Justice

Justice
Capital punishment wasn't abolished in the UK until 1969 although it was suspended from use from 1964.

Jack
Jack Nugent had protested his innocence from his arrest, right through his trial and right up until the moment that he was hung.
It was 1961 and although Jack had known it was all over the minute the judge had placed the black cap on his wig, he still hadn't been able to give up hope entirely.
Prison had changed him.
Jack had been a happy, go lucky type, often smiling and charming. His optimism and bright side of life outlook had served him well. Right up until he'd fallen for, and then married Wendy.
A beautiful, wild, free spirit, he'd fallen for her like a ton of bricks.
Ignoring everyone's warnings about how flighty she was he'd rushed her down the aisle so fast her feet hadn't touched the ground.
Within a year reality had snatched the blinkers from his eyes. Wendy was selfish, narcissistic and completely self-absorbed.
They'd been married less than a month when he'd come home from work earlier than usual to find her in bed with the man who was fitting their new kitchen. Unapologetic, she'd thrown on the silky kimono that he'd bought her on their honeymoon, lit a cigarette and explained that she had needs.
"I like variety Jack. That's not to say you aren't a decent lover, I enjoy sex with you, but I can't see myself having only one man for the rest of my life."
Jack had raged at her, screamed, smashed her favourite ornaments and thrown her clothes into a suitcase.
Unconcerned, Wendy had picked it up and wheeled it to the hall.
"If I leave, I will never return Jack. Be very certain of what you are doing today."
Jack had unravelled. His heart felt as though it would shatter into a million pieces without her. With tears pouring down his face he'd begged her to stay. Wendy had stroked his hair and held him to her breast. She'd taken him up to their room and they'd had the most explosive night he'd ever known.
He'd liked to have said that was the end of it, but Wendy had been entirely honest with him. She craved variety and Jack had found himself turning a blind eye to every infidelity, but each time that he did a small part of him died. The sparkle in his green eyes faded, his smile wasn't as ready, and a dark cynicism leaked into his once bright outlook.
Friends and family begged him to leave her, but Jack was a man obsessed. The more she cheated the more he believed he could change her with his devotion.
Then came Bobby St Claire. Bobby was married to Helen and after meeting at a mutual friend's garden party they'd become close friends of the Nugents.
By now Jack knew the signs and was painfully aware of exactly when Wendy had started screwing Bobby. He saw the looks they exchanged when they thought no-one was watching and the way they brushed hands as they passed each other.
They grew reckless. At one dinner party Jack became aware that Bobby had run his hand up Wendy's dress and was caressing her thigh as they sat next to their respective spouses.
Jack had patiently waited for it to end. Wendy's attention span was short and the longest she'd taken a lover for was a month with most being over within a week.
When three months had passed without signs of boredom from either cheater Jack had seen the light go out in Helen. Her once proud and elegant posture was now replaced by slumped shoulders and a head that was always dipped low. Her nails looked bitten and raw, and her laugh was brittle and sharp.
Jack tried to raise it with Wendy, but she brushed him away as she would an annoying puppy.
"I'm having fun Jack. Don't be such a spoil sport. It's not as though I deprive you in the bedroom, is it?"
To Wendy that was all there was to it. There was no heart in a relationship, no love and affection or respect, it was all about sex and gratifying her own needs.
The day that Jack's life changed forever he'd returned from work to see Bobby's car parked outside. Grimacing at the thought of being friendly with the man fucking his wife he almost turned around and went to the pub. Almost. That thought had stayed with him. The worst "what if."
What if he'd have gone to the pub without even going into the house? What if when he'd gone and in and found the house silent, he'd turned around and left? What if he'd never gone upstairs?
Of course, that was all great with hindsight, Jack had thought bitterly.
He had gone into his house that day.
Greeted by an echoing silence he'd dropped his briefcase in the hall and without bothering to remove his shoes had run up the stairs. He had no idea why he'd done that. Since the first time he'd avoided catching Wendy in the act but for some reason, that day, he'd bounded up the stairs. He'd not even hesitated when he'd reached the top, he barrelled through the door to their room and only stopped moving when he was stood at the end of their King size bed.
