2022, October 5WednesdayHe’s lost track of time. How long has he been here, a week? Surely it hasn’t been more than ten days. Breakfast is no longer filling, and he feels as if he’s cking vital nutrients. He’s had plenty of water, though. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been so hydrated.

  He’s started getting hot flushes, as well. He’s drained, he’s miserable, and he wants out of this damn cell.

  Almost like an answer to his prayers, the curtain raises and his warden arrives with something in her arms. He’s so out of it that he needs two requests from her to comply with the order to stay back. Someone else has entered, too. And wow, she’s huge.

  Not only is she tall, she’s built like a bodybuilder – but not those grotesque ones who need to dehydrate themselves to get that physique. The actually strong ones, with only slight definition. It’s a shame she’s a girl, otherwise she’d be exactly his type.

  No. He shouldn’t be having these thoughts about his captors. He can’t let them win.

  From her expression though, the amazon can probably read his thoughts. Mercifully, she doesn’t say anything, but unfortunately, his warden does. “I have clothes.” They’re simple workout things – just a hoodie and some joggers – but they’re such an upgrade over this terrible smock. “Change,” she barks.

  He stares at them for a moment. “Here? With you loo–”

  “You have nothing we haven’t seen before,” his warden says. He should really ask for her name at some point, but he doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction. Especially after that.

  He tries to make things as awkward as possible by locking eye contact with them as he gets dressed, but he ends up being the one to break it. His skin is red and chafing when he finally removes the smock. He tosses it on the ground, next to his breakfast tray.

  The amazon speaks next. “We’ll be showing you the common areas today, Russell.” Her voice is melodic, as if she’s singing. “You’ll shower, see your new room, and meet some of the other boys.” He’s getting out of here!

  Clearly it’s due to his compliance – he knew he’d be rewarded for it. Now he needs to find a way to exploit it; he needs to find a way to escape. “This is a privilege, Russell,” the warden says. “It can be taken away, and you can be remanded back here at any time.” He nods, either this was common enough among all the boys he’d researched, or they can read his mind.

  He reckons the former is more likely.

  “I’m sure even you would have noticed by now that we both have tasers; every sponsor you see will have one. And yes, before you ask,” she forestalls his question, “every woman you see down here is a sponsor.”

  “Okay, what about the men?”

  “If you’re lucky, and if you behave, you won’t ever see them. We contract to a PMC – that is a Private Military Corporation. If they’re down here, they have far more serious equipment than just tasers.” She frowns at him, while the taller girl keeps her face steady.

  That gives him an idea though; maybe he can appeal to them to give him the opportunity to escape? He can work on that. “And the other boys, you mentioned?” He’s looking at the tall girl, but it’s his warden that continues speaking.

  “Everyone’s in here for a purpose, Russell. As hard as it is for me to believe, you’re not even the most violent person we have this intake. Now, come on. You smell awful.”

  He shoots her a gre for that, but as she opens the door and the rge woman steps out, his warden ushers him to go ahead of them both. Their tasers will both be trained on his back.

  He’s instructed to walk left down the corridor. It’s not a very long distance, he passes four cells identical to his – however two of them are empty and have raised curtains – as well as what appears to be a locked storage room full of cleaning supplies and undry. That must be where she got his bnket from.

  He stumbles a bit, he hasn’t been able to walk like this in a good while, and his muscles are finally getting blood circuting through them again. But he still feels far stiffer than he’s used to. They’re coming to a door at the end of the corridor, and his warden speaks up again. “Against the wall. Make sure your hands are visible.” He complies.

  She unlocks the door, and then says, simply, “Move.”

  He walks through the door. There’s another one to his right, and stairs on the left.

  “Against the door to the front, now. Hands visible.” He’s being treated like a criminal. He gnces to the left as she unlocks the door to his right. There are stairs. There are a lot of stairs.

  Each step is wide enough to comfortably fit two or three people side by side, and two people deep. On each side of the stairwell, there are hand railings. They go so high and are so steep that he can barely see the top, and he can’t see any doors. I wonder…

  But before long, he’s being marched through the set of doors on his right. He passes one set of doors that appear to lead to a dining area, then a second set that shows a sort of hybrid between an indoor courtyard and lounge. Metal tables? But his destination is the third set at the end of this corridor. To the left or to the right? He’s against the wall before they can even issue the command, and it turns out to be the set of doors to the right.

