Tomorrow is The Big Day. The day ACID is unleashed on the world (OK, the UK!). So to give you a taster of what's to come, I thought I would post the first chapter here on my blog…
CHAPTER
1
Mileway Maximum Security Prison, Outer London
12th April 2113
The first time I notice the new inmate is
when we’re all lined up outside our cells for morning head count. He’s standing
five doors down from me, sneaking glances at the rest of us as the guards wave
their wrist-scanners across our hips to read the spytags that are implanted
when we first get here.
His blonde hair is cropped close and the
white T-shirt straining across his gut is crisp and fresh; he must have arrived
in the night. When his gaze lands on me, he does a double take, just as I knew
he would. Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I can tell what he’s
thinking as clearly as if he’d said it out loud: A girl? Here? What the hell?
And then, so quickly I almost miss it, a
smile flickers across his lips, his eyes narrowing as his surprise turns to
anticipation. A girl. Here. What’re the chances?
I curl my lip into a snarl, half tempted to
go over there and introduce him to my fists. What a creep. But what did I
expect? At Mileway, I stand out like . . . well, like a seventeen-year-old
female in a prison full of men.
One of the guards, dressed in a black ACID
uniform, reaches me. ‘Strong, Jenna – Prisoner ID 4347X,’ he intones. I clasp
my hands behind my back, gazing straight ahead, feeling Creep’s stare drilling
into me. ‘What’s she in for?’ I hear him ask one of the other guards. The guard
doesn’t answer, just scans his hip and moves on down the line.
After the count, breakfast is served:
cereal and watery substitute milk. A lot of the food we get here is sub –
super-cheap, made out of synthetic protein. Real food isn’t worth wasting on
criminals. As usual, I eat standing up, leaning against a pillar by the catwalk
in front of the cells, one foot tucked up behind me. ‘This crap gets worse
every day,’ one of the guys at a nearby table grumbles, lifting up his spoon
and letting the mushy grey cereal plop back into his bowl. Neil Rennick,
ex-Anarchy Regiment, who, ten years ago, blew up an ACID van with fifteen
agents inside it, before going on the run. ACID finally caught up with him last
year, and a month after his arrival he tried to corner me in my cell, which is
how he got the scar that runs from his right eyebrow to the corner of his jaw.
I got five weeks in solitary, but it was worth it. Now he leaves me alone, just
like everyone else.
‘They’re trying to kill us, is what they’re
trying to do,’ Rennick says loudly, looking around, trying to gather an
audience. ‘And you know what? They can go—’
A guard hears him and steps forward. ‘Watch
that mouth of yours, Rennick,’ he says, jabbing the muzzle of his pulse gun
between Rennick’s shoulder blades and flipping the charger switch back.
The gun powers up with a whine. Rennick
clenches his jaw, and after a few moments the guard steps away. Every so often,
the inmates’ hatred will spill over, and they’ll riot. It’s happened four times
since I came here – although I’m not stupid or suicidal enough to have been
involved – but at this time of day, everyone’s still half asleep. Rennick
finishes his cereal in silence. I see Creep staring at him and the guard.
Rennick sees too, and gives him the finger.
When I’ve eaten my breakfast, I return to
my cell. The other inmates have to share theirs with five, sometimes even six
other people, but I have mine to myself – the one and only concession the
prison have made to my gender. Peering into the square of polished metal
riveted to the wall by my bunk, I run my hand over my scalp. Every other day, I
shave it with a razor made out of a sharpened plastic spoon which I keep hidden
inside a loose section of my bunk frame. It goes better with the scars on my
face and the shadows under my eyes than the waist-length, glossy chestnut hair
I had two years ago, when I was a privileged Upper girl with her own en-suite
bathroom, a chauffeur and unlimited access to her father’s bank account.
I glower at my reflection. Why the hell am
I thinking about my parents? I've only been up half an hour, and already I'm
feeling depressed. I turn away from the mirror and leave my cell to go down to
the gym, a gloomy cave in the incarceration tower basement that smells of mould
and drains. No one else is down there yet. After some stretches to warm up, I
grab a set of weights and do reps until my arms burn, before moving on to the
leg press. After that, I switch to the treadmill. As I lose myself in the
rhythmic slap of my feet against the worn rubber belt, the gloomy thoughts that
drove me down here fade. I count the miles under my breath, my gaze fixed on
the holoscreen display in front of me. ‘One . . . two . . . three . . .’
I step off eight miles later, drenched in
sweat and breathing hard. I’m about to pull up the bottom of my T-shirt to wipe
my face when I hear a sound behind me. I turn. Creep’s in the doorway, staring.
I’m guessing from the way his mouth’s hanging open in amazement that he’s been
watching me work out for a while.
‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer,’ I
snap, shouldering past him to go back up to my cell. I can feel him still
watching me as I go. Hopefully he’s got a good view of the tattoo on the back
of my neck, the one I did myself last year using ink from a pen I found in the
laundry and a shard of metal, telling him and anyone else who cares to read it
to FUCK OFF.
