Death is a Welcome Guest: Plague Times Trilogy 2 by Louise Welsh Read Free Book Online Page B

about what the penalty for being billeted with Jeb might be: a pair of hands around the throat, a pillow to the face, a boot to the groin, or worse? He was growing tired of being afraid, but the fear persisted. Magnus took a few deep breaths, as if he were about to step on stage, and repeated his question. ‘Any chance of putting the TV on, Big Man? There might be some news.’
    ‘TV’s fucked.’
    ‘I have a knack with TVs.’ It was a lie. ‘I can have a go at it if you like.’
    The body in the bed above shifted and then Jeb leaned down and stared at Magnus, his face large and too close; no smile, just the grim line of a mouth set in a blank face.
    ‘I lost my privileges.’ His eyes were brown with large irises and long lashes. Cow’s eyes, Magnus’s mother would call them. ‘They took the digi-box away.’
    Magnus wondered if the man was on medication and if so what would happen if it ran out. He was not much of a fighter. A fast jab of wit had always been his most effective weapon.
    ‘Do you have a radio?’
    The bunk creaked faintly as Jeb flopped back on to his mattress.
    ‘I told you, no privileges. Who gives a fuck what’s happening out there anyway?’
    ‘How long have you been without privileges?’
    ‘Haven’t you learned not to ask questions?’
    Jeb’s voice was a slamming door, as final as the turn of a screw’s key but Magnus had been alone with his thoughts for too long to keep quiet now that the silence between them had been broken.
    ‘There’s stuff happening on the outside you want to know about.’
    Jeb snorted. ‘You guys straight out of the van still believe outside matters. It doesn’t. Not in here.’
    ‘Maybe that used to be true, but the outside has found its way inside. What do you think that rammy’s about?’
    ‘The screws are on strike, or they’ve accidentally-on-purpose done some fucker in, or the government’s cut prison food in exchange for more votes. Whatever it is doesn’t matter, beyond the fact that they’re not feeding us and that racket’s beginning to mash my head.’
    ‘It’s more than that, it’s—’
    ‘I don’t give a fuck. Not unless Jesus Christ himself’s declared an amnesty and brought along a few beers to celebrate with the boys.’
    Jeb’s voice was bitter, but Magnus had detected a note of curiosity in it.
    ‘There’s no beer, but things are getting a bit biblical.’
    He sat up with his back against the wall of the cell, and began to tell the other man about the virus. Jeb listened in silence. Outside, in the hallways beyond, the shouts and chanting grew and swelled and fell, and still no one came to feed them.

Seven
    Magnus had watched scores of jailbreaks on TV. He knew the options. You could dig yourself out, through the wall or floor, depending on the structure of the cell. Or you might squeeze through the gap left by an easily removed ceiling tile and travel the mysterious space between roof and ceiling, unseen above your jailers’ heads. Bars could be filed, windows forced, fences climbed, barbed wire negotiated, open fields traversed, the consoling shelter of a forest found.
    Jeb said, ‘We need one of the screws to open the door.’
    ‘That’d be good.’ The words came out more sarcastically than Magnus had intended. ‘You believe me then?’
    ‘Something’s up.’ Jeb’s feet were dangling over the edge of the bed, his heels level with Magnus’s eye line. The rubber soles of his trainers were imprinted, Size 11 . ‘Prison grub’s crap, but cons live for their food. There should be a fuck of a racket out there.’
    The almighty chorus that had shaken the halls had dwindled to occasional calls and shouting. The sounds were too distant for Magnus to make out the substance of their words, but their tone had shifted from anger to desperation. Once or twice he had heard sobbing and felt tears rising in his own eyes. He would have liked to have battered against the door of the cell and added his voice to the protest,