The total silence within the block struck him first as he stood behind the steel doors, breathing slowly. Was this place empty of human inhabitants? No, it couldn't possibly be, he told himself, he was in the dreaded SHU. There were plenty of people there at all times, Rodriguez had told him, so why couldn't he hear the distant yelling? Mystified, he followed the guards into an office, passing through two locked steel doors to get inside.

The office was much the same as it's counterpart in A-Seg, a large empty space with a desk at one end and a wall of shelving cabinets. White tiles lined the floor and a neon light glowed overhead.

This is where they'll fill in their forms and beat the crap out of me. He forced a disinterested look onto his face as a clerk came out and accepted a sheaf of papers from the warden a guard handed him. He opened a blue folder and filled it out rapidly without bothering to glance at Tony. When it was completed he closed it and phoned someone, staring at the desk till an office door opened.

'Form complete?' inquired a man in a grey suit, glancing at the clerk.

'Yes sir. He's here for an indefinite term, till a trial,' answered the clerk, opening the folder.

'Aha,' replied the supervisor. 'What have we got? Another gang member?'

'No, he's the escapee.'

The supervisor glanced gravely at Tony. 'Strip him. Search him, he'll have some contraband.'

He leaned against a wall while two guards opened the cuffs and gave him a shove. 'Strip, prisoner.' Tony pulled off his blood soaked shirt with difficulty, allowing it to drop on the ground. He removed his vest and threw it at his feet, undoing the trousers. The supervisor snorted as he withdrew them. 'You'll regret this, convict,' he remarked, nodding his head at the jeans.

Don't I know it? As though anything you guys can do would make me feel worse than I already do! He stood before them naked, head held high, fixing his eyes on a brick while they searched his clothes. They discovered his wire immediately and removed it, noting his ability to pick locks in his file. Michelle's picture remained undiscovered under his left foot in the excitement his money generated. His socks were felt carefully and placed in a pile with the clothes they removed, and he was handed his underwear. He pulled them on hurriedly, straightening once again. Now to pick up that photo without their noticing. The door opened and the warden walked in, examining him from head to toe.

'Alright, prisoner Almeida, I'll give you a chance to save your skin. Who helped you escape?' His eyes bore into Tony's.

'No one, sir,' Tony replied, staring insolently back.

The warden frowned. 'Who helped you collect all the stuff necessary for the fire? You're not a thief, and you certainly had no money to buy anything! Who helped you outside? I will ask nicely one final time, prisoner, before I'll have it beaten out of you.'

I know you, Brownlow. You'll have me beaten whatever I do. You can kill me, before I open my mouth.

'Alright, Almeida, fools always learn the hard way,' the warden remarked, turning to the guards. 'Begin.' Two of them set about beating Tony evenly, one on the back and the other on his legs. He remained silent, focusing on the row of bricks ahead of him, emptying his mind of everything.

Suddenly his beating stopped. Tony glanced round to see the warden regarding him with a patient expression. 'Ready to talk, prisoner?' His eyes met the warden's before he returned his gaze to the bricks ahead of him. Moving shadows prepared him for the resumption of the beating. One blow landed on his wound, causing a break in his concentration while fiery pain rushed through him. Gasping for air he bent double, hearing a groan escape. The world swayed around him as he forced himself to straighten, returning his gaze to the bricks.

'Convict Almeida, name the people who helped you. I have a wire, and a considerable sum of money, who gave them to you? Let's start at the beginning. Who gave you the wire and a lighter? Those car thieves, I'll bet. Name them – Rodriguez, Sanchez, who?' He waited for a second before waving his hand. Tony took a deep breath in time before another blow landed on his shoulders with greater force than the previous ones, propelling him forward. He sank down on his knees, covering the photo with his body, sinking to the ground. His beating continued unabated while he slid a hand under himself, feeling the picture, sliding it into his underwear as he wriggled around dodging blows. 'Convict, you ready to give me some names yet?' demanded the warden more impatiently. He ignored the question, curling himself up into a ball. 'Alright, Almeida, you asked for it! Continue.' More blows landed on him, burning as they hit already injured areas. A minute later the warden again stopped the punishment.

