The Attacker

Alone in the library, seated at a desk in a corner, Franky Doyle frantically paged through her textbook to take notes for her essay before the library closed and the inmates had to report to their cells for the night. Suddenly, she sensed a familiar presence behind her. Governor Joan Ferguson's leather gloved hands placed themselves firmly over Franky's hands, pinning them to the desk. Franky froze in fright.

'Good evening Doyle,' said 'The Freak' casually, as she leaned over Franky. 'Busy studying?'

Franky braced herself. 'If you're going to spank me, do it quickly,' she blurted out in fear.

'Spank you, Doyle? Do I look anything like Kim Chang?' Ferguson stared down on Franky shaking her head in mock puzzlement. 'I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about, little Francesca.'

But Ferguson did! Only recently she had told Franky that she would subject her to regular beatings with a cooking spoon. However, Ferguson's cruel plans had been thwarted by a mysterious blackmailer making an intimidating phone call, telling her that if she beat Franky, he would go to the corrections authorities with a recording of her corporal punishment threats.

Ferguson stepped back from Franky and walked away as the lockdown siren sounded. 'Closing time, report to your cell. Sweet nightmares, Doyle,' she coldly called back over her shoulder to Franky, who pulled a funny face and waved the raised middle digit behind the Governor's back.

That night, Franky did have a nightmare! She dreamed that Ferguson had her cornered in the laundry room. Ferguson was a humanoid robot, with glowing red eyes. She seized Franky with an extending mechanical arm and carried her to a dryer, which she opened with her other hand. She forced Franky into the dryer. Franky kicked and punched wildly, and wriggled like an eel, but the Ferguson robot held her fast.

Daniel Holdaway, the recently recruited officer, entered Franky's cell in a random 6am inspection that Ferguson had ordered as part of her contraband crackdown. Rather than brashly yell at the little inmate to wake up, he approached Franky's bed and gazed down on her. Franky twitched and turned in her sleep. Holdaway gave her a loving pat on the shoulder to wake her up. A couple of seconds later he was wishing he had not. Franky, still fighting the Ferguson cyborg in her dream, punched upwards violently and gave the officer a sharp blow to the chest that sent him reeling! Franky woke up and rubbed her eyes. She blinked at the winded Holdaway. Normally hard-faced, Franky was dismayed and apologetic to the officer for hurting him.

'I'm sorry. I had a bad dream. You ok?' she asked, getting out of bed.

'I'll survive,' gasped Holdaway, regaining his breath. 'I've had worse in brawls coming home from the pub at 3am with my mates.'

Holdaway then searched Franky's cell but found nothing. He faced Franky, secretly taken by her tanned complexion, green eyes, sleeve tattoo and dark brown hair. Even without her trademark eyeliner and mascara (Franky, no longer the top dog, lacked the access to contraband makeup that she had previously enjoyed), she looked a babe. The skimpy black singlet and pink pyjama pants she was wearing made her look cute. Holdaway wanted to embrace and kiss her then and there, but if he had done that she would have given him another wallop and the only thing he would have kissed would have been goodbye to his job.

'I'm sorry to wake you up like that,' he told Franky.

'No worries, those comic books Boomer reads got to my head,' laughed Franky. 'At least you didn't storm into my cell and choke me like Fletch did.'

Holdaway's eyes opened wide for a fleeting second.

Later in the staffroom, Holdaway sat next to Vera as she drank a cup of coffee.

'You remember that guy Fletcher?' Holdaway asked Vera. 'The officer who got fired, what happened to him?'

Vera, still having painful memories of her time with Fletch, shrugged her shoulders. 'I heard he now does security work at that recycling depot down the road,' she answered. 'Why?'

'Just wondered,' Holdaway replied as he sat down and played around with his phone.

'Are you ringing your mum again?' Vera enquired.

'No, I am looking at online car stuff.' Holdaway turned the phone screen at Vera to show her an online hot rod auction site.

Fletch strode around the recycling depot with a torch. He hated being a security guard. He had to work at random hours and the pay was peanuts compared to his previous prison employment. But nowadays he could only take what job opportunities came his way. His shift nearly over, he turned to go home. It was 2am and he was tired. Suddenly he was alerted to a loud banging of metal from behind a large skip. A figure in dark clothing, wearing a balaclava, ran from the skip to the chain-link boundary fence.

'Hey! You! Come back here this instant!' Fletch yelled, giving chase. The intruder ran to the fence, which was too high to scale, and stopped, turning around to face Fletch who stormed up belligerently like a rhinoceros. The intruder cowered submissively. Although quite tall, and youthful in movement, the intruder was no match for the older, muscular Fletch.

'What are you doing here..?' Fletch began. There was a loud hiss. 'Waa!' he screamed in agony as the intruder thrust an arm forward, pepper spraying his pursuer. The blinded Fletch staggered back with his hands over his eyes.

'This is for choking girls!' yelled the intruder as he surged forward and grasped Fletch by the throat.

