Dinsmoor Prison
Cardiff, Wales
September 2020
“God, you’re a chatty one.”
The third guard – presumably the leader in their merry band – let out a sigh of exasperation. Their captive hadn’t stopped his amusing diatribe since they’d crossed the border, and that had been an exhausting two and a half hours. Fucking Cardiff. Fucking traffic.
Metal against metal clanged as the second gate open and they descended farther into the prison. With each interchange, the windows became fewer, the ceiling lowered. More and more of the craggy rock exposed, the air growing thicker as they descended into the earth. Their boots, steel-toed, clipped against the limestone.
Lieutenant Hughes didn’t know who’d given the order to take and hold this chuckling man, but it had to come from on high. He knew better than to ask questions.
Intake had stripped the man of his duffel and most of his belongings, any jewelry dropped into a cotton sack along with his belt, a series of knives and other small weapons, and his phone. It wouldn’t matter, anyway – even equipped with a phone, it didn’t work this deep into the prison. The radio transmitter hummed in his pocket.
It wasn’t a cruel room – outfitted with a bed, a toilet, a functioning sink. It had no windows, and the only wall that wasn’t entirely stone faced out, into the empty hallway. Green light filtered through the space, lit only by a few high, barred windows at the end of the hallways. There were no other prisoners on the floor.
He opened the door and waited, clicked it shut again.
The order came to take him, to lock him securely, to feed him three proper meals each day. No visitors. The guards set to watch at the stairwells were not to speak to him. A moment passed, the lieutenant’s light blue eyes canvassing over the man. He didn’t look remotely dangerous.
And then he shrugged, dismissed his two guards, and left.
Black heels clicked against the stone, managing to not miss a beat amidst the divots that littered the walkways. A steady march of thicker boots followed, the queen flanked by a squadron of six soldiers. At each doorway, the guards tensed, unlocked, and stood aside to let them pass. Malle always smiled politely. She didn’t like making people uneasy.
Down the next floor. The prison was small, built centuries ago against the seawall, the Channel wrapping around the south walls. It was oblong in construction, never truly supporting a right angle, and the narrow stairs curved sharply. Down again.
Eventually, the door. No change in routine suggested her arrival, craggy water pooled in small, fingerling pockets in the hallway. Malle took a deep, slow breath as the door opened, the guard on the other side impassive, weathered. She gave him a small smile, anyway, and stepped through.
Outside of the cell, she stopped. Turned.
There were few people – there were no people – who made her blood boil like Alexander Lawrence. Whose head she’d like to see on a pike. Who had used her and made her feel truly small.
Her pencil skirt was navy and emerald plaid, her blouse silk and buttoned in pearls. The cloak around her shoulders was thick and black as midnight, paling only in comparison to her black heels. She didn’t wear a crown – that would be too much – but she wasn’t small, then.
Malle – the same who wore sundresses and played nurse – smiled in the strange, green light.
They were curious, all of them. Every new guard poked their head around to look at the prisoner that was not to be spoken to. To try and figure out who it was. Clearly they had not been informed who they had locked up. Alex didn’t fight them, he didn’t argue with them, he did as he was told, he replied with short polite answers.
He was the ideal prisoner.
Hours turned into days and Alex eventually grew restless. He wasn’t made to be kept in a small room. The pacing started after day four. He had memorised every crack and stone in the cell and as far as he could see outside the cell. He walked his way back out into the open in his mind, playing every step behind closed eyes.
She was good, he couldn’t deny that. Perhaps it was fear that kept her from coming, but perhaps it was just simply her wit and intelligence. The knowing that keeping him down here would bug him. That it would frustrate him. Alex did his best to remain a model prisoner, despite the feeling of being on edge in between four walls.
He lifted his head, his arms draped so nonchalantly over his knees. A glint in his eye flashed in recognition although she had changed so much since he had last seen her.
‘‘Of course,’‘ Alex stood up, taking the six large steps it took him to the bars. ‘‘I don’t forget many people.’‘ His fingers curled around the cold bars and he lifted a corner of his lips. How their roles had reversed. It was almost impossible not to laugh at the irony, but he behaved. Just about. ‘‘You look beautiful, Isolde Davies. Freedom looks well on you.’‘
