By the time Alvarez was released a week later, his hands were a mess of broken skin and bruises. He had bitten his nails to the quick and then had started on the flesh around them. He was taken straight to the hospital ward where he was showered and given the once over by Dr Nathan. Thankfully the finger marks on his ass had almost disappeared so went unnoticed but he had plenty other self-inflicted ones colouring his body in shades from livid purple to the older yellowish patches.
Nathan, familiar with seeing him in such a condition, made a mental note to ensure that any future sujons in the 'Hole' would be accompanied by his daily dose of anti-depressants. The flashing lights of rage competing with the blankness of depression evident in the dark eyes convinced her he was far from ready to have his dosage cut any time soon. She left it to a nurse to tend his abused hands and retreated to her desk.
She studied the pathetic figure of Alvarez as he sat staring at nothing, knowing she should talk to Sister Pete and or Father Mukado to see what else they could do to help him. Prescribing drugs was clearly no permanent answer. It wasn't doing much for the short term either! But she was tired and they'd all tried so hard already and nothing changed. He still acted the hard Latino barrio hombre, cocksure of himself but who always found trouble ending in blood and isolation for others as well as himself.
She dismissed him back to Em City and forgot all about talking to the others as yet another inmate was rushed in, a shank buried deep and broken in his back. Yes. She was so tired of this.
=0=
Alvarez was walking a tightrope. He was running out of time. El Cid had assured him he was safe as long as he kept the pact secret but the pressure building to explain to Rivera why he had taken his eyes was growing and he couldn't trust that El Cid or the others would believe he could holdout. During the day he had to stay away from any chance for them to get at him, so he made sure other bodies always surrounded him. The added benefit of that was that it would keep him out of reach of his 'seducer' too.
At night, in the pod, he felt relatively safe. He would lie there listening to the grunting sleep of his enemy but knowing that the older man was not stupid enough to be found at morning count with a corpse on his hands. But the nights bought other thoughts just as worrying to keep him awake.
For interspersed with the nightmares, other dreams woke him. These, to find hands touching himself. Each time he awoke, he either had to stifle a scream from seeing mutilated eyes, or had a hard-on but not from dreaming of breasts and soft pussy, but hard hands and the scratch of whiskers.
He saw the O'Riely brothers entering the laundry and decided to approach the older, more lucid of the pair. Shoulders casually slumped, hands in pockets, he propped against the washer O'Riely was loading. Cyril sat on the table swinging his leg humming to himself.
"What?" sharp, annoyed most of the man's attention on his brother.
"A deal."
Ryan looked up to see an Alvarez that seemed in control, more assured as in the old days. He was certain it was a front. "Go on. I'm listening."
Miguel scanned through the window checking what interest this meeting was provoking. Seemingly none. "Sister Pete's getting me the orderly job back. I can get stuff."
"What more sharp objects?" Ryan had finished loading and concentrated on the controls but didn't miss the flinch as his remark hit home. 'Yeah right,' he thought, 'your stable.'
Miguel shrugged. "Whatever you need, drugs, sharp objects..." eyefucking Ryan. "Whatever."
"And in return a cut of the take right?" Ryan was dismissive.
"Possibly..." he trailed off. How much would O'Riely risk himself for a more lucrative drug trade?
Ryan raised a curious eyebrow. "Or..?"
Miguel took a breath and went for it, no more pussyfooting around. "Or your help with a problem or two. Bit of muscle backup."
"Hernandez!"
"Amongst other things."
"What?" Ryan seemed suprised. "You got more troubles than that big fuck 'n' co?" He whistled through his teeth. "I wouldn't want to live in your shoes."
Alvarez gave a sneer but silently pleaded. Ryan looked at him for a while. "Pass the conditioner."
Miserable, Miguel picked it up from beside Cyril who was still listening to whatever played in his head. Shit! O'Riely wasn't going to bite.
Opening the bottle and pouring, the Irishman said, "First. Bring me the stuff then I'll consider it." Putting down the bottle he moved closer to Miguel and patted his shoulder, feeling him flinch. An evil spark lit up Ryan's eyes, he'd always liked toying with Alvarez, he was unpredictable. Kept it interesting. Kept him on his toes. Head to one side he decided, "Right. Get the stuff and then we'll work on your 'problems'"
Alvarez felt relieved, hopeful. Ryan patted his cheek softly, laughing then turned to leave calling for Cyril to follow. He waited a moment staring through the Perspex watching Hernandez, Guerra and Ricardo decending the stairs. For once something had gone right, he'd been able to draw in O'Riely without being seen. He walked out of the laundry to take a seat in front of the TV bank feeling better than he had in days. But he had been seen.
Other eyes had watched and did not like that he'd been touched.
=0=
Alvarez sat listening. He'd never spent so much time just listening to all that went on around him before. It wasn't the words that he focused on but the voices. Surely he would be able to recognise that voice? He just knew he knew the speaker but could not match up a face. And the other one, which had been disguised and ended up sounding so proper like in those old British movies. He hated being called Michael.
All his problems with El Cid had begun because he was not Latino enough, 'too white, blanco'. But he knew who he was, where he'd come from, what he was! Or so he had thought.
He focused on the TV as whoops sounded as Miss Sally began to bounce on screen. Yes! He knew what he was! Someone speaking brought his attention back to listening."...time you got past that!" His head snapped around. But no. It was just Keller and Beecher bitching at each other again.