  *** ### *** ### ***

  It smells damp in the bathrooms, but it isn’t humid – it’s actually quite pleasant. The strong woman gives him a small bag he hadn’t noticed before. It’s a small, bck thing with a clear front he can use to look inside.

  The first thing he notices is a toothbrush and some toothpaste. His mouth has felt awful these past few days, and the fact he’s going to be able to brush his teeth rekindles some form of alertness he hadn’t realised has faded. It’s jarring, actually. Was he really so affected by the ck of hygiene in the cells that even the thought of brushing his teeth is enough to restore him? He needs to get out.

  There’s also an electric razor, which is good. His facial hair has started to feel a lot more coarse over this past week. Was this their method of “reform?” Irritate every inch of his body until he says “men bad, women good” and then provide relief for compliance? He thinks back to when he asked for a bnket. Maybe that would be more effective than he really understands.

  With that somewhat disturbing thought taking residence in his brain, he moves over to the sinks. There are four of them, each with a rge mirror. Russ chooses the second sink from the wall to give him as much space from the dies watching him while also allowing him room to dodge if they decide to tase him.

  Well, it’s a nice fantasy at least.

  He looks back at himself in the mirror. There he is.

  His brown eyes stare back at him with deep bags underneath. His familiar nose, borrowed from his mother, accentuates his face. His hairline isn’t quite receding yet, but it’s only a matter of time if his father was any indication, and his facial hair has grown out into the mangy, unkempt mess between just stubble and a proper beard. He briefly debates keeping it, letting it grow out into something he can style, but that idea is discarded. The hairs feel like needles pushing through his skin.

  He shaves, but decides to keep some sideburns. Might as well try something fresh.

  Once he’s done, he brushes his teeth. He never expected for the minty taste to feel so nice, despite the slight sensitivity of his gums. Upon reflex, he counts to two minutes in his head before rinsing. It feels disturbingly normal.

  Then, it’s time for the thing he’s been looking forward to for the entire walk over. A proper shower. Almost as if they sense what he’s looking for, the women back away slightly – still between him and the doors – and reveal a cupboard that was partially obscured. He opens it, and selects a pin, white towel.

  Knowing the outcome already, he still turns to the women ready to tase him at a moment’s notice. “May I please have some privacy while I shower?”

  To his surprise, it’s the rge woman who answers this time, with a small, almost kind smile. “You have nothing we want to see again.”

  He’s so startled by this answer it takes him a few moments to register before letting out a quick “thank you” and ducking into the annexe; towel and wash kit in hand. There are five showers in here, but the women have kept their word and don’t follow him. He chooses the one nearest the door, and undresses.

  It takes a moment for him to find the ideal temperature, but the water is very responsive. He settles in, and soaks for a while under the pressure. He allows himself to forget, just for a moment, that he’s been kidnapped. He allows himself to forget that, while he uncovered a real conspiracy, he still failed Stef. He allows himself to forget that everyone he loves is either dead, or hates him.

  But then he opens his eyes, and those thoughts swirling in his mind resurface. They anchor him, keep him human. They’re not good thoughts, certainly, but if he can hold onto them, he won’t forget himself. He retrieves the shampoo and body wash from his kit, and applies it to his hair and loofah, respectively. He won’t lose himself like this. He won’t forget.

  Before long though, his fingers and toes begin to wrinkle. He dries off, gets dressed, and steps back out of the annexe. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror ahead; he looks proper once more. Sure there are still bags under his eyes, but he’s presentable. He’s ready to meet the other boys, and tells the women that much.

  “There’s one more stop we have to make before you meet them,” his warden says, nodding towards the door on his left. “Your bedroom.”

  They march him back through the doors he first entered, and to the other doors he had noticed previously. There’s a long hallway, with a total of ten doors – five on each side. They present him with the first door on the right, marked off with a small, metal number one. The women gnce at each other and smirk, as if sharing a private joke.

  “Put your finger against the lock, Russell.” He complies. Unlike when he tried it in his cell, the lock makes a sound of affirmation and disengages, allowing him to push the door open. Inside is a proper bedroom. Immediately ahead of him, on the opposing wall, there’s a desk and a computer – as well as a wheeled chair. Immediately to his right is a wardrobe with a full length mirror on it, overlooking a bed.

