《The Spire Saga [Isekai]》


 B1 C1 - The Suspect

    He had fought battles before. The nerves had always knotted his stomach in the anticipation for what was to come. The thrill. And this was a war, whether he knew it or not.


    Twenty-seven Monroe Street hunkered behind a thick blackberry bush and towering weeds that flourished in any space left unkempt by human hands. Here and there amongst the arching blades of grass were rusted cans and gardening tools, discarded like the weapons of a battlefield. Long grasses and towering weeds flourished about the house. An ancient lawnmower that had once been green was now no more than a forgotten Russian tank left to the sun¡¯s harsh embrace.


    The house itself was held together by mismatched sheets of wood nailed precariously together in a scattering, like a house after a hurricane. It was a confusion of conflicting colours and alternating shades, mixed with a hundred different types of mould. There were windows, but they were clouded with great cataracts of dirt. The door had once been racing green, but it had faded, and the brass handle had turned black.


    Kids did not trespass on this land, as though a stark warning had been posted telling them of the dangers that lay inside. This house had truly been forgotten, like a memory that had been locked away for the damage that it could do were it released.


    But like any repressed memory, at some point someone or something comes along and awakens it. There is always someone daring enough to throw stones at a resting leviathan.


    It was midday, sweat dripped from his brow in a slow but steady torrent. A warble of heat pranced on the bonnet. His eyes were fixed upon the house on Monroe Street. Every bone in his body told him it was wrong, everything right down to its crumbling foundations. Flood gates would open if he went in there, big damn flood gates.


    He took a final drag on his cigarette, the cherry glowed a vibrant red and then died away before he dabbed it in the ash tray. He held the smoke deep in his chest, savouring every last bit of it.


    ''All teams are in place - over,'' came the voice of Tom Saunders over the radio. Gin let the smoke out through his nostrils before he reached over and picked it up.


    ''Roger,'' was all he could manage. Gin took one last look at the house; his muscles had tensed in anticipation for what may lay inside. He rolled them. This was his job, what he woke up and breathed for, what he put up with the nightmares for. This was his purpose.


    ''All teams move in - over,'' he croaked into the radio as he hauled himself out of his blue Mondeo. He made his way toward the house, Tom appeared from across the street carrying a heavy iron ram. A yellow face smiled politely at the ram''s nose.


    ''You all set?'' asked Tom.


    ''As well as I can be.''


    Tom took the lead as Gin flicked out a metal truncheon. They both broke into a trot as they passed two brick pillars where a gate would have hung. Their feet crunched over ancient gravel and brushed through long grass that reached out trying to tangle itself around the two men''s ankles.


    Tom swung the ram backwards and allowed it to freeze there, filling the air with the anticipation before a coming storm, and threw it forward. Wood splintered and cracked, the door flew open. Shock waves rattled through the house, but the precariously held together building did not crumble.


    Gin grabbed hold of Tom''s broad shoulder and followed his partner through the tight turns of the house.


    ''Police!'' they both shouted. The same call was repeated by other officers who entered from all sides of the place.


    The ram hit the floor with a heavy thud, and Tom flicked a truncheon into being. As they entered the living room they halted and then spread themselves out.


    The lounge was pitch black, but for a stream of light that shone through the sullied windows. Dust danced in the beams of light, like horrified angels. Damp filled the air, the smell clawed at the lungs, making them tighten with revulsion.


    The rest of the officers converged on the lounge. In the centre of the room, illuminated by a single beam of light, was a sofa. A figure lay on it, sprawled out.


    A leather aviator jacket, red bra, poker-dot skirt, scarf and stained white shirt were twisted about the person, as though it was confused as to its gender and had dressed accordingly. On its feet were two perfectly polished loafers that shone in the window¡¯s yellow glow.


    ''What the fuck is that?'' asked one of the officers.


    ''A mess,'' said Gin. ''Pick it up.''


    Two officers took the figure by the arms and hauled it off the sofa. The sheer weight of an adult, uncooperative human forced them to slump to the floor in a clatter of uncontrollable limbs.


    ''Come on, mate,'' said one of the officers, as the pair struggled to get back to their feet and haul the person with them.


    Groggily the suspect¡¯s eyes opened, it groaned and began to slowly take in what was happening. The figure''s brown eyes locked onto Gin and Tom standing across the room, batons in hand. A wave of fear passed over its face.


    Then, as though a switch had been flipped, the face began to change; muscles relaxed while others contracted, creating a surge that travelled from one cheek to the other. It was as if the entire face was being re-wired.


