to the world’s fashion industry, and the funeral here today has brought out a veritable who’s who of the financial and fashion-conscious elite. He left behind a young widow and her nine-year-old daughter. This scandalous marriage will no doubt continue its controversy even after his death. His passing has made Mrs Delacroix one of the richest women in France.”
The television screen changed to footage of a white coffin being carried along by six solemn pallbearers in white tuxedos. The red flowers on their jackets looked like bloodstains. The coffin was smothered in more of the same red flowers and, to Jack, it looked like a giant flesh wound.
The footage switched to a young girl with tears running down her pink cheeks, her small left hand loosely held by a woman totally clad in black. The camera panned up the woman’s arm and paused for a close-up of her face. The reporter continued, “Jacques Delacroix’s death has not been listed as suspicious. The coroner has called it a sad case of misadventure. Tiffany Delacroix has been—”
The name Tiffany jolted Jack to reality. He stood up and glared at the close-up face on the screen. His heart leapt to his throat. Her hair was now blonde, her lips were more plump, but the mole high up on her left cheek was still there. He’d have recognised her face anywhere.
“There she is! It’s her!” He pointed at the screen. “I don’t believe it. That’s the woman who stole the money.” Jack jumped up from his chair, grabbed at the television cage and forced his legs onto the wall for leverage.
A sudden rage swept over him. “Come here!” He had every intention of ripping the television from the wall and his veins bulged along his arms as he tugged on the cage.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the other prisoners jeering him on. His throat burned as he growled with anger. “Mother. Fucking. Bitch. You stole that money.” He was rattling the cage now and for a second or two it felt like it might break free.
Suddenly heavy hands were on his shoulders and waist, dragging him down. Jack clenched his teeth, determined to win. But it was no use. His fingers were yanked from the cage and he fell, hard.
“Cut it out, Jack.” It was Hank; his strong American accent was unmistakable. “We’ll sedate you.” They had him on his stomach now and his shoulder muscles burned as they wrenched his hands behind his back. Hank was a big bloke, and though Jack knew he had no hope of struggling against him, he damn well tried.
His head was forced to the cold concrete floor and a big, sweaty palm on his cheek held him there.
“But she’s the one who stole the money.” From the corner of his eye he saw a syringe. “NO!” He couldn’t believe how quickly they’d fetched the needle. He’d seen it done before, they needed two guards with two sets of keys to get into that compartment.
“Settle down, Jack. I don’t want to do this.”
He was pinned down. “Don’t tell me to settle down. Ten years I’ve been dreaming about that woman.”
Again he tried to move but couldn’t. Jack howled when the needle pierced his thigh. Every muscle screamed as he fought. But it was pointless. He was never going to be a match for Hank, let alone all three guards.
“Bastards, it’s not my fooltt, thayt bayitch…farck.” Jack heard his own slurred words. As the room wobbled, Jack vowed that from that day forward, he would dedicate his life to finding Tiffany and making her confess.
His vision blurred. Bile rose to his throat. He drifted into blackness.