2020-04-27 - spike - Trapped again Part eighteen

Author: spike
Title: Trapped again. Part eighteen.
Date: 27 April 2020

The practice went swimmingly but had to end when the hall informed him it was gym time. Another good workout, all four of them impressed Ditton and then… It’d been a full day, so Eric retired to his cell to continue his education.

A chat with Philip showed he was continuing to recover, again, cut short by the requirement to eat and Eric was just tucking into his dessert and reviewing the entertainments when a face popped up.

Eric grinned at Greuder. “Cell, anyone else who’s registered for flute grade one, add them to this conversation if they request contact.”

“Affirmative.”

“It’s that easy?”

“Yep. Didn’t take much to work out. I’ve seen tech like this before, much less advanced in fact, so I figured it should be possible. All I had to do was ask. Cell, select telop, entertainments and list.” He chuckled… There were a few episodes up, of both Taskmaster and Doctor Who.

“What did you mean? Much less advanced than what?”

“I’ll get to that once everyone else is on screen. Mine is… a pretty unique story, at least as far as this world’s concerned.”

“Wait, what? World?”

“Just… wait for now, they’ll finish their desserts soon enough.”

“What’s that you’re eating?”

“Apple and blackberry crumble.”

“You… But you’ve not even been here… How in all…”

“I’ve got the lot, six locks so far, unless I’ve lost count.”

“Six!?”

“The governor knows my story, Grueder. He knows I don’t deserve to be black. Barely even deserve to be here in the first place. I’ll tell you a lot of it bu”

Williamson appeared. He looked at the screen in confusion. “How can he be”

“Before you ask, they might not advertise the feature but the screens can open chat between ten people at once. We’re just waiting for Cerol.”

A minute later, the screen split again, as Cerol’s face appeared.

Eric smiled. “Good. Before I say anything more… I want it understood, what we say does not leave this chat. It doesn’t leave the cells. OK?”

They nodded.

“First, have you ever heard of timeline theory?”

The men shook their heads, their eyes snapping to Cerol’s window. “You have?”

“He told me, already.”

Eric sighed. “Right… The theory goes like this… Every action with more than one consequence creates a universe, a whole new region of space-time… Every moment in time, these universes with alternative outcomes spread out like a tree forming another continuum in higher dimensions. Everything that can possibly happen, does. Every moment in history where something could change, it did, it exists.”

Williamson shrugged. “I think I’ve heard of something like that. So what? It’s just science fiction.”

“It isn’t y’know. They’ve even cracked it in this world. They’ve figured out how to travel to them.”

“So, what’s different about them?”

Eric shrugged. “Everything you can think of that could have changed has an alternative. You didn’t lick that ice cream, instead, you reported your rival and he ended up in here in a darker shade than you’re in because of the coughing stunt. You didn’t sign up for flute. You never met me. You didn’t even take to the net with your pranks in the first place. Same goes for all of you, all of history and I know it’s true because, in this reality, I was never even born. I never existed in the first place.”

“You don’t exist? But we’re bloody talking to you!”

“I can move to these other worlds and I had technology that allowed me to travel extreme distances. My job back home? Lance-corporal in the British army.”

Greuder shook his head in disbelief. “But we’ve not had”

“Not had an army in over a century, I know. History. I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. Worlds still stuck in the seventeenth century… It’s still 2020 there, but they just didn’t progress. Held back by religious fanatics. A world where the entire populace was duped into voting in a bunch of racist bigots. We got the truth out and ousted them. The world I choose to live in still uses the horse as a primary means of locomotion. Very little tech there apart from the computers I stole.”

“Seriously? You sound unhinged!”

Eric chuckled. “Watch this… Computer, four-way split on the screen. On the new screen, show the first episode of Taskmaster. What you’re about to see… A television programme from the world I was born in. Not one of the people you’re about to see exists. All well known there, though.”

“Television?”

“You call it teleopsis or telop, we call it television or TV. Just… watch…”

Eric watched them as much as the programme. They stared at it, rapt. Then a task to draw a horse while mounted on another horse. All three of them stared, mouths agape.

