Retribution

By Rosie Kydd

Retribution introduces Jason Fox, a privately educated, charismatic young man who is deeply troubled. He supplements his income through crime. He is serving a short prison sentence in one of England's oldest gaols. Because of overcrowding in the prison system he finds himself in the recently recommissioned cell block in the old victorian dungeons. Here Fox learns that he is Claircognizant when his cell block is terrorised by an entity determined to hunt down and destroy a serial rapist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rosie Kydd
• Release date: Jan 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301475797

Rosie Kydd

Hi folks, this is the bit about me then. Scary stuff. I work in the Criminal Justice System, but every other spare moment is dedicated to writing. Did I say every spare moment? I also love photography - landscape and wildlife. I volunteer for Durham Wildlife Trust. My motto is CARPEDIEM - a cliche for living I know but more difficult to follow than it would seem. I have two cats and a dog. I think I need to give up the paid employment to fit everything in. Happy reading.

Book preview

Retribution

A novel

By

Rosie Kydd

SMASWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Rosie Kydd on Smashwords

Copyright 2013 by Rosie Kydd

http://www.rosiekydd21.blogspot.com

This book is a work of fiction, names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any persons, either living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental

*****

"God’s mills grind slow,

But they grind woe"

William R. Alger

Oriental Poetry – Delayed Retribution

Retribution

Chapter 1

Jason Fox slunk towards the white van.

I could murder a fag he snarled at no one in particular. The group of sloping lethargic, lumbering men behind him took no notice. His expectations for the day hadn’t included this particular outcome. For one thing he hadn’t been prepared. Fucking magistrates.

Too right mate. A voice from the group behind agreed. Fox turned and noticed a bleached blonde youth. Ah got nine months for nowt

Back again Foxy? Harris, full time prison guard, part time wise crack smirked, Must be the grub he chuckled? The burly prison officer stood by the entrance to the van. Fox chewed over an appropriate response but thought better of it. He had been sentenced to twelve months for a fucking stupid shed burglary meaning he was now in the care of Her Majesty for the next few months and he wanted no shit. If he kept his nose clean though he could be back out in three months. He’d be tagged but at least he wouldn’t be supervised by the Probation Service.

Yeah, yeah, boss. But I didn’t do it

The screw flicked his head indicating to Fox to climb into the prison van. Yeah Foxy, you never do, you must be the unluckiest fucker around – you even managed to keep your tongue out of you’re cheek when you said that. He gestured towards the van entrance with an exaggerated flourish of his arm. Please make your self comfortable in my chariot and enjoy the ride.

The rest of the characters followed into the van taking seats in the tiny cells onboard the only view onto the outside world being through a tiny barred window. Fox nodded at the guy with the bleached blonde crop. He’d come across him on previous spells banged up, he couldn’t remember his name but he couldn’t help think what a bloody mess his head would look when the roots grew through - no bleach in the nick.

Fox settled onto the bench philosophically accepting the occupational hazard of his chosen profession. His mates outside would soon get him enough money in to enjoy all the comforts of his temporary accommodation.

Her Majesty’s Prison Dunholme may present with a majestic gothic exterior but certainly offered no suitable accommodation for Royalty. HMP Dunholme built in Victorian times still acted as a reminder of a time when attitudes towards criminals veered from the barbaric to the unforgivable. The structure remained a grim place lacking creature comforts harking back to time when gaol was designed to be a harsh deterrent; however, Fox would manage with the few facilities provided to meet a person’s basic human rights such as colour television, acceptable food, and education. It served its purpose.

The reception area started to fill as vans arrived from various surrounding courts.

What’s it this time Foxy? The burly reception screw grinned

Same old, same old. He sneered as he undressed ready for his holiday camp gear of sweat shirt and joggers. You know how it is; a bloke has got to make a living.

Here’s your kit. The reception prison officer handed him a small bag. Fox took charge of his institution cutlery, razor and toothpaste.