Bobby wasn't humping his wife; they weren't even lying in the warm afterglow of sex. Bobby was dead. Jack was sure that even if the bullet hole through his right eye hadn't killed him the beating he'd taken probably would've.
Blood was pooled around what remained of his head. Jack was fairly sure he could see grey brain matter against the pillows. The sheets had been thrown back and Bobby was naked as the day he was born. Strangely Jack felt a perverse sting of pleasure at the pitiful sight of Bobby's penis curled back into his thighs like a small reluctant animal hiding from a predator.
There was no sign of Wendy or anyone else for that matter and eventually the calm that the shock had bought began to fade. Beginning to feel the first flashes of panic Jack realised how this was going to look.
A missing wife, her dead lover and the only person in the room was the cuckold husband. There was a moment when he considered running. Packing what he could and getting the hell out of dodge. Maybe he could change his name, start again?
The sensible voice told him that was ridiculous, and Jack agreed. Shutting the door on the gruesome scene he'd calmly called 999 and reported the death. He'd sat patiently in the living room until he'd seen the blue flashing lights outside the house.
Despite his explanations Jack wasn't entirely surprised when the police arrested him and took him to the station. A man who still believed in fairness and honesty, he was sure that when he'd had time to state his case, they'd find he was telling the truth and go looking for the real killer.
Of course, that didn't happen. Jack was charged and the police looked no further. Had they checked they'd have found the train ticket that showed that he came home when he'd said he had. They'd have spoken to Mrs White across the road who had seen Wendy running from the house an hour before Jack had bounced up the drive. But they didn't do any of that. Instead, Jack was found guilty, first in the court of public opinion in the papers and then in the crown court. The judge had placed the black cap over his wig and pronounced that Jack would be hanged by the neck until dead.
Prison had been a harsh and unrelenting experience for a man who had previously not known violence. The constant fear, the fighting, the shouting and the beatings he heard, saw and endured personally, broke the last of Jack.
By the time his sentence was carried out Jack was dark and bitter. Angry at a world that had wronged him.
And when a spirit departs this world with those emotions there's no peaceful passing over, there's only hate, and darkness, and a thirst for revenge.

Present Day
Mitchell was sat on the bottom bunk in his cell.
His long legs were scrunched up uncomfortably because as a tall man the space wasn't enough for him to stretch his long legs out.
Twisting round to lay back on his bed he managed to put his legs out far enough to ease the cramps in his knees.
His cellmate, a hulking man in his mid-twenties was taking a crap in the corner.
No privacy was something you got used to quickly. Men using the facilities in front of each other and showering together. Lying in bed at night and listening to snoring, farting and masturbating from the bunk above, below or across from you was commonplace and never commented on. Not if you knew what was good for you anyway.
"Come on mate. Fuck off. I don't need a fucking audience."
Mitchell's cellmate called out, as Greasy Gary had slithered into their cell. Greasy claimed to be doing time for a robbery but prison gossip said he'd mugged and beaten an elderly woman for her pension.
Everyone had a nan, and no-one liked Gary.
"Sorry Vince. Should've realised from the stench you were having a crap."
Greasy sniggered and Vince shot him a look that silenced him.
"Greasy. Fuck off out of it. You ain't welcome in my cell."
Greasy threw Vince a sickly smile and slithered away.
Mitch turned his head, so he wasn't watching as Vince wiped and pulled his pants up. The sound of the tap running, and the flush going was the signal it was safe to look round.
"I fucking hate that little wanker, Greasy." Vince complained.
"He's not even on our floor so I don't know why the slimy little tosser keeps coming up here."
Mitch eased himself off the bunk as the buzzer heralded dinner. Vince watched in amusement as he unfurled his long body off the bunk and narrowly avoided smacking his head on the bedframe.
"They need an extra long bed and cell for you"
Mitch shrugged.
"Apparently it's tough shit and prison is supposed to be horrible so suck it up tall boy."

The evening meal was prepared by the prisoners trusted with the job of working in the kitchen.
