who think you count as gangsters. That’s made me the boss since I got to this piss-hole town, and it’ll make me boss again once this trial shit is done and they let me out of here. You understand, wise guy?”
“Absolutely, yes.”
“Yes who?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Good little redneck.”
Was this guy for real? Noah felt like he was facing some cartoon of a Mafiosi thug, or some weird exaggerated vision brought on by exhaustion and muddled memories of gangster films.
Then Blood Dog’s fist hit him in the gut, and as he puked up what little there was in his stomach he knew the guy was for real.
“Top bunk’s my bunk.” Blood Dog stepped back to avoid the vomit. He looked like he might be about to laugh. “Bottom bunk’s for my bikes.” He took the magazine, laid it carefully in the center of the bottom mattress, smoothing down the cover like he was straightening the sheets over a sleeping child. Noah hoped like hell that this guy had never been near a real child. “You can sleep there too, long as you don’t disturb my bikes.” Blood Dog turned back to glare at him. “Understand?”
Noah nodded, wiped a trail of puke from the side of his mouth. “Got it.”
“Good.” Blood Dog patted Noah’s cheek, then turned and swung himself up onto the top bunk. The whole frame creaked beneath him and among all the pain and the acidic taste of bile in his mouth another thought occurred to Noah – the bottom bunk might not be such a great space to sleep anyway. Could any bed frame hold up under the weight of Blood Dog? And if it gave in, what would happen to the guy underneath?
“What’s your name, wise guy?” Blood Dog asked, lying back with his hands beneath his head.
“Noah.”
“That’s a pussy name. I don’t like it. I’m gonna call you Pukey. You OK with that Pukey?”
“Yes,” Noah said. It wasn’t like he could stop this guy calling him whatever he wanted. He’d take the name Pixie Rainbow if it saved him from more beatings.
“Yes who?” Blood Dog growled.
“Yes, boss.”
“Good boy, Pukey.”
Noah sank down against the wall, staring out through the bars at what passed for open space in the hallway beyond.
This was why he hated people.
C HAPTER E IGHT
L IVING IN H OPE
B LOOD D OG WAS a snorer. And not just any snorer, but the kind of colossal, echoing snorer whose night time sounds shook the very walls of the cell. Noah wouldn’t have said it was the worst noise he’d heard all week – after all, there had been the thud of Burns’s club against his body, the clang of endless gates slamming shut behind him, and of course the noises Blood Dog made when he was actually awake. But any other week, maybe any other day, it would have been considered Noah’s worst noise.
He opened his eyes, then remembered why he had kept them closed. This cell might never get properly lit, but it somehow never got properly dark either. With his eyes open he could see the mattress above bulging under the weight of his cell mate, threatening to bust through the wire mesh that held him in place and crush Noah beneath three hundred pounds of writhing muscles and crude tattoos. To his right, the wall pressed in against him both visually and physically. He hadn’t dared move Blood Dog’s magazine for fear that the muscle mountain would wake up first and start the day by beating anyone who’d touched his precious bikes. That left Noah with half a mattress to sleep on, and the bigger half left him pressed up against the wall, which made him twitchy as all hell, but was better than risking rolling out of bed into a pile of his own puke.
Sleep was hard enough to find with all that was going on in his own room, but to top it all off the next cell held a screamer.
It hadn’t taken long, now that he had a second night to assess his surroundings, to work out that the pained screaming he’d heard came from more than one inmate. There was still the background shouting, the confused, incoherent yells
“Absolutely, yes.”
“Yes who?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Good little redneck.”
Was this guy for real? Noah felt like he was facing some cartoon of a Mafiosi thug, or some weird exaggerated vision brought on by exhaustion and muddled memories of gangster films.
Then Blood Dog’s fist hit him in the gut, and as he puked up what little there was in his stomach he knew the guy was for real.
“Top bunk’s my bunk.” Blood Dog stepped back to avoid the vomit. He looked like he might be about to laugh. “Bottom bunk’s for my bikes.” He took the magazine, laid it carefully in the center of the bottom mattress, smoothing down the cover like he was straightening the sheets over a sleeping child. Noah hoped like hell that this guy had never been near a real child. “You can sleep there too, long as you don’t disturb my bikes.” Blood Dog turned back to glare at him. “Understand?”
Noah nodded, wiped a trail of puke from the side of his mouth. “Got it.”
“Good.” Blood Dog patted Noah’s cheek, then turned and swung himself up onto the top bunk. The whole frame creaked beneath him and among all the pain and the acidic taste of bile in his mouth another thought occurred to Noah – the bottom bunk might not be such a great space to sleep anyway. Could any bed frame hold up under the weight of Blood Dog? And if it gave in, what would happen to the guy underneath?
“What’s your name, wise guy?” Blood Dog asked, lying back with his hands beneath his head.
“Noah.”
“That’s a pussy name. I don’t like it. I’m gonna call you Pukey. You OK with that Pukey?”
“Yes,” Noah said. It wasn’t like he could stop this guy calling him whatever he wanted. He’d take the name Pixie Rainbow if it saved him from more beatings.
“Yes who?” Blood Dog growled.
“Yes, boss.”
“Good boy, Pukey.”
Noah sank down against the wall, staring out through the bars at what passed for open space in the hallway beyond.
This was why he hated people.
C HAPTER E IGHT
L IVING IN H OPE
B LOOD D OG WAS a snorer. And not just any snorer, but the kind of colossal, echoing snorer whose night time sounds shook the very walls of the cell. Noah wouldn’t have said it was the worst noise he’d heard all week – after all, there had been the thud of Burns’s club against his body, the clang of endless gates slamming shut behind him, and of course the noises Blood Dog made when he was actually awake. But any other week, maybe any other day, it would have been considered Noah’s worst noise.
He opened his eyes, then remembered why he had kept them closed. This cell might never get properly lit, but it somehow never got properly dark either. With his eyes open he could see the mattress above bulging under the weight of his cell mate, threatening to bust through the wire mesh that held him in place and crush Noah beneath three hundred pounds of writhing muscles and crude tattoos. To his right, the wall pressed in against him both visually and physically. He hadn’t dared move Blood Dog’s magazine for fear that the muscle mountain would wake up first and start the day by beating anyone who’d touched his precious bikes. That left Noah with half a mattress to sleep on, and the bigger half left him pressed up against the wall, which made him twitchy as all hell, but was better than risking rolling out of bed into a pile of his own puke.
Sleep was hard enough to find with all that was going on in his own room, but to top it all off the next cell held a screamer.
It hadn’t taken long, now that he had a second night to assess his surroundings, to work out that the pained screaming he’d heard came from more than one inmate. There was still the background shouting, the confused, incoherent yells
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