  Not a cot, not a mattress, an honest to God small double bed. There’s only one pillow, but he can live with that. There are bnkets. Not the dingy little privacy sheet he was given in his cell, albeit there is a sheet, but there’s also a proper duvet, for weight.

  Next to the head is a bedside table with a mp, and a phone charging. It likely doesn’t have any signal right now, but it’s something. His warden reaches under the mattress of the bed, and removes something shiny: handcuffs.

  “If you make any trouble at all, we will put these on you. Only I will decide when to remove them.” He doesn’t care. If he could pick between another week in the cell and a month handcuffed in this room, it’s not even a decision he needs to think about.

  *** ### *** ### ***

  As Russ is led towards the common room, he reflects on how he almost fell for their tricks. While it’s true that these facilities were miles better than the dingy cell, it’s impossible to ignore that they’re just a gilded cage as they try to teach him why looking for his missing friend was such a crime.

  Being able to shower, being allowed to sleep – these are basic human dignities that no man should be deprived of, let alone see as a reward. It’s no better than what his father used to do, may the bastard burn for eternity. He just wishes he had someone he cared about still in his life. Stefan, Simeon – hell, he’d even take Mark. He wishes they hadn’t all left him.

  As they approach the doors, he doesn’t pce his hands against the wall. His warden doesn’t seem to notice this act of defiance; she just gestures for him to unlock the door. As he walks through, he takes stock of the room. Immediately before him are four metal picnic tables, the seats having an awful, wavy texture to them that reminds him of his first primary school in Almsworth.

  To his right are a pair of sofas against the wall, shoved in the corner. A couple of women – sponsors, he reminds himself; might as well use their jargon – are sitting on them, tasers at the ready. A few more sponsors are dotted around the room, maybe a dozen in total if he includes his escort. Many of them are near the far wall, where two guys are watching some mindless reality television show about buying houses.

  Or they were, before he came in.

  The boy closest to him is scrawny, with messy, jet bck hair and a pair of gsses on his freckled face. He has a deep, almost assessing scowl as his blue eyes examine nearly every aspect of him. Not exactly his type, unfortunately, but that’s alright considering the man on the other couch.

  Tall, maybe approaching six feet – and that’s an estimate as he’s still sitting, – he has a smooth, almost wry grin. His toned physique and dirty blonde hair give him a jock vibe, however his deep brown eyes reveal an intelligence and wit he can admire in a bloke. Russ definitely needs to find out if this guy is gay as well.

  “Hey there, new guy. What brings you to this part of Almsworth?” Oh God, and his voice too! It’s a breath of fresh air to finally hear another guy’s voice after all this time.

  “Oh, you know. Just thought I’d try the test club,” he responds. “There’s more to home that I’d never got around to seeing, really.”

  “You’re from the area?”

  “Yeah, I’m a local. A vet, actually.” He shrugs, the scrawny one’s appraisal seems to have only gotten more intense. No matter, he sticks out his hand to the handsome one. “I’m Russell. Most people call me Russ.”

  “Jonathan Carpenter, friends call me Johnny.” He eyes the amazon who had accompanied Russ this morning with indignation. “Friends.”

  “That’s alright, Jon-a-than. Your full name is so much better to say.” Despite her smile, Russ can’t tell if she’s being genuine.

  “Who’s shorty, here?”

  “I’m Harold,” the boy says curtly.

  “Talkative much, Harold?”

  “Yeah, he’s a real chatterbox, that one. Especially when he’s going off about optimal camera pcements.” Johnny sps the cushion next to his, and Russ takes a seat. “Apparently he’s found two in his room, precisely – and I quote – ‘where he’d put them’.”

  “It only makes sense for the best coverage.” He looks defensive now. “I found a couple others in pces that make a lot of sense, too, but a few of them around this room seem to be just for show. As if to make a point. I’m not so impressed with their assessment of me if they think I can’t identify a fake.”

  “Why do you care so much about the assessment of a bunch of women?”

  Harold’s face is drawn into a bit of a sneer, now. “Tell me, which one of these women is the most attractive?” To most, that would be a very oddly timed question, but Russ can tell where it’s going. Sod it, he’s not getting out of here for a bit, might as well have some fun.