Williamson pointed. “Robots? Those have to be robots!”

“No, they’re genuine horses. I own a horse. I ride him regularly back home. It’s how I get about. Rode all the way from Blandford to Sutton Coldfield and then, after a couple of days rest, up past Stoke-on-Trent on Satan.”

“How long did that take!?”

“About a week in total.”

“But it only takes a few hours!”

“And how much do you see, going that fast? I’ve been on the maglev. I’ve seen a hell of a lot more of the country on horseback than anyone can, sitting in a maglev carriage. Life’s a lot more relaxed, a lot slower. Frankly, the idea of living out there in this world…” Eric shook his head. “Absolute nightmare, for me at least. I’m better off in ‘ere.”

“So, you’re stuck? Even if you do get out?”

“Hope not. I should still have the tech I used to get here. Everything taken should be returned to me. I’ve got no intention of spending the rest of my life in this world if I get out. I’ve got a life back there. While I am here though, I intend to make the most of it. Could be years before I see the sky again.”

“But… you seem fine with it! It’s bloody prison, we’ll not see freedom again for… I might…” Greuder sighed. “I might never see it again. How come you can handle it?”

Eric shrugged. “I suppose I’ve just… got used to it. This isn’t my first prison. Certainly the most pleasant one, though. First one…” Eric shrugged off his tunic and turned his back. “Six months of slavery. Captured just after I discovered my little talent. I was fourteen. Compared to the others, this place is a bloody holiday camp. I might even come back if I get some time off and book in again.”

He turned to take his seat again. All three of them looked a little green.

“Don’t worry about my back. I know it looks a mess, but it healed years ago, no pain. Yes… Those are whip scars and all of them from when I was fourteen.” He prodded his tattoo. “And this is the name they forced on me that time. The first time. But when I escaped from there…”

“Shit! You said the E word!”

“What are they going to do? Drop another five years on me by forcing me to live five years longer? Black means life and until the retrial that’s what I’ve accepted. Life. Obviously don’t intend it to be that long but I know until then there’s no choice and even during that trial things might not go the way I want. When I escaped from there, I didn’t just leave it like that. I rescued those slaves. Every last one of them. Over a thousand men joined me in the founding of a village in a new world. That’s the world I call home now. Carts, horses, canals and steam engines.”

“What crime did you commit that time?”

“I was careless. Walked around a corner, group of soldiers, turned to run, wham. If I’d escaped using the other method, allowing myself to just drift home, I would’ve got away. My crime? I was English. Quite frankly, I’m glad I was enslaved. My old, pre-slave self… God. I’ve met him, a me who didn’t get that. Lazy, weak, puny wimpy little shit. I’ll stop off there on the way home and grab him. Beat some fitness into him the same way I am with you lot.”

“This is why you’re a quick learner, isn’t it?”

“I did say, I didn’t see a computer ‘til I was seven. We had them where I grew up, but they’re primitive compared to yours so I never gained a dependency. You’ve both proved you don’t need them, though.”

They nodded and grinned.

“You’ll find a few more of this. There’s also another TV series called Doctor Who about a time-travelling alien… Now that is sci-fi… I might be a time traveller, but across it rather than back… Going back in time's an incredibly bad idea. I have, once, by accident and it resulted in the death of a friend in the present.”

“Death? Or wiped from history? All that paradox stuff?”

“Death. There is no paradox. The structure of time means you can’t change anything in your world. All you do is create new ones where the change occurred and when those catch up to the present… Wham… We call it a time quake, and the effect can be devastating. First time it happened it demolished a few houses, second time, it knocked down half our church and pulverised a few gravestones in the cemetery. Turned them to dust.”

“Blood and shit!” Greuder stared, aghast. “Why are you… well…”

“Telling you this? Friends, remember? We’re working together. You all told me some of your life, now I’ve told you mine. Besides, I know how important stories are in prison and god have I got some to tell you. I can keep you entertained for months but right now, I suggest you get more practice in. I’ve got some reading to do.”
* * *
Another day, another workout. Another chance to torment Medeline, forcing her to put everything she had into her exercise followed by another flute lesson.

