CHAPTER TWO
January bringsa raw greyness to the small city of Amontillado, the sorry place I call home, a mere smudge on the map famous for its sherry wine, casks of which are exported daily when it isn’t being consumed on street corners—the only way the citizens can ignore the debauchery and corruption that pollutes the cobbled streets.
The ferry chugs across the murky waters of the Maelstrom, the giant lake that forms the epicentre of Amontillado. Monroe Penitentiary—or The Pit, as it’s known locally—threatens from a distance, cresting the small island of dense rock.
The concrete building was originally an old military base that was converted into a prison fifty years ago when the crime rate in Amontillado was climbing higher than the walls behind which criminals could be contained. The desolate structure was the perfect location to banish the condemned, doused in chaotic history and lampooned on an island. What better place to dump the scum of the city? Not that the justice system here is anything to shout about. With the right name, the right tattoo, and the right amount of money, the law can be bought, bent, and bribed.
The sky, an impenetrable film of ashen clouds that smothers any chance of winter sunlight, mirrors my mood. The air feels charged as if a storm is brewing—and not only inside me.
I grip the handrail of the upper deck. The ferry bobs as the waves try to tell me to leave this place, turn around, and go back. Nothing good will come of this.
A man in a dark blue raincoat eyes the prison like it’s the last place he wants to be travelling towards. Noticing he’s armed with paperwork and a laptop bag, I guess that he’s a lawyer or solicitor making the dreadful journey to converse with the damned.
Despite my good sea legs, my stomach vaults.
A bell sounds as the ferry nears the dock, and the engines cut out.
There’s no backing out now.
I let go of the rail and edge towards the stairs.
The man in the blue raincoat registers me for the first time since we boarded ten minutes ago. “After you.” He motions with his free hand as we approach the narrow stairs, his polite gesture feeling more like he’s daring me to be the first one to step foot on this austere island.
Maybe he knows what awaits us once our feet hit the dry soil. His stark eyes and trembling hand suggest he’s been here many times and that it never gets any easier.
Taking a deep breath, I reach the bottom of the stairs, where a man in a dirty cap and stained hoodie winds a ridiculously thick rope around an iron post, securing the boat to the dock and us to this place.
“Watch your step,” he tells me as I tread onto the metal dock, my legs feeling strange as they acclimatise to the solid surface.
As I inch forwards, my gaze follows the stone steps that lead up to the cold building that appears as if it’s glaring down at me.
“Going my way?” The voice startles me as Blue Raincoat Guy arrives at my left, his bald head and wire-rimmed glasses looking too normal for this bleak venue.
“There’s only one place to go, isn’t there?”
“You’re not wrong.” He shakes his head, averting his gaze from the prison. “Your first time?”
“Is it that obvious?” I clutch my coat, wondering how the cold is penetrating my thick layers.
“I’ve never seen you before, and I think I would have noticed you.”
I glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice my disdain as he continues.
“I can show you the way. Shall we?” He nods at the steps.
It’s now or never.
Clouds collect, light rain spotting my face, the solitary jail with eyelike windows looming, the gated entrance like an open mouth ready to consume us.
There is nowhere else to go.
So, it’s now.
CHAPTER THREE
After being searched by hand,machine, monitor, and scanner, I wonder if they’ll perform a cavity search, but, to my relief, the iron-fisted prison guard seems content with knowing the contents of my bag, my bra, and my coat. I’m just relieved they can’t search my brain, because there’s no way they would let me in if they could glimpse my thoughts.
It’s no special treatment that I’ve received, as Blue Raincoat Guy has had the same reception, albeit by a male prison guard who wouldn’t look out of place in a Roman amphitheatre, his hands splattered with blood to the roar of a feisty crowd.