  “I dunno, to be honest. None of them are really my type.”

  “What are you, a–” Russ stands up, and he can feel the tasers aimed directly at him. But he’s not going to hurt the boy, not yet. He hadn’t finished the sentence.

  “Yes, I’m gay,” he says through gritted teeth, a fire in his eye. “And I don’t take kindly to people who throw slurs around. Especially not little shits whose mouths are faster than their brains.” He’s more aware of himself now. Since he didn’t move much, he can see some tasers lowering through the corner of his eye; but they’re still at the ready until he sits back down. “You best be careful who you antagonise. People might be more capable of messing you up than you think.”

  Harold, to his credit, has recovered quickly. “Right,” he says dryly before turning back to the telly.

  Johnny has a massive smirk on his face. “Ah, so that was the look you were giving me when you walked in? I’m fttered mate, really, but maybe if you were a ss…” Johnny looks around at the sponsors, who seem amused by something. “What did I say?”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Jonathan? Like you did for lovely Harold here?” The rge woman is looking at Johnny expectantly.

  He looks around the room, put out. “What, you’re not gonna do it yourselves? Fine. This lovely ss is my sponsor, Diana.” The rge woman waves with a smile that simply cannot be genuine, can it? “And of course that makes Faye your sponsor.”

  So Faye is his warden’s name. At least Russ has been saved the indignity of asking for it himself. “Faye, of course, right.”

  “You’re shitting me? You didn’t know her name? How long have you bloody been here, mate?” He looks genuinely surprised.

  “A week,” Faye responds with an eye roll. He wants to wipe that smirk right off her face.

  “Well excuse me for not learning the name of someone who threw me in a cell for alleged crimes against the Feminist World Order.” There, that did it. Plus it gave Johnny a chuckle.

  “Fair point, fair point. Anyway, over in the corner there are Donna and Bel, guarding the dining room doors are Beth and Leigh, this is Indira,” he points to a south Asian woman, “Monica, Maria, and…shit.” He looks over at the st woman, and so does Russ. She’s looking at Johnny with an expression between bored and annoyed.

  “Nell,” she says ftly. She clearly doesn’t like him.

  “Right, sorry Nell.” He doesn’t sound particurly sorry. “Lady Di,” he turns back to Diana. “May I?” Russ doesn’t know what he’s requesting, but it’s clear that Diana does.

  “Sorry, Jonathan. We’re not as daft as you think.”

  *** ### *** ### ***

  Of all the sponsors in the lounge area, it’s only Faye, Diana, Bel, Beth, and Leigh that accompany them to the dining room. Still, five against three is pretty long odds – especially so when the five have weapons and the three do not.

  When lunch turned out to be real food instead of dried, processed fruits and nuts, it was difficult to refrain from saying something, but he managed. And while Johnny compined about it being veggie burgers and chips “again,” Russ just speared a chip with his fork and tucked in.

  “Look, Russ, mate,” Johnny says. “Here’s how things work down here. You wake up in a cell and they starve you. They deprive you of the basics for so long that minimum human living conditions feel like a reward.” Russ nods, he’s already figured that bit out. “Don’t fall for it, mate. It’s psychological torture.”

  “And you should know this how?” He’s surprised that Harold spoke up here. He’s been silent ever since Russ nearly tore him a new one.

  “Sorry, mate. Running a torture basement isn’t what they’re saying I did wrong. I just know how people tick.”

  “So what did you do to end up in this fucked up prison,” Russ asks between a mouthful of burger. It’s not extraordinary, but it’s food.

  “I didn’t do anything illegal, if that’s what you’re asking,” he retorts. Diana coughs, and Johnny sighs. “Nothing that should be considered illegal, then.” Diana’s frowning now, but Russ takes no notice. Whatever’s pissed her off isn’t his concern. “What did they grab you for?”

  He was wondering when he’d be asked directly. Well, he has nothing to hide. “So here’s the joke. My friend Stefan committed suicide a few years back, but I got it into my head that he was still alive somehow. So I kept looking, and looking, and looking, and by pure chance found a bunch of missing persons reports.” Johnny is nodding along, and Harold – Harold is looking at him very closely now but the hostility has seemed to vanish.