Finally they moved onto more advanced notation, the actual notes themselves rather than just their lengths and with the flutes in hand, they could attempt to play them as well as read them off the sheet music.

When Eric emerged from the class, this time, the guard outside wasn’t holding restraints. Instead, he held a clothing bundle, all black. Beside him, a bucket with a variety of bottles, brushes, cloths and a long pole poking out of it.

Eric walked up to him with a grin. “Take it these are my overalls, sir?”

He nodded. “And boots and dust mask for some reason. What’s the purpose of this stuff?”

Eric placed his hand on the first panel opposite the classroom. “I’m clearing out the workshops, sir. Or at least, tidying them up until I identify the one I’ll be using and clearing the contents into the others. Look.”

As the door slid open, both of them peered in. It was dark in there. “I… Didn’t think of that. I might need a torch or lantern.”

“A what?”

“Handheld light source?”

“Oh, no need for that. Just activate, the lights should come on.”

Eric nodded and waved his hand again. “Activate.”

The scene before them was one of utter disarray. Piles of boxes filled the room and a thick layer of dust covered everything. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and between some of the boxes too. The guard stepped back in shock.

“And you… You want to do this? It’s filthy!”

“That’s what the overalls and mask are for, sir. The boots are because I’ll be lugging about heavy things.”

The guard looked back in and stared, horror growing on his face.

Eric rolled his eyes. “Sir, the best way to get fit is to work, not use a gym. Trust me, I’ll be in my element in there. Next time you see it, you won’t recognise the place.”

“Very well… Put your slippers by the door outside so they don’t get any of that shit on them.”

“Yes, sir. What do I do with the overalls when I’m done.”

“Take them off, turn them inside out to keep the filth inside and take them to your cell.”

“But… Nothing’s allowed apart from what was in there on first activation!”

“They won’t be in there for long. Shove them into the laundry chute. Everything’s chipped so you’ll get the same the next time you’re here for more.”

“So, the laundry chute dumps all the stuff in the same place? It’s not classed as part of my cell?”

“It isn’t. You’re safe. I know what you’re worried about.”

“Thank you, sir. Could you hold this while I’m in there?” Eric handed him the flute. “Oh, and I’ll need some time to practice in between this and gym, sir. I can’t practice after the second lesson or lockdown, sir.”

The guard smiled. “Simple enough to arrange. Workshop, analyse this prisoner’s schedule. Insert time required for a shower and musical instrument practice before his second gym session.”

“Schedule updated.”

Eric collected the equipment, put the boots and mask on the floor, slid off his slippers and got into the overalls… When the doc called them overalls, he hadn’t been kidding. They even had sewn in socks, heavy gloves and a hood with goggles. They were genuinely over all, total head to toe coverage. He pulled up the hood but the guard pointed at the floor.

“Sir?”

“Dust mask on, then pull the hood down.”

Eric nodded and did so. He looked down at himself, felt around for a way to fasten it and looked to the guard again. “How do I… There’s no zip or buttons.”

“What’s a zip? You just tell it to fasten.”

“Really? Errr… Overalls, fasten.”

The front of the suit zipped up and the hood joined to the front of the suit. He felt his chest, looked down at himself again in shock. “God, that was weird.” There didn’t seem to be any sign the suit hadn’t been whole from the start, no seam, nothing.

“Weird? What is? It’s just an overall suit.”

“Where I’m from, they’re not this complete, sir.”

He shrugged. “These are standard issue everywhere. You want out, you just tell it to unfasten again. Simplicity itself. There is no other type of overall. The word just reflects the function. Complete protection from toxic environments.”

“Thank you, sir.” Eric stepped into the workshop and waved his hand. “Close.”

He flexed, he bent, he twisted. The suit hugged him tightly but seemed to release its grip when he moved. It was almost as if the cloth adapted to his position as if it was dynamic.

Move the boxes to make a path around the room, clean from top to bottom, he’d been at it for a while when he came across something useful, buried under a pile of boxes. Discarded shelving, by the looks of it. He pulled it all out from the pile, examined it and erected it against one of the walls.