Alvarez turned back to the TV but heard, "Fuck. Come on. Don't walk away. Talk to me." His head slowly swivelled around to catch the altercation from the corner of his eye. Something about Keller's voice tugged at his innards. Beecher was patiently staring his podmate down, saying nothing. He had grown another one of those facial experiments he termed a beard.
Alvarez' blood ran cold. No. No way. Surely not. But the way Keller was acting, he obviously hadn't been getting what he wanted. All his actions lately seemed to involve doing anything that could get him on Beecher's good side. No doubt so he could get on him literally. Would he really help the supposed love of his life capture and then toy with someone else just to keep in his good graces? No. Keller could be a mad fuck but he was territorial also. He wouldn't stand to watch someone he considered his touch someone else.
And what of Beecher? He'd had more than his share of abuse, Keller aside, with that Aryan brother piece of shit Shillinger. Got the swastika on his ass to prove it. He didn't bother hiding it in the showers anymore. Had the limp too. But wasn't it reckoned that often the abused became the abuser? Hell, Keller had. He'd also gone through Shillinger's school of hard knocks and harder shaftings then grown up to aid and abet in the breaking of Beecher's limbs. And heart apparently.
Miguel been narrowing down the list of inmates with hair on faces. He knew it wasn't the Latinos, he'd have been dead as soon as the cloth covered his face and without really knowing why, he was sure that his attackers were white. He'd seen very little, nothing more than a foot, all in a blur but he just felt that they were. Hoyt was also out, far too big to be the body he could feel in his dreams pressed up against him.
He'd not seen anyone suddenly clean shaven either. He'd been able to narrow it down to just four by elimination as the facts or bodies didn't fit. Beecher had still been on the list but not really considered. Now he really had to think. Could he just be caught up in some fucked up game between these to? Just used to continue the mind fucking that went on preventing the real thing? He found it hard to believe but many unimaginable things went on in this place. It bred them.
A load of psychotic, sociopath, rapist, murderous, drugged up testosterone bottled up together and allowed to ferment, off the streets but still a menace to this society. Undoubtedly the outside world thought they all deserved it. Some times so did he but that was best left to the politicians and moralists to argue out. He just had to contend with it. Survive it.
He'd managed to get O'Riely's co-operation in his plans for the Latino contingent as well as watching his back, but he wanted to solve this one himself. He didn't need the whole world to know his ass had a big target hanging off it. It had been near three weeks ago but somehow he just knew they'd not lost interest. His body was healing from the self inflicted marks which had taken longer than the bruises on his butt and touching the back of his head, that had stopped being tender a week ago. He had the feeling he was just being given time to heal.
Yes, they'd been careful. He'd not noticed anyone paying particular attention to him over the usual wariness they all held for each other. He had been extra conscious of his movements but he just knew they would try again and soon. He half hoped they would. They would not find him an easy hit this time, he assured himself. And if it was these two, it looked to be imminent. Keller was bursting. He'd be desperate to do anything to get Beecher to give it up at last.
Beecher turned and walked away still saying nothing. Keller stood watching him leave then turned in the opposite direction and sat at the table holding Hill, Rebadow and Brusmalis. He asked to be dealt in the card game going on under the watch of the Russian. Alvarez slunk down in his chair staring through the TV as his mind slammed itself around his skull.
=0=
"Cyril. Calm down."
He'd been bouncing around the pod for the last half-hour. "But Ryan, Auntie Brenda's commin'," just like a little kid on his birthday. "She'll bring candy." So what was he the more excited about? The visit from a woman Ryan had no time for or the chocolate?
"She did nothing for us growing up. Its just good ole guilt. That's the only reason she's coming." Ryan was getting angry remembering the times he'd turned to her for help and she had done nothing. "We're not goin."
"But Ryan…" Cyril was near tears. "I want to go see her. She'll bring candy!"
Ryan looked at his brother. Why couldn't he remember? But all he saw was that pleading look as Cyril began to rock on the lower bunk, lip quivering as the threatened tears began to fall. All he knew was that his aunt was coming with nice things to eat. "Ryaaan!" that pathetic wailing began again.
Turning to explain once more, holding his anger from showing, Ryan saw that Russian opening their pod door, a smile on his face. "Can we speak my friend?"
"Sure," he replied adding sycasticlly, "Friend." This looked interesting. Maybe he could find out why this man made his business associate so nervous. He had noticed Alvarez acting strange around a few of the inmates whom Ryan would have thought should hold no threat to him. Ryan didn't like mysteries as he craved to know all that happened around him. He needed it to stay ahead, to stay on top of things.
"Ryan. I want to see her. Ryaaan!"
Shit! He didn't need this. "Okay, okay. We'll go see her."
Cyril bounced up once more, a massive smile lighting up his face, tears forgotten as fast as they'd begun. "She'll bring candy."
Ryan watched the Russian watching Cyril. "Bro. Go outside. Stay where I can see you."
"Okay..." the child again. As he moved past the visitor, Ryan got lots of visitors, way more than him, Nikoli put out a hand to stop him.
"Wait a moment," spoken softly, then Nikoli gently wiped the tears from the damp cheeks, brushed Cyril's hair back and tenderly caressed his jaw line.
Ryan grabbed the hand away. Through clenched teeth, "Cyril. Wait outside. Now!" and his brother left, oblivious to the sharp looks exchanged behind his back.
"Yes," spoke Nikoli smiling, "It is not nice when someone else touches that which is yours. Let me tell you a story."
==000==
TBC...