    The figure''s body language had also been altered dramatically. Every angle, posture and movement spoke of only one thing: Rage.


    The two officers reeled back as they were shed like a great coat. The figure''s fatigue had dissolved away and now what stood before them was a man who was clearly prepared to take them on.


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    He turned on the group of officers across from Tom and Gin. They flinched, but held their ground, more stunned than afraid.


    A stocky lad came forward, his weapon held ready before him. The figure lunged in a single stride and came well within range to strike the young officer.


    As the truncheon came down the man flowed about the officer''s arm and at a critical moment, shifted his weight, breaking it.


    The sound bit into Gin''s heart and made his stomach clench.


    The young officer dropped to the floor, cradling his arm. His empty hand lay useless at the end.


    The suspect, as there was no doubt this was, tested the truncheon''s weight before flicking it about his wrist. In his hands, it seemed deadlier than a gun.


    ''Take him, all of you!'' Gin bellowed.


    Twelve men rushed forward, yet the odds still, somehow, seemed stacked against them. With a boxer''s deftness he avoided their clumsy attacks. With effortless skill the bat danced in his hands as he picked the men off, one by one. Cheek bones cracked, eye sockets popped and blood flowed freely. Standing among the fallen officers, the suspect was calm, his breathing slow. He was a predator amongst his prey.


    Yet more officers came at him. He punched, dodged, threw furniture and spun into kicks that sent his attackers flying across the room. But eventually, reality returned to this small forgotten house. The scales began to balance again, the furious angels dancing in the diffused daylight through the windows slowed. Instead of meeting his skill, the officers used their sheer weight of numbers to smother him.


    It was too much for the suspect and he let out a tortured cry of frustration at his physical failure. The sight Gin saw was that akin to bees defending their hive from an impervious hornet.


    Just as Gin believed that they had finally mastered him, the suspect roared and heaved at the pile of men on top of him. His head popped free and the tight mass of men began to slip and crumble. Desperate cries filled the room as the officers struggled to keep him contained. The suspect screwed up his face, a thick vein traced vertically down his forehead and his roar reverberated in all their hearts.


    Gin leaped on top of the scrum, his truncheon held high. He cried and brought the weapon down with all the force he could drive into that one movement. As the baton cracked over the suspect''s head, a thunderbolt seemed to pass through the mass of bodies as the tension snapped, sending them all collapsing to the floor.


    Shock and the resulting silence that filled the house froze everyone. No one took a breath; no one breached that barrier of silence. The broken room resembled a battlefield, bodies and ornaments scattered everywhere.


    The suspect, Shaun Osborne, lay unconscious on the floor. A trail of blood trickled from a gash in his forehead. About him the battered officers struggled to their feet, and began to look down on the body before them. They were tense, as though a lion lay there, sleeping, yet potentially dangerous all the same.


    ''I''m glad he''s chosen to exercise his right to silence,'' said Gin. He held a pair of handcuffs in his right hand and looked up, meeting Tom''s eyes. His partner let out a sigh.


    ...


    ''Shauny,'' a soft, feminine voice whispered. ''Shauny, it''s time to wake up now.'' It was the voice of his mother, the same voice that had encouraged him to sleep, and shushed his tears. ''Shh, little Shauny, my precious boy. Everything is going to be alright now.''


    But she had died five years ago. Blood had swirled in the bath water around her naked body, like crimson tendrils that had come to steal her away from him. Her vacant brown eyes stared into his. The mouth that had uttered such wonderful words to him, that had helped him win against his nightmares, slowly opened. A blood-soaked snake twisted from between those lips and dropped between her pale breasts, splashing into the water. It danced through the water towards him, curling left and right, its head held above the water, its eyes fixed on him. As it lunged, fangs lashing out at him, he screamed and woke up.


    He shot upright, lost his balance and fell to the tiled floor. His head was heavy and pain drummed into his skull with the rhythm of his pulse. Concussion spun the room about him and the light above stabbed harder at the tenderness of his brain.


    Something was wrong. He was familiar with the feeling of losing time, that disorientation and fear of what he may have done. This was different. Something was missing. Quickly, he realised what it was. That warm embrace that had let him sleep all these years was gone. He was forced to live again, to feel pain and suffering all over again - to hear that damned choir of voices in his head.