“That should make box tidying easier.”

He’d completely cleaned the room and identified its purpose. It was one designated for metalwork, rather than wood. Every tool he identified was designed for the shaping, cutting, heating or forging of metal. He was about to start cataloguing the box contents when “Prisoner 50095223, return to your cell for a shower.” echoed around the room.

“Yes, sir.”
* * *
Eric buried himself in the routine, in his work. He didn’t keep track of the days, he just worked.

He’d completely tidied and catalogued two, was onto the third and just completing his post-workout shower. The restraints snapped open, he stepped out of the cubicle, dressed and made his way to room nine, retrieving the flute from the guard outside his cell as he went.

The lessons had progressed just as much as his tidying of the workshops and he and his other three friends could all not only produce a tune, but read it from the sheet music.

He swiped, stepped into the classroom and took his seat.

“What the shit!? Who the crap do you think you are? Coming into this class and sitting there?”

Eric’s gaze snapped to the man at the front. He looked around in confusion. Ditton wasn’t present.

“Err… Sir?”

“I asked you a question! What the shit gives you the right to sit there? A black?”

The new teacher was young. Probably not much older than Eric. His face was rapidly taking on the shade of a beetroot, his eyes blazed with fury.

“This is my seat, sir. This is the one Mr Ditton assigned to me. Where is he anyway?”

“I’ve studied his instructions. That seat is for the best in class!”

“That’s right, sir. I scored highest in the tests he assigned. I won’t deny…” he nodded at Cerol, Williamson and Greuder, also on the front row now, “they’re getting better than me at playing though. They get more time to practice.”

“A black?”

“I don’t see what difference the colour of my uniform makes, sir. Most of them probably only took the course to fill a little time before their release. I’m on this course for the rest of my life, sir. If anything it shows commitment and before you say anything, I knew what I was committing to when I signed up. I didn’t get trapped into it by mistake.”

“I refuse! I will not”

“It’s not your place to refuse, sir. I have the privilege to take self-improvement courses. I took it and used it and I’m one of the best in this class, sir! You don’t even know anything about me and you presume to label me just because of what I’m wearing? You, sir, have got a fucking nerve! At least look at my stats before you complain again!”

“I will not have you speak to me in this way!”

“Well, look at my stats before pointing the bloody finger then!”

He sighed. “Computer, the prisoner in position one. Statistics.”

The screen that popped up before him listed every crime Eric hadn’t committed, along with the ones he had, buried deep in the list.

Eric grinned. “See anything unusual, sir?”

“What… How… How can anyone do such… It’s… It’s disgusting! And you expect me to…”

Eric chuckled. “Cerol, maybe if you point out the bleedin’ obvious, he might see the light? Seems I’m not likely to get through to him, now.”

“My pleasure, Eric.” She clicked her fingers to get his attention. It took a while too, he was still staring in horror at the charge sheet.

“Sir!” A few more clicks “Yoohooo, sir.”

“What… errr… yes?”

“How capable were you at the age of four, sir?”

“What are you blathering about?”

“Do you think you’d have the strength to drag a fully grown thirty-year-old woman into an alleyway, rip off her clothing and force yourself onto her? What would you do to her then? Your cock’s only used for pissing until you reach puberty. True?”

“I see no relevance…”

“What about when you were six months old, sir? Did you have the manual dexterity or strength to wield a kitchen knife with such force you could penetrate someone’s rib cage?”

“I…”

“Look at forty-seven to forty-nine in the list. How could he perform those three crimes within minutes of each other? Theft and actual bodily harm in Manchester while at that very same moment, he was supposedly planting a bomb outside a Paddington computer store.”

“But… But that’s impossible!”

Eric glared at him. “Well look at the bloody charge sheet properly this time! Manchester, granted, that was me. Those are the only crimes I’m guilty of! So get stuffed about me not having a right to be here! And look at my fucking course progress while you’re at it!” Eric muttered under his breath. “God, what an idiot.”