  He continues. “Anyway, turns out at the end of September and beginning of October each year there are about five or six reports filed in the span of roughly a week. There’s also a slight uptick in suicides. And it’s consistent, going back at least as far as twenty-ten!”

  “So you found out about Dorley Hall, then?” He seems to have well and truly captivated Harold.

  “Not quite, I mostly just traced the missing persons back to Saints. Finding out about the Hall was a coincidence. Someone I’d seen at Stef’s funeral lives here, or lived here.”

  “I don’t believe that’s a coincidence,” Johnny chimes back in. “Sounds to me like Stefan was taken just like we were.”

  “Sorry, hate to disappoint,” one of the sponsors is inserting herself into their private conversation now. Just like Faye, she has auburn looking hair – although it appears to be dyed. Beth, he recalls. “Your friend would never have qualified for the programme.”

  “And you know him so well, don’t you?” How dare she talk about his buddy, his best friend like that! She never knew him. “How would you know what a man who’s been dead nearly three years was like?”

  “Study,” Faye responds, taser drawn.

  “Why were you studying him,” Johnny asks.

  “To get a complete picture of Russell here, who he is, why he turned out the way he turned out. That sort of thing.”

  “When I said we were thorough with each of you, I wasn’t kidding,” adds Diana.

  “There are four cameras in here, not three.” Harold’s non sequitur draws the attention of everyone in the room.

  Johnny immediately begins counting. “No, mate, there are definitely only three. The ceiling camera was a dud you said, right?”

  “No, I was wrong. You can see it swivelling slightly if you look at it close enough.”

  Russ and Johnny both look up. Sure enough, there’s slight movement of the lens. It seems to be rotating. “No shit? How did you not know earlier?”

  Harold merely shrugs. “Must’ve just been turned off for some reason.”

  *** ### *** ### ***

  Russ is almost certain this isn’t a real channel on the telly, and it’s a whole catalogue of pre-recorded, selectively curated shows. The sponsors likely wouldn’t want them watching any unapproved programming they haven’t seen before, and channels consisting exclusively of reruns are rare. It would also expin how the telly would seem to follow their conversations with certain shows, as if someone observing them is trying to py mind games.

  But the fact that he’s counted shows from the BBC, ITV, and Channel 4 without any of the ad breaks is a bit of a clue too.

  Harold refuses to sit on the same sofa as him, but that’s fine. Most of what the paranoid nut wants to talk about retes to where he’d put the cameras in the room for optimal coverage, and why. Every camera location he’s mentioned – without even actively inspecting them, Johnny has testified – has panned out. Russ had asked if Harold was into cinematography. Harold stating he actually studies computer science was unexpected.

  “So,” says Johnny. “Earlier you mentioned you’re a…fuck, what was it…vet?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Well,” he eborates, “I was just a receptionist, really. The so-called ‘actual vets’ gave me a bit of stick for it, but I wonder how they’re faring without me to book appointments for them.” At Johnny’s expression, he rolls his eyes. “It’s more involved than you might think, okay?”

  “No, no, I get it. I worked in a GP’s office before getting picked up here. But most of the time it really was just find a doctor with an avaible time, slot the patient in, and Bob’s your uncle.” There’s a subtle ribbing in his tone.

  Johnny is definitely the kind of bloke he’d be friends with on the outside, Russ decides. Attraction aside, he’s got a certain charm to him that Russ seems enraptured by. Certainly not like his online buddies, who are probably wondering where he got off to but aren’t likely to look very hard. They don’t even know he’s from Almsworth, he doesn’t think.

  Maybe some armchair detective can figure it out if they look hard enough but even he took two years to discover this pattern, and if the women were to be believed at least, Stef being part of it turned out to be noise after all. There was just something in his gut that doubted that, however. Maybe one of the sponsors would slip up and prove that instinct correct.

  Sitting around and waiting isn’t a pn though, but he has plenty of time to do so if he wants. And what’s to stop them from dumping him in the Thames if he does find out that they’ve lied?

  What’s to stop them from dumping him right now, he argues back.

  He’s brought back to his senses by a snapping sound: it’s Johnny. “Hello? Earth to Russ?”

