The Darkness Inside: Writer's Cut Read Online Free PDF

she swung the car into an empty space and pulled up. We sat in silence for a moment, gusts of wind tugging at the windows. The prison blocked out the view ahead, a solid wall of brick, final and absolute. I dropped the box file in the passenger footwell and looked across at her.
    “Best get moving,” I said.
    “You’re not taking the file?”
    I shook my head. “No point, not this early in proceedings. Today isn’t likely to be about details.”
    As I stepped out of the car I looked back at the gates and the knot of protesters. I saw some of the TV cameras pointed in our direction and I quickly turned away. Downes locked the car and led me towards the entrance without paying any attention to the crowd behind us.
    “Remember what we’ve agreed with Williams and his attorney,” she said as we hurried across the parking lot. “Whatever he says to you doesn’t have to be admissible, so don’t give him a Miranda warning.”
    “I can’t anyway – I’m not in law enforcement, remember.”
    “True,” she said. “But don’t worry about anything like that. Williams also doesn’t want any recordings made of your conversation, and no witnesses to overhear what he said. Think of it as an informal chat.”
    “An informal chat, right. Nothing more.”
    “You’ll be meeting in the visiting room because he feels safer knowing it’s not likely to be wired in any way.”
    “I’d prefer it if he was a little on edge. If he’s totally confident in his security, he’ll be harder to break down.”
    “His conditions. And we have to abide by them, because if he decides to clam up, there’s nothing we can do. Basically, he’s calling the shots here. We just have to hope he really does want to talk to you.”
    I nodded. “Right. Who else is going to be around?”
    “The guard on duty and I can watch through the door glass, and there’s CCTV covering the room. No sound, though.”
    “He’s not worried about lip-readers?” I was only half-joking.
    “Chances are he’ll face away from the camera,” Downes replied as we stepped into the building. I wasn't sure, but I thought she was only half-joking as well.
    Inside, we were met by a woman who identified herself as Deputy Superintendent Alia Shaw. Maybe a couple of years older than me, about my height. Blonde hair cut short. A long, haughty face to match a severe brown trouser suit she wore like body armor.
    “Special Agent Downes, Mr Rourke,” she said, extending a hand in greeting. In her other, she held visitors’ badges for the pair of us. “Welcome to MCI-Ashworth. I know Agent Downes has visited our facility before, but have you, Mr Rourke?”
    I shook my head. Inside, the prison felt like a hospital. Sterile walls and smooth floors, a slight curve to almost every edge, just to take the sharpness off. All in an off-cream color. I guessed it was supposed to soothe people, to dull the brain into utter passivity until it turned into so much grey sludge. Lobotomies without the surgery. Why they had it in the administrative part of the complex as well as the prisoner sections, I didn’t know. The air smelled of acrylic and air-con.
    “We’re a medium-security facility with maximum-security systems,” Shaw said as she led me down one of the multitude of interchangeable corridors. “We’ve only been fully operational for ten years.” She smiled. “Your tax dollars at work.”
    “Really?” I asked, feigning interest. The sound of voices echoed dully in the distance before fading out again. “Solving the overcrowding problem, huh?”
    “That’s about the shape of it.” She shepherded us through a set of locked doors to the right, nodding at the guard stationed there. We swung left and through what looked like a waiting room. Up ahead was a security station barred front and back by twin barriers like an airlock, and beyond the trap was a hospital-style door through which I could see the orderly collection of tables and chairs that made up the visiting