He swiped, another screen appeared and he read the glowing reports Ditton had written.

“He…” The teacher gulped. “He says you’re almost ready for your recital!”

Eric grinned. “He does? Does that mean instant promotion to grade two?”

“Yes… Yes, it does! How can you be so far ahead of the rest of them?”

“Not just me, sir. I did say they,” Eric nodded to his right. “were getting better at it than me because they get more practice time. I know how to read and learn. I’ve been studying. Most of them haven’t.”

“Let’s see, shall we? Computer. Derringer’s flute solo number one in D major. First line. Play.”

It was a complex piece. Eric studied it for a minute, closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths and let the one two-three one of army drill rattle around in his head to get the timing right. He opened his eyes, locked onto the first bar, raised the flute and blew.

He hit a few bum notes, but, in his opinion at least, he did a bloody good job of it. As he played the final note he looked at the teacher.

His eyes were wide, he gulped. “But you’ve only been on this course for”

Eric raised his hand. “Sir, I don’t want to know. Prison rules state we are not permitted to know how much time things take, how long we’ve been doing things, how much we have left. I doubt anyone else in this room would thank you for even a hint of that either.”

“No time? They said something… And you say these three are better?”

“Yes, sir.”

For the first time, his attention switched to the other three on the front row. “Computer, move the screen so it’s placed before each on the first row for the duration of the first line of the score.” The screen moved so it hovered before Cerol. “Play.”

As the screen moved down the row, Eric’s eyes widened. They weren’t just better, they were bloody good. Cerol, not even one bum note, and the other two only stumbled a couple of times.

As they played, the teacher returned to Eric, leant over the desk and growled. “If you speak to me like that one more time, I’ll see you punished, understood?”

“Sorry, sir. But look at it from my point of view. I’ve put everything into this course and then to suddenly be told by a complete stranger that I don’t belong here…” Eric sighed. “How would you react, sir? And I’d get used to the idea of teaching blacks from now on, because if they’ve got the privilege and they decide to use it, you might find a few more taking self-improvement. I talked a few into it.”

“But they’re”

“They’re the only friends I could make here when I first arrived. The only ones who accepted me. I don’t care what they did outside. The regime for blacks is harsher, it’s for life with absolutely no hope of release and the punishments are a hell of a lot more severe than the greys. When I first stepped out of my cell every grey on the floor scattered at the sight of me. If a prisoner earns the right to take self-improvement, he should be allowed to take it! What’s the point of prison regulations if you flout them just because you’re a bit squeamish?”

His eyes widened. He sighed and nodded.

“You’re still new, aren’t you, sir? Where is Ditton, anyway?”

“He was called away. I’m his substitute. Yes, I’m new. Seems I may have a lot to get used to, teaching in prison. I wasn’t expecting to face a black on my first day. They didn’t even warn me.”

“They’re nowhere near as bad as they like to think they are, sir. Not in here, anyway. Certainly nothing to be scared of.”

“Scared? The sight of you was terrifying.”

“Remember the harsher punishments, sir. Every black in this place is more terrified of those than you are of them. Best behaviour all ‘round, sir. I’ve never seen a hint of trouble from the ones I talk to. I can’t say the same for the ones in the other blocks, of course, but I bet they’re the same.”

The teacher stepped back. His eyes widened as Williamson completed his melody.

“Seems I’ve just heard the cream of the crop. That was amazing considering the amount of… the… Let’s see how the rest of you do. Computer, move the screen to each of the others, same instructions.”

As the screen moved through the rest of the class, Eric began to realise just how crap they were. Even the second row, they stumbled, they were out of time, out of tune… By the time it got to the back they could barely string two notes together without taking another breath, throwing all concept of timing out of the window and none of the notes matched those on the staff. It was the worst sound he’d heard in his life.

Eric studied the teacher as this went on… Amazement turned to despair and by the last of them, to anger.

“What the shit was that? You all get the same amount of time to practice, and yet, for some reason, he…” his finger lanced out at Eric. “claims he has even less than you.” He turned his attention back to him. “Why?”