  He blinks, “Oh, right. Must’ve got a bit lost there.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Just wondering if the sponsors can be trusted. I still can’t shake the feeling that Stef was here though, it’s just something in my bones. It’s all too connected. But on the other hand, I don’t know why they’d lie about something like this. If they tossed him into the Channel, why give us long-term facilities? Why cim we’re going to be reformed?”

  “I don’t know, mate. But you don’t exactly tell a horse it’s going to become glue.”

  It’s at that point the show about wedding dresses ends, and Faye and Diana begin walking over, tasers drawn. “Alright, Russell. It’s time.” Right, off to the glue factory, it seems.

  “Can you at least make it painless?” The women both look confused at that.

  “No, what? It’s time to go back to the cell.” Shit. A wave of cold descends over him. Not that, not back…there. He’d rather take the bullet. “I told you what the pn was yesterday.” Did she? Maybe. He doesn’t care. He has to avoid going back. There has to be something he can do, but his mind is simultaneously racing and stalled.

  He’s vaguely aware that he’s standing now, maybe exchanging goodbyes with Johnny? He doesn’t feel attached to his body, he just feels like an observer. Now he seems to be moving, and Faye’s orders are fuzzy but he seems to be intuiting them.

  Oh, they’re already at the doors, and Diana is unlocking – where is she going? He’s being prodded through, he doesn’t have time to look. But that means he’s alone with Faye out here. She has no backup. He can’t go back to that pce.

  He can sense the world coalescing around him again, and even interpret Faye’s orders to move. So he does.

  With only a moment’s thought, he spins around and wrenches the taser from her hand, a look of surprise crossing her face the moment before he aims and…nothing happens. She doesn’t even flinch as he presses the trigger down.

  He presses again, and there’s that stupid smirk again.

  Fuck, they were bluffing! Of course they were bluffing, idiot. This whole pce is just some sort of twisted theatre. Why did he trust they were telling him the truth?

  Screw it, maybe if he runs into anyone else, he can at least buy himself a few moments.

  He bolts down the corridor and tries to unlock the doors.

  Denied. Oh for the love of – he never went through this one on his own. But wait, fingerprint scanners? That’s the st thought to cross his mind before a jolt of pain sends him right to the ground. They weren’t a bluff.

  “Thanks, Di,” he hears right before he stops convulsing and gets roughly grabbed.

  *** ### *** ### ***

  2022, October 6ThursdaySam is relieved that Leigh kept her promise to bring him some actual clothes alongside breakfast, but he’s still a bit ticked off at her. That little deconstruction of his character the other day was rude, unfair, and uncalled for. Yes, okay, perhaps following people home wasn’t the wisest way to indulge, but it never went further than that, and he’d never caused any sting harm to anyone.

  And did she really have to remind him of the societal systems he benefitted from? It was bad enough being an heir presumptive to his father’s awful businesses; he did not require that to be thrown back in his face either. Not when he already had pns to make them better.

  It’s still difficult to process that it’s the infamous Dorley Hall guarding this basement; the pce where some of the best looking women on campus lived. Upon reflection, he did recall Leigh from a few of his sessions watching from the Student Union Bar, although that was as close as he dared go to the dormitory for female and non-binary students.

  It’s with this thought he finishes his meal, and properly takes account of the clothes presented to him. Grey sweatpants, and a grey hoodie. Certainly, this is far less exposing than the smock.

  “Thank you, Leigh,” he says to his sponsor. “While I change, may I please get some privacy?” She seems to take a moment to consider, and bile begins to rise into his throat. The idea of being so observed while changing is unthinkable.

  Something may have shown on his face, however, and her expression softens for an instant before the mask reasserts itself. “I will leave the room, and lower the curtain. You will have two minutes.” She pre-empts his next request. “The camera will have to stay on, I’m sorry. It’s just for your safety.”

  Well, a bird in the hand, and all that. As he changes quickly and modestly as he can manage, Sam takes pause when he notices just how unclean he’s become. He supposes wallowing in his stink for the better part of a week has made him smell like a bad day in Jacksonville. As, it is still revolting, and at least there he was able to have a daily bath to contain it.

  He muses that with the exception of st November, he hadn’t quite understood how the city had gained that reputation. His conclusion had always been that it was merely an historical tidbit, something that had stuck to the city like certain aspects of life would always be stuck to him. His wealth, his family, and – of course – his genetics.