Clothes - sign here, the screw demanded as Fox handed over his clothes. £2.50 - sign here. That’s all Fox had in his pockets when he attended court. He handed it over; he would get it back on his discharge with a little bit extra as part of a discharge grant. He couldn’t even afford to rent the television in his cell; the screws would have to wait until he acquired more money.

You’re on the ‘Ones‘. The screw informed him.

What ye mean the ‘Ones‘? They were mothballed years ago

Tough Foxy - overcrowding and the like – get over it or don’t commit the crime. The Governor had the wing opened up again and had it furnished to the highest spec, you’ll be impressed.

Fox could easily imagine the spec. He’d been banged up in Dunholme several times during his criminal career and for as long as he could remember the ‘Ones’ had been out of commission. Bloody over crowding. If the magistrates had any sense, they would keep his sort in the community saying yes sir, no sir to fucking probation once a week. He’d be able to get on with the job in hand – a little more burglary. He wasn’t dangerous just a bit of a risk taker - a Dick Turpin of modern times - except he didn’t hold people up on the highway he just robbed those properties of plenty – only when no one was home you understand. The only difference between himself and Dick being that he preferred to keep the profits for himself. He had cased another joint just before the magistrates hearing, the place, newly vacated and riddled with copper piping was ripe for the picking. An opportunity missed due to this sentence. He sighed. Fuck knows how the ‘bizzies’ caught him for breaking and entering the shed.

He’d been minding his own business staggering back home from the local hostelry. He’d walked passed this same shed almost daily for years and never once thought about checking it out. It looked to him like a dilapidated garage, about that size anyway. Must have been the alcohol, but his curiosity had been piqued. The double doors hung on large rusty hinges and looked as if the metal was all that held the moss clad wooden panels together. Ivy crawled across the roof and trailed from the eaves like spindly fingers reaching out to ensnare any intruder. He couldn’t begin to guess what had caused him to jemmy the corroded lock, but it popped easily so worth a quick look.

The inside of the shed smelled of creosote and damp earth but despite its dilapidated state the interior had warmth. An ideal place for sleeping rough he thought. He would remember that in case of emergencies. The blackness seemed impenetrable but after a while his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Rusty tools hung on equally rusty nails hammered into the wooden struts around the walls of the shed. At first glance Fox couldn’t see anything worth taking. A tarpaulin sheet lay crumpled in the far corner. He felt his way tentatively through broken plant pots, old buckets, saws and other detritus that in the dark formed menacing silhouettes. His fingers reached for a loose corner of the tarpaulin, grey in the gloom, and he flicked it over with one powerful yank.

Shit.. He jumped back in shock as a mass of moving earth writhed in the darkness. Tentatively he leaned forward, sweat beading at his temples. He could just make out maggots, earthworms and slugs and probably other slithery things.

Nothing in this shit hole he quietly spat.

Just as he spoke, a voice spoke to him. What are you doing in here mate, the disembodied voice demanded as the beam from the man’s flashlight blinded him?

The police had collared him in the act. They’d hauled his sorry arse down to the station and charged him with breaking and entering. If the cops wanted to waste their time on a junk heap place like that shed then he’d use the opportunity to clean up their outstanding theft statistics so he coughed to several tic’s (taken into consideration) and everyone stayed happy. Once released from prison, the cops would keep off his back for a while so he could concentrate on business. Besides, he mused, he was ready for three square meals a day, shoot some pool with some of the lads he knew inside, no bills to pay – he just preferred not to do his time on the ‘Ones‘.

The only drawback of doing time had to be the lack of a shag. He was grateful that he didn’t fall into the category of a pretty boy so he wouldn’t have to fight off the bum boys. His own desires didn’t stretch to the young sweet ass that passed through, no matter how long he found himself banged up. His motto was abstinence. Abstinence made him feel powerful.