    Where had that comforting person who had soothed his hurts and told him he was not a freak gone? The one that had said: ''The world just does not understand you, Shaun. I do. I can stop your pain. Come, come closer, my boy, so that I may look into those beautiful brown eyes of yours.''


    Shaun had slept for a long time, longer than anyone ever should have done. He could remember the bed that had been presented to him. Thick black bed posts supported a sumptuous mattress and duvet. He had laid there, his mind lost in the folds of those wonderful sheets, in complete comfort and solitude. ''Rest,'' the man had said, ''I will deal with everything else.''


    Young Shaun looked about him, he was in a cell. He knew the smell, the usual single bunk and the tiny barred window near the ceiling. A toilet stood in the corner, a single roll of toilet paper sat on the seat. The walls were sanitary, plain, all but for a patch above his bunk. A string of red symbols had been painted across the wall in a perfect line. They were unlike anything he had seen before and to look at them twisted his stomach and made the pulsing pain only worse. As he looked closer at the alien runes he realised that they were drawn with blood, his blood. Shaun''s left wrist had been badly scratched and fresh blood still glistened in the cuts. The nails of his right hand were black with dried blood. Oh god, he thought, it''s all started again.


    He scrambled across the floor and grabbed the toilet roll. He''s left me, I can''t do this again. ''I wont!'' He studied the white toilet paper and began to tear huge pieces off and shoved them into the back of his throat. He gagged straight away. His mouth dried, but it didn''t stop him. He was frantic, tearing at the roll and slamming the pieces into his mouth, shredding his lips, dribbling blood down his front. Not again.


    He wretched and spluttered. He tried to take breath involuntarily, but the paper clogged his airway. His body jerked and writhed as it began to fight. He collapsed to the floor and, whether his mind wanted it or not, his body wasn''t going to give in easily. His face became purple, veins popped out of his forehead and his eyes became blood shot. The room spun and darkened and there he slowly began to fade away; his legs, now the only thing that twitched.


    From the hallway, the guard heard the commotion and burst into the cell. He fell to his knees, sliding some of the way to Shaun''s side. He took the young man by the neck and shoved his hand into his mouth, using two fingers he scooped the paper out of his throat.


    Shaun gasped and wretched at the air. ¡®No!¡¯ he croaked. ¡®No!¡¯ He slipped into unconsciousness in the guard¡¯s arms.


    ''Frank! Frank! For fuck sake, get in here!'' said the guard.


    Another guard sped down the hall and ran into the room. ''What the-'' he began.


    ''Just get the bloody nurse will you!'' As Frank sped back down the hallway calling for the nurse on his radio, the guard looked up at the runes on the wall and back down at the man in his lap. ''Haven''t you been busy?'' he said.


    Shaun slept that night on suicide watch. ''Watch that fucker like a hawk,'' Gin had said on the phone with the guard. ''I don''t even want him taking a piss without your say so. He''s going to be in prison for a long time. I''m going to make sure of it.''


    ...

 B1 C2 - Interview

    The interview room was dull with smoke-stained walls and little in the way of furniture. A metal table with a black plastic top was flanked by two steel chairs. A thick cloud of smoke hung above the table, slowly twisting and rolling under the fluorescent lights. One of the bulbs fluttered into life and, for a moment, looked as though it would stay lit, but it then went out with a faint ''ping''.


    Gin sipped at a plastic cup of coffee and took a drag on his cigarette. He rolled his tongue in his mouth before letting wisps of smoke out of his nostrils. Gin studied Osborne''s seemingly innocent demeanour; how his eyes were fixated on a speck of dirt on the tabletop. It made him sick to look at this man, but he should have been used to that feeling by now. His life had been full of sickness and disgust.


    He dabbed the cigarette butt in the ashtray and slammed his palm down against the table. Osborne jumped in his chair, breaking his focus. Gin was pleased by the surprise on the man¡¯s face.


    ''You''ve done terrible things, Mr. Osborne,¡¯ Gin said calmly. ''They lock people like you away for a long time and forget about you. That gives you plenty of time to think about what you''ve done and why you''re going to live the rest of your life in a solitary cell. And then, of course, there are the other prisoners. I''m sure they''ll take a particular interest in you for the crimes you committed, and I''m not talking about a picnic in the exercise yard.¡¯


    Osborne looked up, tears in his eyes. ''I... I don''t know what you''re talking about.'' His voice quivered and he started to sniff loudly.