  He curses those genetics once more; he just had to inherit his father’s body odour. Leigh had of course advised that he would be returning to the cell tonight, but he was at least given mostly carte bnche to use the long-term facilities for the duration of the day.

  That included a proper shower, as well. Unfortunately, she had advised there were no bath facilities. That was a disappointment. He’s snapped out of his thoughts by the curtain raising once more, where he notices another sponsor with Leigh. She has shoulder length blonde hair, and is wearing a white sundress with the image of a single red petunia over her right breast.

  Thankfully, he is ready, and the smock has been discarded. The sponsors enter.

  “Right,” begins Leigh. “As promised yesterday, we’re going on a tour of the common areas. You’ll spend the day there, under supervision, and you’ll be allowed to interact with the other boys. Then tonight, you come back to the cells where you can decide whether to complete the programme or wash out after breakfast.”

  “I understand, and agree,” he says, more out of rote than anything else. The sponsors’ masks once again slip, but the speed at which they recover wouldn’t be out of pce at any function he’s attended. Most people wouldn’t notice.

  It’s not like he’s unused to his life being dictated by others. Saints was meant to be his one major escape though. When he’s on campus, the only thing dictating his life is supposed to be his schedule. Although, he supposes, Dorley Hall isn’t on campus, not technically. That’s why Professor Frost was unable to change their dormitory policies when she got a seat on the Board of Governors. His father probably had a hand in that, he suspected.

  They expined their tasers, being biometrically locked to disengage the safety, and the consequences of attempting to run off. They needn’t have bothered, this is his penance for being the kind of person he is, and he accepts that.

  The walk to the bathrooms was uneventful, although the fact there were three sets of curtains drawn across the row of cells was noteworthy. Additional prisoners, perhaps? Plus, the sponsors had indicated there were multiple boys waiting for him in the main living area. He considers passing. It’s unlikely he’ll have anything in common with them.

  As he trims his beard slightly, cleaning it up, he’s informed that this is unfortunately not optional. He will have to socialise with them, especially today and during other designated social times. But unless one of them has just as keen an interest in the American version of football, he’s not sure just how social he can really be.

  At this, he showers, washing away that horrid smell. Seriously, just how does he smell so rough in this air-conditioned basement?

  *** ### *** ### ***

  At least he’s clean now, and he knows what he has to look forward to tomorrow after supper. The media library they’ve provided is restricted, yet extensive, and privately he’s surprised there’s so much content. He had a small browse through it before being escorted from the sleeping quarters to the lounge at taserpoint, where two boys are watching what appears to be a rerun of Bake Off.

  Sponsors are dotted across the room, and all eyes have turned to him. It’s fine, he can deal with this. Only the echoing of his footsteps and Noel Fielding’s voice breaks the silence. That silence, of course, only sts until the rger of the two boys speaks up. “Hang on, Leigh? Who’s this? Where’s Russ?”

  Mercifully, it seems he is not at present the person of interest in the conversation. He has a few more moments to compose himself.

  “Russell tried to leg it, but couldn’t get past the first set of doors,” a stocky woman says from one of the four rge picnic tables near the entrance. “The silly bugger forgot our tasers are locked, so I’m giving him a chance to cool off for a few more days.”

  Sam can’t imagine doing something so rash, but perhaps that’s why he was given the reminder.

  The smaller boy of the two rolls his eyes and turns away, disinterested. That’s fine by Sam. “And this bloke?”

  Sam is close enough to shake his hand now, but it’s not taken. “Sam Groves.” He can hear a bit of Scottish brogue in the boy’s accent. He hopes his accent doesn’t force assumptions.

  “Oh, do we have ourselves a toff here?” Right, he can never get even his most basic desires. His discomfort must be showing, because the Scottish guy pulls back slightly. “Sorry, didn’t mean anything by it. Johnny Carpenter.” Johnny sticks out his hand, and Sam shakes it warmly.

  “It’s a pleasure,” he says. It’s not exactly a lie, but it’s quite far from true. Everyone kept down here must be at least some sort of deviant, and not in the sense that you could be sent to a psych ward. He can barely tolerate his own indiscretions; he doesn’t want to think about what these guys must have done.