The ‘Ones’ looked more grim than he had expected – the basement wing – the dungeon. He’d watched daytime TV – after all, his kind of profession required him to work nightshifts only so he had plenty daylight hours to be educated by the property shows – and, as he’d learned, no one wanted basement flats in London despite all their luxuries, so why would anyone want a basement cell with a definite lack of luxuries?

Fox felt affronted and he made a mental note to himself, don’t break into properties when prisons are overcrowded. Damn, even burglary needed a business strategy these days. Bit like flying; you always get the better seats when you board a plane that is almost empty. He’d noticed just this quirk of flying when he’d popped over to Malaga to meet up with Noddy Rymer.

Noddy had done ok in the industry and bought himself a nice little villa from the proceeds, but he’d worked with the big boys and he now found himself stuck out in Spain because of an arrest warrant out for him. If he came back they’d probably end up on the ‘Ones’ together, but he suspected Noddy would have to serve many years longer. After all, he was wanted for armed robbery.

A narrow, stone arched passageway opened into a cavernous hall like area separated by a solid metal lockable prison gate. The stones of the hall ceiling arched above crouched over the association area like Harpies waiting to devour inmates. Along each wall of the wing were stone arched doorways in walls that seemed to be at least two foot thick. The heavy doors lurked in the shadows darkened further by the deep overhang of the arch.

Your cell Fox, get your stuff in. You got it to yourself for now …enjoy

Bloody hell, this violates my Human Rights. Fox cursed to no one special but hoped the screw heard him. The thick stone arch, low and claustrophobic opened into a cold damp space with a bed and table. He was convinced that the only difference between this space and the original Victorian cell was the sink to wash in and a flushing piss pot in the corner. The ancient stonework had been painted an insipid shade of beige an attempt to make the cell more hospitable. The decorators had failed miserably. A barred window clung high on the external wall and all he could see through the grime was a brick exterior wall.

His cell lurked below ground level.

Is this a fucking joke? Fox sniped at the screw.

Get in and sort yourself out, watch your language and get your arse to the hatch for five for tea.

Fox flung his prison issue toiletries onto the regulation bed. It ran through his mind that manipulating a period in the segregation unit would be better than this shit hole. He thought better of it. If he kicked off and ended up in the seg, he may enjoy some marginally better accommodation but his behaviour would prevent him being granted early release and he certainly didn’t want that. Fox threw himself onto the bed and hurled abuse at the grimy beige wall noticing the disfiguration by the graffiti from many a previous occupant

Chapter 2

Melanie Kahn slipped her key into the lock. Her feet ached and she longed to kick off her shoes and massage her toes. Inside, the tiny end terraced house only the light from the street lamp outside her front door pierced the darkness. Tim would be sound asleep in their bed and Keira would be asleep in her cot. A happy household.

Mel tiptoed into the kitchen and fumbled for the fridge door. The sudden glare from the internal light blinded her but her fingers soon gripped the carton she searched for. She sneakily raised the open corner and drank the cold soothing milk. Tim hated her doing this and his voice cut through her thoughts.

Dirty cow.. He would be telling her. Yuck. Tonight she felt too tired to care and besides, her belly hurt.

Mel acknowledged that she occasionally enjoyed her shifts at the White Cygnet ….. however tonight wasn’t one of those nights. Tonight had been busy. Weekends were always busy. This shift however seemed to have had more than its fair share of idiots and drunks. The weekend had drawn in supporters for a local derby between two of the area’s most competitive football teams. Rivalry was rife, and by the end of the night there seemed to be more glasses than the usual to wash and put away. Luckily though, there had been no fighting. Nevertheless, the extra business made her late leaving the pub, late home and particularly tired. Tim had made up the sofa bed for her so she wouldn’t disturb his sleep. He worked at the local supermarket but his salary wasn’t great and they needed the extra money she earned on weekends. Mel snorted. Little did Tim know, but the money would soon have to stretch a little further. Mel had nipped to the pharmacy just before work harbouring a niggling suspicion. The little blue line showing on the pregnancy test kit confirmed her worst