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that
treats its old war heroes with pomp and ceremony
every November and its returning soldiers rather less
well, he ended up, like many of his comrades lucky
enough to make it home, as an alcoholic, mentally ill
and living on the cold and comfortless streets of
London. Early commuters had disturbed his lager-fuelled
sleep and he was setting out across the common
to a homeless shelter where he could get a hot
cup of tea and a moderately warm bacon sandwich.
    His bladder full, he stopped to relieve himself
against a tree, but even as he fumbled with his trouser
zipper, hidden deep under many layers of shirts,
jumpers and coats, he saw the body lying in the
undergrowth near his feet, saw the unnatural pallor
of her skin, alabaster against the black shine of her
hair, and knew it for what it was. He had seen
enough corpses in his days of service. He turned away
and shuffled off. He'd learned that in the army as
well. Never volunteer. Never get involved. He'd done
that once for Queen and Country and what had he
got for his troubles? Royally fucked over, that's
what. He spat and limped onwards. Let the citizens
deal with it.
    Seven o'clock. Kevin Norrell was back in the
communal shower room of Bayfield Prison. He took
the towel from his waist, put it to one side and
twisted the dial set into the wall, standing beneath the
jets of water as he let them pummel his massive,
chemically enhanced body and groaned in satisfaction.
He had spent the last hour lifting weights in
the prison gym. Being on remand had not affected his
workout routines at all and he intended to leave in
better physical condition than he entered. Having an
office right across the road from a burger bar had
helped put a layer of fat over the hard muscles of his
stomach. But that fat was being quickly burned
away, and with every bench press he had but a single
thought in his mind. Kevin Norrell didn't intend
spending much more time inside prison walls and to
escape he needed to be moved to another, lower
security facility. He grunted as he turned the heat up
on the shower. He'd already made a start towards the
road to freedom and this morning he'd take another
step and it wouldn't be long before he was moved to
the prison of his choice. He could practically
guarantee it.
    He poured some shower gel in his hand, his eyes
flicking back and forth watchfully as he did so. It was
a reflex you needed to develop in prison, if you wanted
to survive, and if Kevin Norrell had learned one thing
in all his time over the years in institutions and prisons
it was that you never dropped your guard. Put it in the
bank. You dropped your guard and you'd be fucked
ten ways by Sunday. Especially in the shower. He
continued soaping his body and let the powerful jets
pummel the suds away, but he kept the shampoo from
his hair, keeping his eyes clear. As he reached up to
turn the shower off he felt, rather than saw, the three
men who approached, moving on him fast now. He
flailed out instinctively, slamming his ham-like fist
sideways, crushing one man's throat and knocking
him down before the others held his arm and two
more came into the shower room. He felt himself
being pushed to the floor, and charging foward he fell;
landing on one knee in a toilet stall, he reached out,
putting his arms around the stainless-steel base of the
lidless toilet and gripping hard. One of the men
pummelled his head with a heavy fist as the other
kicked him viciously in the ribs, trying to dislodge him.
He felt a rib crack. Norrell grunted with pain and
anger and wrenched upward, tearing the bowl clear
from the floor as his steroid-enhanced, brute strength
ripped the screws free. He roared up, red-faced,
furious with effort and smashed the bowl full into the
face of the first man, the second slipping on the water
that was now gushing from the exposed plumbing. He
smashed the bowl again, turning the fallen man's head
into a shapeless