  It’s then that the other one deigns to speak. “Harold,” he grunts before returning to his own little world.

  “Come on, Harold, is that a way we greet new friends?” One of the women is looking at Harold. “Especially after yesterday, you don’t have much grace right now.”

  “Fine then.” He turns around and looks directly at Sam. “My name is Harold, nice to meet you, Sam.” He turns around again and continues watching the TV.

  Johnny deigns to apologise, at least. “Sorry about that, apparently the sponsors get mad if you’re a homophobe down here, so half of his personality needs to stay locked away – and there’s only so much you can say about cameras.”

  Sam doesn’t get that impression at all. He can almost feel the gears in Harold’s brain turning; if he’s even half as adept at reading social situations as Sam was forced to become, this could spell trouble quickly.

  “I don’t know about that, Johnny. I highly doubt someone like you describe is the naturally quiet type. There’s definitely something you haven’t picked up on.” Sam is careful in his assessment.

  “I can hear you, you know.” And that’s why. He changes the topic nonetheless.

  “So, where are you from Johnny? Scotnd?”

  Johnny ughs. “Originally, yes. I’ve been practically English since I was about seven, though. First in Hull, then we moved to Manchester between primary and secondary. What about you? The other d, Russ, he’s apparently a local through and through, but you’re not, are you?”

  “You caught me,” reveals Sam, hands up in mock surrender. “My family has an estate in the South West, just out on the edge of Dartmoor. However I also fancy myself a bit of a Yank, to a degree. I’ve spent many a summer at our pce over in Florida.” He smiles wistfully. “I’ve thought of finding a ranch in Texas somewhere when I inherit the family businesses. Assuming that I can get out of here, of course.”

  “Really? An American? A toff like you?” Johnny has a smirk so wide it splits his face clean in two.

  “I would go so far as to say America is better than Britain, so long as you don’t have to deal with any Americans.”

  Johnny has to chuckle. “I suppose you’re not wrong.”

  Sam can’t help it. He pokes the bear. “And they have better football, too.”

  “You wot?”

  *** ### *** ### ***

  It’s his final night in the cells, for now. Dinner was the same, a nice hearty soup, but it also came with the first real emotion Leigh had given him all week, and that was more filling than any meal. She had expressed hope – a desire that he would go through the programme and properly reform, instead of choosing to wash out. He has to ugh. He’s not brave enough to wash out. Apparently, not even the sponsors know what’s supposed to happen to them, which is distinctly odd phrasing, he notes. Not “what happens to them,” but “what is supposed to.”

  Things can go wrong.

  And the fact this kidnapping ring has been around a decade or more – if Johnny and Harold are to be believed – and has gone undetected all this time makes Sam all the more confident that the washouts don’t survive. At least if he goes through the programme, he must make it out somewhere.

  Johnny and Harold must have gathered that too, otherwise they’d still be in these cells.

  What is the programme, though? It’s meant to be some kind of reform for troubled boys, those who weaponise toxic masculinity. But can that really be fixed? Coming from a wealthy family, he’s been trained to be css conscious, and that naturally led into discussions about intersectionality, and how to exploit it.

  How can they be assured that once he completes it, that his power won’t just recorrupt him? How can they be assured he won’t just call the cops? It may be run by some of the best looking women he’s ever seen, but this is all still highly illegal. There’s so much he doesn’t understand, and every possibility or impossibility he can think of borders on the absurd.

  He pulls the drawstrings of his hoodie tight, thankful that he’s been allowed to keep the clothes. Leigh didn’t even mention the old medical smock. Eyes covered, he drinks the st of his water, and thinks about his pns for tomorrow.

  Certainly there’s nothing in the media library that’s worse than being left alone with his thoughts. He also can’t fathom the idea of social interaction being worse than isotion, surprisingly. Sure, those boys were weird, and probably just as horrid individuals as he is, but they at least seemed predictable.

  Johnny is a id back, typically British guy, while he cannot cim that he’s surprised a person like Harold would end up down here – he’s seen far too many of his type online. No, the worst part of this prison is decidedly the wardens. All of them different, all of them fwless. It’s impossible to keep them out of his mind as he finally falls asleep, and he isn’t sure if his nightmares will be about what they might do to him…or what he might do instead.