'Convict Almeida, tell me now, or I'll detain every one of the car thieves and tell them I'm doing so as you gave me their name! You'll be real popular then.'

The world swam sickening round Tony. He swallowed some bile and rolled over to face the warden. 'They'll never believe you! Say what you want!'

He noticed the warden's face turned deep purple and he snapped, 'beat the crap out of him. That trouble maker will learn how to address his superiors.' The guards raised their sticks again and he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to hide the pain from them.

Gentle waves washed over the shore, rushing over his aching body. Tony struggled to see which beach he was at, coming round abruptly as he was shaken violently. 'Ok, he's back. Continue the punishment,' snapped the warden's voice. He curled himself tighter, struggling to picture Michelle on the beach, surprised to feel no further blows. Instead he was hauled to his feet and he felt himself dragged out of the room by his arms, onto a large floor similar to B Block except it consisted of two tiers rather than three, and solid steel doors closed off every cell. He was dragged up a flight of stairs and ordered to stop while a card was placed into a slot. The door opened noiselessly and he was ordered in. He managed to take a few steps inside, hearing the door slammed behind him. Forcing his eyes to remain open, he stumbled to the bed and sank onto it, allowing the inviting darkness to envelop him.

His tray banged onto the slot woke him and he forced himself up, carried it back to his bed and started eating. There was a pile of mashed potato with gravy and a few pieces of gristle. He chewed slowly, inspecting the cell. Obviously this place was designed as a permanent home, containing a toilet, basin, and bed. There was no table or chair or place to store any personal items. The entire place was tiny, leaving a gap of two feet between his bed and toilet.

It's a box, Almeida. It's not a cage like A-Seg, where you stay for a week or so, it's a box to store prisoners who've managed to piss someone off.

He forced himself up and returned his tray, waiting on his bed till they removed it. He saw his tray moving backwards and the slot was banged before he could catch sight of a hand. Wincing, he walked over to the door, noting the presence of a peephole near the top right hand corner. So they would carry out random checks, and he wouldn't be any the wiser. Still, there was no way he could annoy anyone here. He pulled off his underwear and examined his bruises, noting they were purple or blue. You've been here at least a day already, Almeida. I guess they just didn't bother to leave any food before. He turned the single tap, cupping his hands and poured icy water down his back, proceeding to wash. Slightly refreshed, he moved over to his bed and sank down. At least he was in too much pain to wish to wander around; he would find his cramped quarters more irritating in the following days.

The lights dimmed – so it was night time. Tony closed his eyes, refusing to allow himself to dwell on his failed escape attempt. Put it behind you, Almeida! You'll try again, soon as they let you outa here. Besides, Warden Brownlow may get his wish, they might well fry you. He shut his eyes, picturing being strapped to a chair and a man in black hitting a switch. He wandered dully whether it would hurt for long.

His tray slammed into the slot woke him the next morning. Blinking, he gazed around his box, wandering where he was for a moment. He had spent long enough in prison to begin moving towards his tray before he had fully sorted through the previous day's events. Porridge! Tony grimaced, allowing a heavy sigh to escape as he laid the tray carefully on his knees. Bright light dulled as it hit the grey walls, unmarked by any decoration. Gazing around slowly he dipped his spoon into the bowl, swallowing it automatically and dipping it again.

Whoever designed the 'box' had a preference for grey, he decided, as he finished his meal. Apart from the walls, the floor consisted of grey tiles, and the ceiling was grey too, a slightly lighter shade than the walls. The steel door was dark grey, of course, and the toilet and basin had also been painted in a similar hue. He understood Rodriguez's dread of being returned to this place, he had spent something like eight months there.

He returned his tray, watching it disappear minutes later. The day stretched ahead of him, without a single task that required doing, a single sentence that needed to be spoken, a single person speaking to him. Rubbing his face vigorously he settled on the bed, listening for any sound and failing to hear anything. Tony lay on his stomach, propping his face in his hands, forcing himself to focus on work, anything to avoid remembering his short lived freedom, struggling to recall everything about his list of suspicious Muslims. There was a gap in the pattern, and he would find it, only it would be so easy with his computer. Still, he foresaw days of nothing else to occupy his mind.

