All Is Bright
Jeers rose from all sides as Arthur, flanked by two wardens, walked down the length of the prison corridor. He kept at an unhurried pace with his eyes fixed ahead, unperturbed. His hair still damp from the shower, dripping wet patches forming on the plain T-shirt they had given him, which he wore over a pair of faded tracksuit bottoms. The clothes were oversized and hung loosely to his frame. They told him it would only be temporary until they found something that fitted him better, or he could arrange for clothes to be sent in by relatives. He could only smile at that. What few possessions he was allowed to keep, he carried in front of him on top of some sheets and a heavy, misshapen pillow that had been allotted to him.
They arrived at his cell at last. One of the wardens unhooked a set of keys from his belt and turned them in the keyhole, pulling the bars open.
"After you," the warden said with an exaggerated wave of his hand and a nasty, toothy grin. Arthur stepped into the cell. The bars slammed shut after him, and the keys turned again with a clang, the wardens turning and walking back the way they had come. Arthur stood listening until their footsteps faded into the general din of the prison.
"So," the man, who Arthur assumed was his cellmate, spoke up from where he lay on the top bunk, his arms folded behind his head. "What you in for, then?"
His speech was tinged with a slight harsh-sounding accent; German, perhaps. Arthur ignored him. He set his bundle down on the bottom bunk and took to inspecting the rest of the cell.
A toilet with a small partition took up most of the corner at the foot of the bunk beds, and a sink, with a cracked and spotted mirror, stood in the opposite corner. On the side of the cell not taken up by the beds, a small desk was crammed against the wall, with a miserable set of planks serving as a shelf set on rickety stands.
"Hey, I'm talking to you," his cellmate said, propping up on an elbow and sounding amused.
Arthur sat down on his bunk, the mattress squeaking under his weight.
"It's only polite to give your name first," he said at last, primly.
"You got a point."
There was a rustling sound from the top bunk, and the bed shuddered as his cellmate dropped to the floor. Arthur appraised him. He was an albino, frightfully pale, with a pair of wine-red eyes and a shock of silver hair; unusual colourings, yet he looked oddly natural in his grey coverall spotted with grease stains, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was of average height, quite lean, and did not look particularly menacing for a fellow high security inmate.
"Name's Gilbert, armed robbery and assault, ten to twenty years," he said by way of introduction, offering a hand to shake. Arthur looked at it for a moment before turning his eyes pointedly away.
"Arthur Kirkland. Murder. Life."
Gilbert let out a low whistle.
Arthur set his pillow on the side of the bed furthest away from the toilet and lay back, opening his book to signal that he was done talking. Gilbert took the hint. He clambered back to the top bunk and dozed as Arthur flitted through the pages of a fantasy novel, looking to lose himself in a world that was not filled with the stink of industrial disinfectant and the baying of prison inmates.
Entry for Day 10 of the 30 Day Of Writing A Drabble (Or Whatever) A Day Challenge.