“Work, sir. For one thing, I assist the gym instructor and I’m currently cleaning and tidying the workshops, sir.”

“That shouldn’t take very long, and why are you put in charge of the robots?”

“No robots, sir. I’m doing it. I volunteered, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to find the right one, first of all. And I like putting my back into some work. Something useful.”

His gaze locked onto the back row. “And what’s your excuse?” His finger shot out, pointing at the worst of them. The one in the back corner. “You get more practice time than this man and yet you can’t even understand the bloody score!”

“But…”

“Computer, course progress for desk twenty-four.” he scanned the screen. “First test. Loss of two privileges for scoring eight percent. Eight percent! I’ve seen the tests Mr Ditton gave you! How you even scored a fraction of a question means he was being generous! Twenty questions means he should’ve only scored you five! Second test, fifteen percent, barely escaping the demerits he imposed. You were ordered to study! Why didn’t you?”

“But I read that book, sir! I couldn’t make head nor tail of it, sir!”

“You’ve had a lot of lessons in this course, each one of them should’ve prepared you for any book Mr Ditton thought worthy of your attention! You’re not even trying, are you?”

“I hate this. OK? I thought learning an instrument might be bosh! I thought it’d be fun! It’s as boring as shit. Sir!”

“Well, I’ve seen the exit requirements for this course. You do know what they are, don’t you?”

“Exit? There’s a way out?”

“For most of you, there are two ways out. For one of you, there isn’t even that. Completion of every grade up to and including grade twelve and entry into the prison orchestra. I understand what he meant about commitment now. He will never, for the rest of his life, have any escape from the flute even after completion of these courses.”

A gasp filled the room, though, it was louder at the back.

“But what about us? You said we do have an out!”

“Oh, you do. The day of your bloody release is your exit, but don’t think it’s even over then, because if you ever get sentenced to prison again, it’ll be straight back in here. Your only out from this is to get out of prison and stay out! You’re on this course for the remainder of your bloody sentence and judging by the shade you’re wearing that’s likely to be at least ten years so bloody well work from now on!”

“But it feels like I’ve been in that long already!”

Eric glanced over his shoulder. “When one of the blacks learned what year it was, he’d thought he’d been in ten years at that point. Turned out he’d only been in for five. I wouldn’t let what you feel to be the right time to be any measure of what time you’ve served really is. You’ll be wrong every time.”

“What? Why?”

“Because we don’t work off a twenty-four-hour clock! I don’t know how long the day we have is, or whether it’s shorter or longer but it’s not the same as the day outside. Your sense of time’s screwed up so badly, as a result, there’s no point in even mentioning it. That’s why talk of time’s discouraged.”

“Shit! So, I could be forced to do ten more years? Of this?”

“I knew what I was getting into when I signed up! I knew it was automatic enrolment onto all subsequent courses because I asked! If you’re too lazy to do even that, you deserve it. Williamson… Your opinion of this course before you asked for my help?”

Williamson chuckled. “Same as him. Hated it.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m getting good, I’m starting to love it. I’m looking forward to the orchestra. Hope I get that far before I get out.”

Eric stared at the ones at the back again. “I offered my help. You lot didn’t bother, did you? Those two did. As a result, we’re improving while you’re still stuck at the beginning and you will be for years unless you fucking well pull your heads out of your backsides and learn! I yelled at you on the third bloody lesson while we were queuing! You’re just as bad now as you were then!”

The teacher marched up to Williamson. “Is this true?”

“Yes, sir. He told us when he yelled at us in the queue that if anyone wanted help to contact him in his cell, sir. I did. Greuder got his advice in the gym during their workout. All four of us practice together every day, sir. One of the reasons we’re getting so good.”

“And how many of the rest of you practice together?” He paused, but none of them responded. “None of you? How many of you practice at all!?” He sighed. “Right. I understand the cells have sensors. I’ll ask a guard if there’s an instruction I can give to detect what you do in there. If there is and it detects anything but flute from now on I’ll bloody well delete every privilege you’ve got! Class dismissed!”