    ''Don''t play stupid with me!'' Gin spat back. ''I''ve been in this game far too long for you to string a load of shit out in front of me. The evidence is stacked against you, and I know full well that you''re as guilty as the Devil. I''m going to bring you down, Mr Osborne.''


    Gin picked a file from his bag and slapped it onto the table. He opened it to reveal photos of child-victims in an array of sprawled positions and varying degrees of undress. Under the photos were their names. ''There are eight photos there. Eight children killed by your hand: Nancy Farquar, Thomas Whitmoore, William Grey, Samuel Dunn, Jessica Smith, Diana Aaronson, Claire White and Bobby Peterson. Every one of them had traces of your DNA on them; I can show you the evidence if you like. And this doesn''t include the thirteen other kids who are missing. Would you like me to read their names to you?''


    ''No!'' Osborne''s tears now fell freely down his cheeks. ''I don''t know what you''re talking about. I''ve never hurt anyone in my life. All I''ve ever done is help people.''


    Gin was close to blowing his top. Suddenly, the thought of picking Osborne up by his neck, throwing him against the wall, and strangling him ran through his mind like a freight train. He refocused his anger and formed it into a vicious verbal attack on Osborne. ''Your fingerprints were all over the bodies, we found fluids, hair and six of the murder weapons just laying around the shed you call a house. You know exactly what I''m talking about!''


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    ''I-I think that I w-would like to speak to a lawyer,'' Osborne stammered.


    ''A lawyer?'' Gin laughed so heavily his voice broke into a wheeze, he cocked his head skyward as he went on laughing. ''What would you want with one of those? They''ve got nothing left to save you with. You''ve been far too sloppy!''


    Once again, the fluorescent light flickered and popped out of existence. Gin looked up at it absentmindedly. When he looked back at Osborne, the man''s face was in the process of a metamorphosis. A wave of shifting muscles stripped away that innocent mask and began to shuffle like a deck of cards. When the change was complete the face was familiar, though rewired. The eyebrows were lower, darkening those brown pools, the skin over the nose was tighter and the mouth was as taught as a whip. The sight put a chill in Gin''s heart.


    ''They were so young, like tender new-born calves, I just couldn''t help myself. Seeing them run and play made me so excited, Detective. I just had to hunt them down.'' The voice was calculated, solid. It never faltered or flickered. It was perfection.


    Gin''s heart was struggling to escape from its tomb of bone, he was paralysed and he suddenly became aware of how cold his rose necklace was against his skin.


    ''This is what you want to hear, isn''t it? You seem to enjoy throwing these images around,'' he said stabbing at the file, '' but I can show you so much more. I could tell you of things that you never thought were possible. Come closer, Detective, let me look into those eyes of yours and I will tell you of my exploits.''


    He couldn''t. Gin''s fear left him almost catatonic.


    Osborne let out a chuckle that reverberated around the room and stabbed into Gin''s heart like a thorn. He leaned across the table, his dark eyes staring deeply into Gin''s. ''You have no idea what you''ve gotten yourself into. A storm is coming, and when it arrives I will be free and I will come for you.''


    Osborne¡¯s head dropped to his chest, his shoulders relaxed and the aura about him seemed to cool. When Osborne raised his head again, that innocent face had returned. ''I''d like a lawyer, please.''


    Gin¡¯s heart pounded so hard that it made him feel nauseous. His chest was tightening and saliva torrented into his mouth. He leapt to his feet and ran out of the door, racing down the hallway, crashing through colleagues and criminals alike. He sprinted to the gents and vomited into the porcelain toilet. His stomach heaved, trying to rid itself of the wrong that had invaded it. Eventually, he was reduced to dry heaving.


    ''Are you alright?'' Tom asked as he walked into the room.


    Gin spat into the toilet and wiped his mouth with paper. He took some time to calm himself, pushing the handle and watching the swirling water in the bowl. He opened the door and walked out of the cubicle. ''We need to get him checked over by a shrink.''


    ''I asked if you were alright.''


    Gin brushed passed Tom. ''Just do your job and get me a shrink.¡¯


    Tom watched the door close behind his partner and he ran his fingers through his blond hair. ''I think we need more than a fucking psychiatrist.''

 B1 C3 - The Farm

    Thackery Farm sat at the summit of a hill, looking out across the Marsh like a sentinel sent to watch the growing town of South Fairbridge.


    Once, the picturesque view had touched an old man''s heart and fed the pride he felt for his land. But that man was dead now, and the son who inherited the farm had sold all but a single field. He kept one tired, old cow and left the once-busy barn locked.