He received a cold lunch and lay down to sleep afterwards, resting his head on his hands. "Siesta time, Tony – have a rest. The afternoon's problems will get here soon enough." Hot tears filled his eyes as he pressed them shut.

He received more mashed potatoes for dinner, with an egg. He pushed his food around his plate for a while, longing to see something green. No fruit, no vegetables, he would start getting sick soon. He was unable to fall asleep again after dinner; he lay on his stomach and allowed himself to think about Michelle.

His slot opened unexpectedly two days later, as he was struggling to contain his boredom. 'Prisoner, push your hands through the slot,' ordered a guard. Mystified, he obeyed, feeling cold steel cuffs placed on them. 'Move to the back of your cell and face the wall,' ordered the same voice. He pulled his hands back inside his cell and moved to comply, hearing his door open. 'Outside, prisoner.' He stepped outside, terror in his stomach, convinced he was being taken for his 'trial'. Struggling to contain his fear he followed six guards along the catwalk and down the stairs, over to a pair of steel doors, and out. Harsh sunlight reflected off concrete with no shade forced his eyes shut, and he felt himself propelled forward, through a long steel cage somewhat like a corridor and into a second one, into which he was locked. 'You have exactly 30 minutes yard time, prisoner,' a guard informed him. 'You are forbidden to lean against the bars. You are forbidden to speak to anyone. Any infraction of the rules and you will find yourself back inside your cell.' He turned away.

Tony gazed around, startled. He had been granted 'yard time', and this must be the 'yard'. He searched the area, noting that it was indeed a yard covered with long narrow cages, extending all the way across the top, a couple of them occupied by prisoners who paced their lengths, all cuffed. Nobody spoke. He gazed upwards, searching for a few clouds, seeing them floating past through the cage's bars. Following the other prisoners' example he strolled the length of his cage, turning before he could touch the bars at the end and walked back, gazing round through the corners of his eyes. Surprisingly none of the other prisoners spared him a glance in their endless pacing. He stared at them openly, hearing a loud clang on his cage.

'Prisoner, come here!' He hurried back, wandering what they wanted with him, pausing a couple of feet before the cage's door. 'Stop staring at the other inmates immediately! Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'Yes sir,' Tony replied.

'Good. This is not a holiday camp, you know! Now you have exactly nineteen minutes left – use it!'

'Yes sir,' Tony said again, surprised at how precisely they measured his time outdoors. He watched the guards bang on another corridor and a prisoner returned to them silently, following them inside, trembling slightly.

What kind of hell is this place? Nobody protests about ANYTHING! Follow their example, Almeida; they seem to know what's going on round here.

He paced the cage, filling his lungs with fresh air, dreading the return indoors. All too soon the guards banged on his corridor and he returned, not wishing to irritate them. They led him back inside, pausing to lock the steel door behind them. 'Prisoner, halt,' snapped a guard and Tony stopped in his tracks, watching another prisoner hauled along the floor. His heart sank, noticing the curly dark hair and the hawk on the man's arm.

'Sanchez,' he gasped.

Sanchez gazed at the ground, refusing to meet his eyes. 'You can thank Convict Almeida for coming here,' a guard said, pulling him to a stop. 'Thank him now! I wanna hear it. He gave us your name.'

'That's a lie,' Tony snapped, outraged. 'I didn't give any names coz no one helped me!'

'Silence, convict! Why else would we have sentenced Sanchez to six months?'

Tony shook his head, struggling to control his rage. 'Coz you're bastards, that's why! I never gave any names, and you know it. Don't believe the gringos, Sanchez,' he pleaded, earning himself a huge blow from the nearest guard.

Sanchez raised his eyes for the first time. 'I don't, amigo,' he replied, receiving a blow.