A couple of days later, Franky was in the common room with the other inmates. A local news bulletin on the TV reported that a security guard named Matthew Fletcher was recovering in hospital after a vicious attack at a nearby recycling depot in which he was pepper sprayed, then choked, kicked, punched and stomped by an intruder. Police were interested in speaking to the driver of a small purple or mauve-coloured older model car, possibly a Holden Barina, Mazda, or Daihatsu, that was seen driving around nearby streets around the time that the attack occurred. When the inmates realised it was their old tormentor Fletch who had been bashed, they laughed and jeered.

The young lady clerk at the chemist heard the rumbling of a powerful engine outside her shop. Looking out the shop front, she noticed a well-dressed young man exit a long yellow and black slug-shaped seventies sedan with shiny silver spoke wheels, and come into her shop.

The man approached the clerk and enquired if they sold mascara and eyeliner, suitable for a woman in her early twenties with a tanned complexion. The clerk answered yes, and put him in the direction of a Maybelline products rack. As the young man made his purchase, the clerk asked if they were for his girlfriend.

'No, a love interest,' the man replied.

The next day, Ferguson was driving to work in her black Mercedes. As she drove through an intersection a block before the prison, a large two-tone yellow and black four door classic Holden pulled in front of her. To Ferguson's surprise, the big Australian car thundered up to the checkpoint and then cruised into the car park. Ferguson followed the Holden and pulled up alongside it. She had not noticed the Holden before and was curious over who in her personnel could own such a distinctive vehicle. The Holden's chrome silver wheels and shiny red 'GTS' grill badge glistened in the sun.

Out of the Holden stepped Daniel Holdaway. He cautiously checked that the doors of the car were locked with the attention of a caring owner. Ferguson stared in disbelief. 'Have you got a new car, Holdaway?' she asked.

Holdaway turned around. 'Oh yes, Governor Ferguson. That is correct. 1976 HX Holden Monaro GTS. Absinth yellow paintjob. 253 cubic inch V8. Tri-matic transmission.'

'What happened to your little purple Mazda, Holdaway? You seemed rather attached to it.'

'Indeed I was, Governor Ferguson. But my footy and drinking buddies kept calling the Mazda a hair-dressers car and said I had to man up on my motoring. In addition, I have collected lots of model Holdens and have followed Bathurst since I was a boy. I saw this Monaro advertised on an online auction, so I just went for it. No harm in spending one's hard-earned cash on an expensive toy every now and then, I suppose.'

'No harm whatsoever. 253 cubic inch? That's little compared to the 351 Ford V8 motor,' Ferguson mused. 'I know all about those.'

'No offence intended, but I would never have picked you as a muscle car enthusiast, Governor Ferguson.'

'When I was a teenager,' Ferguson recalled with a sentimental air, 'I would be sent by my parents to stay with my Uncle Jim and Aunt Phyllis at Sylvania Waters every summer. My aunt taught me elocution and etiquette, my uncle taught me to drive in his treasured car, a great brute of a Ford Falcon GTHO Phase III. Onyx black, it was. That was when I first wore leather gloves; they came in useful when gripping all the power that car's engine put out. Ah, my memories of cruising around the suburbs in that car are still clear. When I could drive it by myself I would enjoy parking under a shady tree by the river, wearing aviator glasses, torn black denims and knee-high boots, sitting on the roof, listening to Rose Tattoo and Dragon songs on the car radio. Meanwhile other girls I would see nearby would swim, sunbathe or chatter airheaded gossip about boys. Those were the times.'

Holdaway stared at Ferguson in disbelief. He had a vision of Ferguson, in her black uniform, transforming into a massive, mean-looking old black Ford, like a killer ghost car from a Stephen King novel, Puberty Blues ballads like 'Are You Old Enough?' and 'Rock 'N' Roll Outlaw' blaring on its radio.

Later that morning, Franky went into her cell after a gym workout. Exhausted, she lay down on her bed. She felt something hard under the cover. Reaching under it, she found some Maybelline mascara and eyeliner, brand new.

Who had given them to her?

Franky also noticed something else placed under the cover. It was a newspaper clipping detailing the attack on Fletch.

That afternoon, Holdaway, patrolling the exercise yard, sneaked a look at Franky, who was sitting down at a table writing her essay. Her new makeup made her look more sexy and provocative than ever before.

Soon afterwards, Holdaway walked into the storage room near the laundry area. He lifted up some boxes, searching for contraband.

'It was you who bashed Fletch, was it?' asked a voice behind him.

Holdaway turned and saw Franky in the doorway, her arms crossed and with a solemn expression on her face. He nodded his head, unsure of Franky's reaction. Franky quietly closed the door and rushed forward, tightly wrapping her arms around his waist, staring up at him, fluttering her eyelashes, which were thick with mascara.

'Did you also stop Ferguson from beating me?'

Holdaway nodded again. Franky pressed her head into his chest as he stroked her hair.

Early in the evening, Holdaway walked across the car park to his Holden, a trance-like expression on his face.

'Tuck your shirt in, fasten your belt up properly and straighten your tie, Holdaway!' ordered Ferguson, getting into her own car.

'My apologies Governor Ferguson, I forgot to do so after a bathroom break. It is very sloppy of me.'

Holdaway did a little detour on his drive back home, heading to the riverbank where he parked and watched the setting sun for a while, thinking about Franky. 'She still has a couple of years at Wentworth,' he thought to himself. 'She isn't going anywhere.'

The End