    The barn resembled an aircraft hangar sitting on a quagmire of mud. Sheets of corrugated steel had been blown off or had collapsed inside. The building had served its purpose long ago, and now it slowly rotted like the old man''s final crop.


    The son, Liam Thackery, rarely used the land for agricultural purposes. Mostly, he thought of the land as a source of quick cash when times were hard.  And there were certain practices that could only be done with seclusion and quiet.


    He had come across a wonderful young woman while he was in the pub a year before. Her name was Kim. She was a petite, green-eyed, dark-haired wonder of a twenty-seven-year-old woman. He couldn''t believe his luck when they hit it off. She had been impressed by his muscle and tough talk. He discovered she had a son. He was bright, cute and the best-behaved little boy you could ever wish to come across. His name was Shaun.


    Shaun and Liam got on like grease and fire. The boy looked up to Liam like a father; he wanted to dress like him, talk like him and even had his hair cut the same. Soon enough, people began to comment on how alike they were and, when told they were not father and son, they responded with: ''Really? You''d never know.''


    For Kim, the change in her life was dramatic. She had raised Shaun on her own for four years; bathing him, feeding him, changing him, teaching him. The burden had sapped the life out of her, and on more than one occasion she would fall asleep in the bath after he had gone to bed, as though the remains of her energy were seeping into the water. Through all of that, the thought of her little boy¡¯s brown eyes gazing into her own, melted her heart. She could never have hated him for the burdens he placed on her, he was her son. And now, she was glad he would have a father.


    The wonderful dream, however, had begun to crack and would soon shatter. Kim and Liam argued almost every night. Plates would be thrown, sending food careening across the room to eventually rain fire down on the kitchenware. And, on more than one occasion, Liam had hit Kim.


    On nights like this, Shaun would sit at the top of the stairs, covering his ears and slowly rocking himself. He would watch their shadows moving violently on the wall and would flinch when something broke or one of them would rush into the hall.


    One night, the couple was having a severe argument. Ornaments were swept from their homes in the lounge and thrown across the room. Kim and Liam screamed at each other, their voices breaking with the strain. Shaun sat, as usual, at the top of the stairs and recoiled as there was a loud crash. Kim cried out in pain.


    She burst into the hall, searching for more ammo to throw at Liam, and then spotted Shaun. Concern melted the anger from her brow, and she raced up the stairs to him. Kim took her son into her bosom and rocked him. Into his ear she whispered: ''Oh my baby boy...''


    Liam exploded from the living room, his predatory eyes locked onto Kim and his face sharpened with fury. ''Get down here! I''m not done with you yet, bitch!''


    Before Liam could pull her away, Kim squeezed Shaun tightly. ''Lose yourself, little Shauny, run away in that little head of yours.''


    He did as his mummy instructed and did so more often when they began to fight. He would crawl away into some corner of his mind and when he would return, all that was left was the carnage that the two adults had left behind.


    ...


    A year later, Shaun and Liam were at Thackery Farm. It was raining heavily, the water thrummed on the steel roof like a stampede of horses'' hooves. Shaun rather liked it that way, it dulled the whispers in his head so that he was not distracted by them.


    Liam was working under the hood of an old Buick he had bought from an old lady in Northamptonshire. His blue overalls were stained with grease and oil. He kicked his steel-toe capped boots on the concrete floor to get the blood flowing again.


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    Little Shaun was sitting on a sack of feed, playing with plastic cars that he had won from a box of Cheerios. Over the racket of the pummelling rain he made engine noises and the sound of squealing tyres. He would play this way for hours, lining them up or zooming them round in long arcing circles, becoming hypnotised by the patterns. The games let him fall back a little from reality and that comforted Shaun.


    There was a clatter as a wrench fell to the floor. ''Fucking hell!'' Liam roared and kicked the Buick''s bumper.  He stood back from the car, his hands on his hips. He let out a long breath as he rolled his tongue in thought.


    He turned round, a smile played across his lips, exposing his large yellow teeth. ''Hey, Shauny boy.''


    ''Hi Liam,'' Shaun replied, beaming.


    ''How would you like to play a game?''


    Shaun gave this a little thought and then jumped to his feet. ''Okay. What are we gonna play?'' he asked with a shrug of his shoulders.


    Liam looked about himself and spotted a coil of blue nylon rope on the floor. He picked it up and tensed it between his hands, it cracked under the strain. ''How about you''re a secret agent and I''ve managed to catch you?''


