6
The first three cells were empty. There was a smell of disinfectant and unwashed bodies in the air. I made no sound on the rubber flooring, but I walked on my toes down the narrow gangway, one side of which was the row of cells, and on the other side the high wire screen guarding the sheer drop into the main hall of the prison below. The mesh of the wire screen was so fine that it was not possible to see through it into the lower galleries.
There was movement in the fourth cell. I paused, peered in. A fat old woman, raddled, decaying, grinned toothlessly at me.
“Hello, pretty boy,” she said, waddling to the bars. She grasped the bars with raw hands. “Ain’t seen a man for ten years. Coming to see me, precious?”
My face was stiff with fright. I shook my head, edged past her, my back scraping along the wire screen.
“After the young ’un, are you?” she leered. “You’ll like her. But watch Bugsey. She’s in the next cell. She hates screws.”
I edged on, staring at the old woman fascinated. As I came to the sixth cell an arm shot through the bars, a thin, sinewy hand gripped my wrist.
I started back, trying to drag myself free. The grip bit into my flesh. The bloodless fingers were terribly strong.
My face was damp with sweat. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach.
I allowed the hand to pull me to the bars so that my face was against the cold steel of the door. I found myself face to face with a young blonde whose mad burning eyes glared ferociously at me. She hissed at me through clenched teeth. Little flecks of foam bubbled on her lips. My hair moved on the back of my neck, my heart skipped a beat. Her other hand whipped through the bars and caught my coat collar.