As the prisoners filed out of the classroom, Eric went to the flute rack. He put his in its place and made his way to the corridor.

“Unknown!”

Eric froze and turned. “Yes, sir?”

“Were you deliberately ignoring me? I ordered you to practice tonight.” The teacher retrieved the flute and held it out to him.

“Yes, sir, but I can’t, sir. It’s”

“I gave you a direct order! Take the flute.”

“Yes, sir. But no, sir. I can’t. I”

“Computer, position one, class one violation!”

“One lock deleted.”

“I warned you! You’ll do as you’re bloody well told! Take the flute!”

“Sir, I can’t. It’s not per”

“You refuse?! Computer, position one, class one violation. Make that two violations!”

“Two locks deleted.”

“I gave you a direct”

Eric looked around in a panic but there were still classmates watching. “I can’t take the bloo”

“If you refuse one more time, I’ll move onto bloody demerits! You will take the flute and you will practice in your cell!”

“Fine, I’ll take the fucking flute!” Eric snatched it and marched out of the room before he could issue any more. He rushed to the guard with his overalls, kicked off his slippers and pulled them on. Dust mask, hood up, boots on, he issued the fasten command and swiped the door.

Before he went in, he placed the flute beside his slippers.

“What’s up with you? You’re not normally miserable after one of those lessons.”

“Moron of a substitute teacher. I’ll tell you one thing, I am not following that fuckwit’s orders. The flute can stay there until tomorrow.” He nodded at it. “He tried to command me to practice in my bloody cell. I’d file a complaint against him if I knew how.”

“You know prisoners don’t get to complain, don’t you?”

“Not even when issued with impossible commands?”

“No, you just have to live with it. I’ll be off. No need for me to guard the door while you’re in there. You know what you’re doing. I’ve looked in the other two… You were right, I didn’t recognise the place. How many did you lose?”

“Three bloody locks!”

“Don’t worry, the work you did in there, I’ll make sure you get at least one back. In you go.”

“Thank you, sir.” Eric stepped inside and swiped the door. “Close.”

For the rest of the day, he catalogued, tidied, stacked and mopped the floor once everything was in place.

When the green time began he was almost done. Two more boxes and a final flourish with the mop, he swiped the door, stepped out and unfastened the suit, pulling it off in such a way it was inside out. Wrapping the boots in the overalls, it was only when he stepped back into his slippers he noticed the flute was gone.

He sighed. “Oh well, what do you expect in ‘ere. Suppose they’ll steal anything not nailed down given the opportunity. Nothing to do with me. Bet he’ll knock more locks off though, tomorrow.”

Out into the common area, up the stairs, he stood by his cell again until a guard came to unlock and turned to face it the moment he was inside.

The door slid shut and he placed his hand. “Activate and lock.”

There was a clatter behind him. He turned at the unusual sound and stared in horror as the flute rolled across the floor, pushed away from the wall by the emerging toilet.

He dropped the bundle he held and looked around in terror. “Oh fuck!” A slap on the door. “Unlock!”

“This cell will not be unlocked before inspection. Further requests will result in punishment.”

“No! No, you can’t! I… Laundry chute!” He snatched up the flute but it was too long, no matter what angle he tried to shove it in, it hit the back of the chute before half its length was in there. Tears began to well. “It can’t happen like this! I’ve done nothing… Conrad! Cell, contact doctor Conrad!”

He was frantic. He hadn’t cried since his brother, Baling, had died in the time quake but in all the panic, his emotions, normally kept under control, erupted.

By the time Conrad appeared, Eric was bawling like a baby.

“Unknown? Oh shit. Are you hurt?”

“Worse, doc. I’m fucked!”

“What do you”

Eric held up the flute.

“Oh shit! How could you be so…”

“It wasn’t me! I locked the door and heard it fall over! Someone planted it! It has to be that fuckwit of a teacher! He ordered me to practice tonight and when I refused he struck off three of my locks!”

“Ditton would never do that! He’s… How did he get in there? I thought you locked”

“It wasn’t Ditton, it was some moron on his first day, according to him. Even tried to refuse to teach me at the start cos I’m black. And I do lock the fucking door. It was locked when I got here! He must’ve got a guard to do it!”

