Redemption by Will Jordan

followed the familiar route to the shower rooms. Even as broken down as she was, she could certainly take out one man with her bare hands, perhaps even use his weapon to kill a second, but the third would shoot her dead before she could draw down on him. They always came for her in threes.
    Bastard led the way, tracing the familiar route past the other solitary confinement cells. She had never made any effort to communicate with her fellow prisoners, but she was sometimes curious about who else inhabited this shithole with her. Were they good people or bad? Did they deserve to be here? Did anyone?
    Bastard unlocked the security door at the end of the block. It was a huge thing that probably weighed more than he did; the kind of door normally found on bunkers and pillboxes. Beyond the door they passed the cell control station for East Block. Another guard was manning the station, and gave her a leering stare as she passed.
    Passing through a second heavy door, they took a sharp turn right, heading down the main concourse that housed the general population. Sleeping three or four to a cell, these were the prisoners considered a little less dangerous, or who required less severe punishment than herself.
    It took about five seconds for the first inmate to notice her, then the shouting and abuse started. It seemed they spent a great deal of time thinking about what they would do to her if they were ever alone together, because she heard a new insult every time.
    She almost smiled, thinking about what would actually happen if they tried it. Still, at least she encouraged their creativity.
    Bastard took his time, letting everyone have a good look at her. She kept her eyes forward, showing no reaction to the disgusting epithets that were hurled her way, and carried on walking.
    Almost there.
    The shower room was a vast expanse of cracked tiles, mould, rusted pipework and dripping taps. The entire room could accommodate fifty prisoners at a time, but today she had the place to herself. She was always made to shower alone. She did everything alone.
    ‘Strip,’ Bastard ordered. His commands were always sharp and simple, because he was never sure how much Russian she understood. None of them did – she hadn’t uttered a word since arriving in Khatyrgan.
    With deliberate care, she pulled off her boots, trousers and sweat-stained shirt, finally removing the thin T-shirt beneath.
    Her clothes lying in a pile by her feet, she stood unashamedly naked before him.
    He took his time looking her over. He always did it, just because he could. She didn’t flinch or make any effort to cover herself – there was no point, and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
    At long last he pointed to the row of showers on the left side of the room. ‘Go. You have five minutes.’
    She masked a look of surprise. He was being unusually lenient. She had expected some kind of prank by now, but so far things had passed without incident. That made her nervous, but she could see nothing obviously out of place.
    Hesitating a moment, she approached the row he’d indicated, the cold wet tiles sending chills up her legs. Sometimes the water was lukewarm enough to be considered almost comfortable, other times it was freezing as if it had come straight from the prison’s cold water tanks. She’d always suspected the guards could somehow control the temperature of the flow.
    Bracing herself for a jet of cold water, she selected a tap at random and reached out to switch it on.
    Bang!
    Something leapt out from the tap with an audible crack, striking her with such force that she was thrown backward against the tiled wall opposite. She hit hard, slumping to the floor, her ears ringing and with bright blobs of light flashing before her eyes. She couldn’t move. Her entire body was paralysed, muscles locked tight as waves of pain flowed through her.
    Vaguely, through the fog in her mind, she became aware of laughter. Blinking and struggling to focus, she