'Convict Almeida, you're cited for insulting the corrections officers in the SHU. That's a loss of three weeks yard time!' Tony nodded his head slightly, narrowing his eyes.

'Yeah' he muttered.

He sat down on his bed listening to the echo of the door banging behind him. Three whole weeks locked in this box, he would go mad! There were no books, no personal effects, no new mail…no chance to write to anyone either.

Why the hell did they have to drag Sanchez into this? He's the nicest one of the entire group, he didn't deserve this. He'll really go nuts locked up here. Just because he was beginning to be my friend…. You're not gonna speak to anyone else after this, Almeida – anyone who shows you some kindness gets dragged along with you. You'll stay by yourself!

Tony struggled with his rage, getting up restlessly and pacing between the door and the wall, taking care not to bump into either the bed or the basin. Inevitably he banged his knee in the bed, cursing aloud. They brought him no meals for the remainder of the day.

Six guards came for him three days later, opening his slot an hour after breakfast. Tony placed his hands through the slot like on the previous occasion, his heart hammering in his chest. He had no yard time; he must be going to his trial. Focus, Almeida. You've already got a life sentence, they can't give you anymore! You hold you your head up and relax.

He was led along the floor opposite the office and a steel door was unlocked. Entering it, he noticed a table and chairs, and his lawyer glancing through an open file. The guards left after shackling him to a chair.

His lawyer shook his head slowly, examining Tony. 'Good morning, Tony. You do manage to keep me busy! Your trial is held in an hour, and I have been permitted exactly 20 minutes to question you, to attempt to find any reason to mitigate your actions.'

Tony gazed at the table in silence, placing his cuffed hands in front of him.

'Dammit Tony, I'm on a real tight schedule here,' warned the lawyer. 'I need something to work with, or they'll go all the way.'

Tony sighed deeply, examining his hands. 'Look, Paul, I'm real grateful for all your help, but I don't care what happens anymore. If they wanna kill me, that's ok.' He refused to glance at the man, sensing his obvious displeasure.

'It's "ok" is it? Well it might be, to you, but it sure won't be to Michelle,' replied the lawyer.

Tony raised his head for the first time and stared at the man. 'Did you see her?' he asked eagerly.

'I just came here after seeing her. She's terribly worried about you; she can't imagine why you ran. Now I know your life is pretty bad and you can't face this existence, but how do you think she would feel, if they were to kill you?'

Tony let out a strangled sound, unable to reply.

His lawyer nodded. 'Alright, we understand each other. Now I need as many examples of unfair treatment as you can provide examples of harsh punishment, any scars you can show.' Tony nodded and attempted to explain his life as best he could in the remaining few minutes. All too soon the lawyer was led out and he was left alone in the room, rubbing his face with his hands, aware they were discussing him. After an eternity his guards returned and led him into a room on the other side of the main floor.

An unknown judge sat in a tiny courtroom, gazing through a file. Tony was shackled to a table, glancing around. The room was empty of all but the judge, the warden and his guards. He wandered where his lawyer was.

'Antonio Almeida, rise and face the bench,' the judge began. Tony got up, wandering what would happen next. 'I have your file before me. According to Warden Brownlow, you've caused nothing but trouble since your arrival at this penitentiary. I've reviewed your file with your lawyer and found this to be the case. The Justice Department is showing you clemency one final time, convict. Attempt another escape, and you will be sentenced to death by lethal injection. I will give you a copy of the document. I've also authorized Warden Brownlow's request to transfer you. Remove the prisoner. Next.'

Tony was unshackled and led back to his cell, his thoughts in a whirl. A copy of the document was handed to him, he read it through several times, noting the legal terminology and the stamp.

Guess you're gonna have to be a hundred percent certain your next escape will work flawlessly, Almeida! He felt the beginnings of another headache. So he was to be transferred. Warden Brownlow had had enough of him, well; the feeling was mutual as far as he was concerned. Transferred to where? A lot further away, I'll bet! They're gonna make it impossible for you to have any visitors! He buried his head in his hands, allowing the document to slip through his fingers and slide onto the floor.