“But that’s against every regulation in the book!”

“Well, how else did it get here? It had to be him!”

“Get rid of it!”

“How!? The door’s locked, the toilet’s only designed to take fluids and the holes are too small and it’s too long to shove down the laundry chute!”

“You have no choice. You’ll have to break it.”

“Break it? But”

“A few days without privileges or a life without them in block eight hell, which do you choose? I’ll back you up if necessary. I order you to break it!”

“Yes, sir!” Eric sniffled. “Thank you, sir.”

Eric wedged it in the corner of the room and kicked, resulting in a satisfying crunch. It didn’t feel like plastic breaking, it had a more robust sound. He picked up the now mangled instrument and studied the break.

“Err… Sir? I thought all the modern flutes were made of plastic.”

“Pretty much everything is, why?”

“Ditton said the only wooden flutes now were antiques…” He held up the flute again, now folded in half to show the break. “This one’s wood… Not sure which type apart from hardwood though.”

“Is there any kind of marking on it?”

He turned it around in his hand and squinted at a metal plate on the underside. “I… Ah, Archibald Grant, sir. It… Oh, my god… It says eighteen seventeen, sir. This thing must’ve been worth a fortune!”

“Computer, search. Flute manufacturers, maker’s mark, Archibald Grant. Year eighteen seventeen, order by price on the open market, lowest to highest.”

The doctor’s eyes widened. He began to chuckle. “Shit… Oh, shit this is a good one. He’s well and truly crapped on himself…”

“Sir?”

“The lowest price for one of those things according to this, ten thousand pounds. Reduced to firewood in one easy kick. The moron!”

“Fuuuuuuuuck! Sir, what about me! He’s already struck most of my privilege locks off! He’ll go ballistic when he finds out I destroyed it!”

“First off… Play ignorant. Shrug. It was only a prison flute. What are you so upset about. Stuff like that. The more he says, the more he’ll incriminate himself!”

“Sir?”

“Smuggling contraband into a prison is a criminal offence. Anything with a value of over around fifty pounds is considered contraband for the greys. It gets really serious if it’s a black. He smuggled in something to the value of over ten thousand! That’s incredibly serious. Not to mention attempted murder for you and all the other prison regulations he broke. I think you may find you’ll have more than just Medeline to torment in the gym soon.”

“Attempted murder?”

“They don’t live in block eight. The best you could say of them is they exist. It would’ve been the end of your life, whether you continued to live or not. You must realise that. Now do as you’re told, get… rid.”

Eric nodded and dropped the thing down the chute, then picked up his overalls and boots and dropped them down too.

He removed his tunic, wiped his eyes and blew his nose into it. He took a shuddering breath. “Thank you, sir. I haven’t been so terrified since my first night in slave shackles, sir. But that… That flute’s made my day, sir.”

The doctor nodded. “The shit’ll hit the fan tomorrow, but I wouldn’t worry. Anything he does to you can be undone.”

“Could you reinstate my locks, sir?”

The doctor nodded. “Computer, how many locks does prisoner 50095223 still have on his account?”

“Prisoner 50095223 has one privilege outstanding. He has not yet chosen which it will be.”

Eric stared at the doctor in shock. “He wiped me out completely?”

The doctor sighed. “It seems so… How did you earn the privilege though?”

“I suppose that must’ve been the guard, sir. He was impressed with what I’ve done with the workshops and said he’d add a lock. I suppose if I had nothing to protect, it would’ve just added a priv instead?”

“Yes, that must be the case. Computer, reinstate all privileges and locks as they were this time yesterday and add one more lock.”

“Confirmed.”

“Look on the bright side, Unknown. You get to enjoy his reaction tomorrow.”

Eric chuckled. “Thank you, sir. He’s prone to turn beet red when he gets angry. I imagine steam’ll shoot out of his ears when he finds out what happened. I’d love to know what was going through his head, dumping that thing on me.”

“I imagine you’ll find that out tomorrow.”