By the time I’ve showered and changed, the
job lists are up on the holoscreens outside the cells, and I see I’m on kitchen
detail. I recognize all the other names on the list except one – 6292D Liffey.
I feel my heart sink. And when I reach the kitchen, there
he is, goggling at me.
Creep.
I ignore him, pulling on an overall and
heading over to the other side of the kitchen where vegetables are piled on one
of the battered metal worktops, waiting to be prepared for the evening meal.
Creep is sent to operate the dishwashers on the other side of the kitchen. I
scrub and peel and chop and slice, heaping stuff into the pans on top of the
stoves nearby, not letting myself think about anything except the task in front
of me. When we get a break for lunch at midday, I line up with the rest,
waiting for the guards to hand out the food – dry bread, sub cheese and water,
which we eat and drink down in the kitchen to save time.
I’m about to pick up a cup when the guard
holding the tray jolts it like he’s about to drop it. Instinctively, I reach
out to steady it. The guard nods and hands me a cup. The water in it tastes
chalky; I gulp it down in three swallows, trying not to make a face. When I put
my cup down, I see Creep staring at me again.
After that, it’s back to food prep:
lighting the stoves and fetching trays of gristly meat, swimming in brownish,
watery blood, from one the vast fridges that line the right-hand side of the
kitchen. Usually I’ve got a strong stomach, but as I start to saw the pieces of
meat up with a blunted knife, the coppery stink of the blood steals into my
nostrils and I have to swallow hard against a wave of nausea. What animal did
this come from? An elephant? I wouldn’t put it past them.
When the meat’s ready, I carry it over to
one of the stoves so the inmate stirring the stew pots can tip it in. For the
first time, I notice how hot it is – much hotter than it usually gets down
here. And the stewing meat smells bad – really bad. A headache starts to
pulsate deep inside my skull, turning my stomach sour. As I gulp down another
surge of nausea, I realize the skin on my forearms feels sore and tight. Great.
I must be coming down with something. But what? I felt fine when I got up this
morning.
Dammit, I’m not going to the infirmary. I
fetch another tray of meat and carry it over to a worktop between the
ventilation shafts and the end of the row of fridges, hoping it’ll be cooler
there. Then I turn back, thinking I’ll go and look for a sharper knife and get
this stuff cut up a bit faster.
And almost collide with Creep.
He grins at me, showing yellow, peg-like
teeth. ‘Hello.’
‘Get lost,’ I tell him. I try to push past
him, but he steps in front of me, blocking my way.
‘Now, that ain’t nice,’ he says.
‘I’m not nice,’ I say.
‘Oh, I think I’ll be the judge of that,
don’t you, darlin’?’ His gaze slides from my face to my chest – not that
there’s much to see – and the tip of his tongue flickers out from between his
lips like a snake’s.
‘Don’t bother,’ I say.
‘Don’t bother with what?’ His tone’s light,
innocent.
‘You know what.’ At my temples, the
headache snarls and pounds. Just deck him! a little voice in my head says. But
I don’t want another stretch in solitary. I’ll get dragged in front of the
governor, lose my gym privileges. It’s too much hassle.
‘I just want to get acquainted, darlin’,’
he says. ‘Must be lonely in here for a young lady like you.’ His gaze shifts to
my legs, then begins to crawl up them.
‘Yeah, and you know what?’ I say. ‘I like
it that way.’
‘You don’t mean that. Think what a good
time we could have, me and you.’
‘Believe me, it’ll be anything but good.
For you, that is.’
‘Really?’ he says.
And lunges at me.
I bring my arm up and pivot sideways so
that, as Creep tries to grab me, he’s thrown off balance and staggers against
the worktop. Before he can recover I spin and kick out, planting my left foot
squarely in his stomach. He doubles over with a strangled-sounding Oof. Then,
as he tries to straighten up and get hold of the edge of the worktop, I lace my
hands together and bring them down hard on the back of his neck. He pitches
forward onto the floor, catching the tray with his outstretched fingers and
showering himself in watery blood and lumps of meat. As he cracks his chin on
the tiles at my feet, he gives a yelp of pain which tails off into a whimper.
‘I tried to warn you,’ I say, my throbbing
skin and thumping head momentarily forgotten. ‘Maybe you’ll listen to me next
time, huh?’
I push my foot into his neck to emphasize
my point. Coughing, he rolls onto his back, trying to twist away from me. Blood
– his own – is streaming from his mouth; he must have bitten his tongue when he
smashed his chin against the floor.
‘What’re you in here for, anyway?’ he
mumbles thickly, spitting red froth.
‘You really wanna know?’ I say.
He nods.
I lean down until our faces are so close we
could kiss.
‘I killed my parents,’ I murmur, and watch
his eyes go wide.
© Emma Pass 2013. All rights reserved. Please do not reproduce without permission.
Want to read more? Buy ACID from Random House, Amazon or The Book Depository. Tomorrow I'll be blogging over at the Lucky 13s and being interviewed over at Author Allsorts, so check back here for links!