    ''Yeah!'' replied Shaun.


    Liam gave the boy a crooked smile that crept over his face like a reopened scar. ''Now,'' he said, ''I''ve managed to capture the legendary Shaun Osborne and I''ve tied him to the front of this...ah...combine harvester.''


    Shaun smiled and went and stood in front of the old, rusting harvester, facing Liam.


    But the older man laughed. ''No, Shaun, I think it would be better if you turned around.''


    The boy frowned but followed Liam''s suggestion. With the rope, Liam bound Shaun''s hands behind his back. The itchy nylon scratched at the boy''s wrists, and he moaned a little in discomfort. Once Shaun was firmly in place, Liam began to prance about behind him.


    ¡®You''ve done a lot of very bad things, Shaun,'' Liam said in the cool tones of an interrogator. ''And for those things, we''re going to have to punish you with the most terrible sentence of all.''


    Shaun laughed. ''Oh no what is it?''


    ''The Monster''s probe.''


    Shaun giggled away to himself, but Liam''s face was taught with intensity. His eyes were fixed on the boy¡¯s backside. He came closer, his footsteps echoing off the steel walls. He pulled down the boy¡¯s tracksuit bottoms and undid the flies of his overalls.


    ''Now it¡¯s time for you to pay,'' Liam said.


    The pain lasted only an instant.


    It was suddenly dulled, as though he had been given an anaesthetic, like the one he''d had when he had to have stitches in his head for cutting it on the kitchen floor. Then darkness began to grow from the edges of his sight, slowly creeping in until it took over everything. He heard and felt nothing.


    Suddenly, with the crack of a huge switch being thrown, a spotlight appeared before him; a single, crisp circle of light that was perfect in its brilliance. Within it sat a huge leather armchair.


    Shaun got to his feet and walked into the light. He ran his hands down one of the arms, following the maroon leather until it reached one of the lion heads that adorned either armrest. Its mouth was open in a tremendous, silent roar.


    It was only then that he noticed the boy sat within it. He was younger than himself, perhaps three or four. Their hair was the same colour; a dark brown, flecked with the occasional sprinkling of blond.


    The boy writhed within the leather, tossing, and turning, struggling to break free of the invisible bonds that held him down. ''No!'' he shouted, and then went on wrestling to break free. Like the crack of a lightning bolt his eyes popped open, and he let out a scream that broke his voice, a cry of sheer torment and horror. It was the cry of a boy whose innocence had been shattered.


    ...


    That cry hauled Shaun from his trance and onto the floor. The room spun like a cheap carnival ride. The boy''s face was burnt onto his retina, scorching his vision every time he blinked, appearing like a red ghost before him.


    Slowly, the face faded and retreated into his subconscious. Gentle, feminine hands gripped his shoulders and stopped the room from spinning, anchoring him to the spot. They guided him back to the couch he had been tossed from and seemed to secrete calmness into his body.


    ''Easy now,'' the woman said. ¡®I want you to close your eyes and concentrate on your breathing. You have been through an awful lot.''


    ''What... what the hell did I see?'' Shaun asked through deep breaths.


    ''A memory that has been suppressed deep in your subconscious, Shaun.''


    ''That was real?'' Shaun''s eyes were open now, staring at the psychiatrist. ''He did that to me?''


    ''I''m afraid so.''


    ''But...'' the reality of it all was beginning to knit itself together in his mind, ''he was my best friend. I trusted him! I was a boy... just a little boy...''


    ''It''s okay, Shaun. I''m going to help you.'' The psychiatrist touched his arm again, warmth radiated from it. But he couldn''t accept that contact any more, he pulled his arm away.


    ''You don''t understand, I don''t want help. I want this all to end. I''m bored of being the world''s fuck up. I know I killed those people now... the black outs. It makes sense. Do you know how it feels to wake up with blood on your hands and never know who you''ve hurt?''


    She was struck dumb. What could you say to something like that? But it was her job to say something. ''You are not well, Shaun. You need help. Please, let me make you better.''


    Shaun began to fall back into himself, his face becoming more and more blank. ''I want to go back to my cell.''


    Imprisoned tears stung the corners of her eyes. ''Sure. I''ll see you very soon,¡¯ she said.


    She gestured for the guard to take him away, but she didn''t think for a minute that restraints would be necessary. For once in this man''s life, he would gladly go back to that cell. He wanted the isolation, to be forgotten, to be away from those he had the potential to hurt.


    ¡­