Justice (Chapter Four)

Chapter Four
I did not think about Shannon. Instead, I allowed my fingers to trace the grout in between the tiles over and over again as I hacked through every cell of my brain to try to find some solution to this mess.
Our plan had been simple - to recover the evidence, to take it to Libertarious and to expose Sense for what it really was, for how it really ran its operations. Most of all, I’d hoped it would prove that what they’d said about Dad wasn’t true, that I could clear his name and make Mum realise that he’d never left us, not how she thought anyway.
We’d planned everything so carefully. I contacted Maggie in Sweden and she’d helped us to track down when and where the next riots, or as Sense called them, Parasite-troubles, were taking place. The idea was that most of the Reds would be pre-occupied with the looting and fighting and wouldn’t notice us breaching a government building on a November night. We’d steal the discs and hide until the riots were over - simple.
Sitting beside the drain that doubled up as my toilet, with Sense in possession of the discs and Shannon mutilated, it occurred to me that ‘simple’ wasn’t an appropriate description.
Without warning, the door to the pen swung open. A Red I hadn’t seen before clicked his fingers and patted his knee, commanding me to follow him. I took my time. Cuffed, I was shunted down narrow corridors, a labyrinth of pens containing countless Parasites, towards the reception area.
I stood tall. If they were going to take me down to some basement where Fake Finger would bombard me with questions before sawing my finger off, well, I was going down there with a little dignity.
As we approached the counter, the grey haired Red on the desk flicked his head to one side and curved his gaze towards another approaching pairing of Red with white-clad prisoner. It was Clenched Fists, but it took a moment for me to recognise him.
His face was shockingly bruised down one side – a huge muddy spill running to a split lip. The bruises carried on down his neck, vast hand prints studded around his jugular. His skin was a map of broken continents.
The Red removed my cuffs; the same release was not offered to Clenched Fists.
Standing next to him, I realised for the first time just how tall he was compared to my 5’4”. He must have been close to 6’3”, but broad and powerful as well. Gradually, he shifted his weight with a wincing grimace suggesting a hoard of wounds beneath his overalls. I edged away from him as the smell of musty, bitter sweat filtered from his underarms, a rotten, meaty odour. Then, it crossed my mind to sniff my own underarms and I realised that I wasn’t doing much better. Stubble swept his cheeks in black swathes and his dark brown eyes were shot with blood. He looked like a poster-boy for a homelessness or drug addiction charity.
He must have caught me looking at him because he manoeuvred to return the gesture. Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the static clump that I used to call my hair sprouting from my head. I realised I should be on that charity poster with him. I tried to pat the clump of hair into place. However, I stopped when my eyes caught the row of welts across his knuckles. On both hands, the skin had been replaced with red, acidic spots of raw flesh. Had they tortured him because of his attempt to escape? Or had he been punching the walls all night? Reluctantly, I found my eyes darting down to his fingers. I exhaled slowly. They were all still there. Well, at least he was better off than Shannon.
The Red at the desk tapped his keyboard, repeatedly backspacing due to his inability to type; the requirements to enter at Sense at his level were evidently not of the academic variety. He looked at Clenched Fists and said,
“You have one phone call. Want it?”
“No.” His accent was South London and blunt.
“Your sentencing will commence now. We have received the necessary files from the Grey-Coats. The following computer message will inform you of your sentencing.”
“I haven’t had a trial.”
The Red sneered,
“In the interests of efficiency, we no longer require trials. Sense is permitted to sentence Parasites based on interview reports, CCTV and background data. You were seen, on camera, leading a Parasite group.”
Ineptly, the Red clicked away at more buttons and then carelessly flipped the screen round to face Clenched Fists. What greeted us was something I had only read about.
A stark, grey screen flashed to life displaying a 3D computer generated mouth implanted at its centre. The charcoal orifice, with its cracked lips, began to pass sentence in a simulated monotone,
“Isaac Coleman. Address: Flat 270, Parkfield Estate, Brixton, London. You are guilty of inciting Parasite-troubles, looting electrical goods and assaulting a Red-Coat officer. CCTV footage and your personal computer show that you have been in contact with Liberarious for three months. Sense considers such behaviour as a serious attempt to disrupt the peace of our calm society. From this compound, you are to be sent to Darkmoor for correctional rehabilitation.”
The padded, dead lips ceased to move, yet an unnatural, black sliver remained between them, giving the impression that the grey mouth was rotting from the inside. Slowly, the lips morphed into the hard fist of Sense and the screen died.
Isaac shrugged.
“Your little mouth didn’t say when I get out.”
“That’s because you get out when we want you to get out. If we want you to get out. After Darkmoor, it might be better if you never do.”
Isaac shrugged again.
“Sounds like a holiday. Can’t be worse than my estate.”
“See if you’re saying that in a few weeks. You hear that 212, he thinks Darkmoor is going to be a holiday! What he doesn’t know is that they’ll fiddle with his brain – stuff him with electricity until he doesn’t even know his own name.”
Isaac’s eyes narrowed.
“So you’ve been there then, yeah? Thought so, you sound like someone who’s had their brain screwed with, yeah, that makes a lot of sense now.”
I watched on as the Red grabbed the folder from the desk. With one motion, he sliced the sharp side across Isaac’s already bloated face and trailed a threaded gash down to his jaw.
I jumped back, but Isaac didn’t move.
He smiled. His tongue swept out of his mouth to lick the blood from his cheek. It was then that I decided that he was a total psychopath.
“Take him and put him in the end pen until they come for him – the one with the drain flooded by the last ‘site. It’s about time he got used to it; there aren’t any five star pens at Darkmoor.”
At that, Isaac turned to me, his wry smile flicking sharply to one side like a cat’s tail,
“Don’t take any crap from them little girl. And remember to keep your feet to yourself this time.”
Great, the psychopath had decided to be conversational.
“I don’t need a lesson from you, thank you. My feet go where I want them to; you just need to look where you're walking.”
His grin collapsed.
I watched as he was taken by the shoulders and shunted back into the maze of the compound. His imposing outline engulfed the Red as they turned and receded into the distance.
So, now it was my turn. I stood and dreaded the mouth that would deliver my fate.
But, instead, the Red said,
“Take her down to the basement 212.”