Page 11 of The Fall Guy

The guy who led me here says, “Too right you do. I’m Max, and he’s Ernie.” He rests his arms on the back of the old man’s chair.

“My name is Kaden. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but honestly, I wish I wasn’t here in Eastward Prison.” I pull a tight smile, which is probably more of a scowl.

“It’s not so bad if you know the right people and learn the currency,” Ernie says, rubbing his fingers and thumb together.

“And the mashed potatoes are pretty good,” Max says in a monotone.

“Really?” I ask, wondering what that has to do with anything.

“No, not really, but we’re all surviving and waiting for our freedom days. Whether it’ll be heaven, hell, or back to life before prison.”

“Are either of you due to be released any time soon?” I ask. It must be nice to have something to look forward to. Knowing freedom is close has to help calm the mind.

They both say ‘no’ in unison making me lose my train of thought.

“Well, I guess I better try and make a good impression, supposing you’re all the family I have inside these walls.” It’s my bad attempt at another joke. Cyclones stick together, and I guess Ernie might be my new boss by default.

Max gives me a fist bump. He must like the sound of us being close, although I’m yet to understand what that will entail. I meet a few more of the guys, including the two standing outside before the softball teams, Rio, and the others return.

We’re forced into our cells before a search of our personal space is done. Our beds are left a mess, and my toothbrush is abandoned on the floor. When I take a step to retrieve it, Rio shakes his head, so I bite my lip and stay put.

Guards raid all the rooms until they find a homemade weapon. It’s a pencil carved and modified into a knife. A manwith a mean facial tattoo is led away. Whoever he wanted to use that weapon on got a lucky break. Although the guy is in prison, maybe he’ll be back. They can’t give him a different punishment than time on the inside.

Now the guards have what they are looking for, prison life returns to normal. It’s surreal how quickly the noise level and activities resume.

We tidy the mess before a whistle signals mealtime, and then make our way to the dining hall. I can smell the home-cooked food and follow the crowd.

My new friends watch me as I collect my tray. Moving along the line, I fill my meal compartments, including the lumpy mashed potatoes in the largest pocket. It looks pretty gross, but I don’t complain.

Once I’ve loaded my tray, I watch Rio take his meal to an empty table in the corner of the room. I hesitate. The Cyclones are expecting me to sit with them, but Rio’s alone. Would he care who I sat with? Fucking hell, this isn’t high school, so why am I hesitating? I take a beat too long, and a guy with a deep facial scar sits with Rio, making my decision easier.

All the men who sit with Max and Ernie have the Cyclone tattoo. They shovel in food while talking amongst themselves. Max makes a guy with black hair move down so I can sit next to him. In hindsight, I’m glad I belong somewhere.

“Don’t worry, you won’t end up like your bunkie. You’re no lame duck and we’re got your back,” Max says.

I glance at Rio. The guy sitting beside him helps himself to Rio’s burnt blueberry muffin. He takes a bite before setting it back down on Rio’s tray. My new cellmate doesn’t so much as glance at the big guy.

“Who is he?” I ask, gesturing to Scarface.

“Felix Broady. He’s part of the Nickle gang. Most members are on life sentences with no chance of parole. They’re bad news, so stay away.”

“How does Rio fit into all this?” A frown knits onto my face.

“Like I said, he’s a lame duck. Weak. He doesn’t fight back even when provoked. He’s been prison bait since the first day he arrived.”

Something doesn’t add up. The Rio I know is calm and collected. He’s calculating but definitely not a pushover. Why isn’t he standing up for himself? He’s capable of fighting back, or he wouldn’t have survived the night we met in the run-down sports centre.

“When was that?” I ask.

Rio isn’t forthcoming. He won’t want me to spill his secrets to Max. It’s better to keep what I’m thinking to myself. Earlier, Rio was stand-offish with me. If I can work out why it’ll help me unravel his truth.

He considers my question for a second. “About eight months ago.”

My eyes widen, but I don’t vocalise the dots that connect in my mind. It was about nine months ago when we had a run-in with the police. Did he get caught that night when everything went to shit?

I watch them interact for a few more seconds, but I turn away when the guy helps himself to his glass of water.

“How do I make money around here? I could use some moonshine and a joint.”

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