Greasy was three ahead of them and they chuckled as he eyed his dollop of cottage pie suspiciously. Rumour had it that the kitchen blokes all took turns to spit in his food and had worked out a system of doing it so discretely he wouldn't see it happen.
Greasy was painfully aware of this but despite his reluctance he tended to eat what he was given.
The meal was okay considering the low budget allocated to the kitchens. The cons that cooked took as much pride as they could in the food they produced. The canteen was noisy, shouts and laughter and the occasional argument echoed, and the guards stationed around the room kept a close, watchful eye on everyone.
Mitch was picking the peas out of his pie when Vince elbowed him.
"Hey, hey. Lookie there. Think we might be getting some mealtime entertainment."
Mitch looked up just in time to see Calvin, one of the newer inmates, approaching Greasy with a determined look on his face.
Calvin was a gang banger, covered in gang tattoos and with an attitude that flashed from every pore he was someone most of the wing avoided. Men like Calvin were trouble.
Since the day he'd walked onto the wing he'd been spoiling for a fight. His first target had been Vince. Clearly believing the myth of picking a fight with the biggest bloke to get your kudos he'd marched up and shoved Vince out of the meal line.
Vince hadn't missed a beat. After a quick glance round to make sure the guards were out of eyeshot, he'd grabbed Calvin by the nuts and squeezed.
As Calvin's face had gone various shades of red, white and green, he'd whispered in his ear.
"Touch me again you little fucknut and I'll cut 'em off and make you eat them."
Vince had let go and calmly continued along the line, dishing up a large portion of mac and cheese before slowly walking to his seat and tucking in.
Calvin on the other hand hadn't fancied his dinner after all. He'd limped slowly and painfully to his cell and made it his business to avoid Vince from that day on.
Greasy seemed oblivious to the potential danger. Head down and forking in his cottage pie as though his life depended on it, he jumped like someone had stuck a pin in his arse when he finally realised that Calvin was right behind him.
Calvin bent down. He put his mouth to Greasy's ear and as Mitch watched he appeared to breath out. Nothing more than that, just a long, whispery breath outwards as though blowing something only he could see.
Greasy's face had frozen in an almost comical expression of horror and shock. As Calvin blew the last of his breath Greasy winced as though in pain.
Calvin stepped away. He looked down at Greasy in confusion as though working out what was going on and hastily jogged away back to the dinner line.
Greasy, however, seemed to lose his appetite. He stood up from the table, shoving his chair back with his knees and after staring at the tabletop in a daze for a moment he finally turned around started walking towards the exit.
"Greasy!"
Mayhew, the guard on dinner duty that night marched towards him whilst pointing at his abandoned plate.
"This isn't a fucking restaurant. Pick up your plate, scrape it off and leave it in the washing up area. NOW."
Mayhew wasn't a bad sort for a screw. He was tough but fair, as the saying goes. He did, however, have a standard that he expected to be met and Greasy had just broken it.
Greasy stared at him, he almost seemed hypnotised. His face was pale and grey. He cocked his head to one side as though listening to something that only he could hear, and Mitch started to feel a rising dread at what was about to happen.
By now Mayhew had reached Greasy and was loudly repeating his instruction for what he needed to do with his plate.
Greasy glanced down at it. He bent over the table and picked up the plastic fork. He turned it in his hand for a moment as though unsure of its function. Just when Mitch thought Greasy was about to pick up the rest of his stuff and do as asked, he spun towards Mayhew. Quick as lightening, so fast that no-one had a chance to even draw a breath let alone intervene, Greasy stuck the fork into Mayhew's left eye.
He pushed on it as hard as he could but with no expression on his dull face. Once he was sure he'd gone in as far as he could, he pulled back. The fork met some resistance but eventually came out, and with a squelchy pop so did the guard's eyeball.
Mayhew's screams of pain were loud enough to bring everyone else running. Not fast enough to stop Greasy shaking the eyeball off the fork and then plunging it into the other eye and repeating the operation.
As the other guards ran towards him, riot shields at the ready, Greasy flicked the eyeball on the floor where it landed next to its mate.
Mayhew by this point had collapsed to the floor and passed out. The guards with the shields were moving slowly towards Greasy and the whole room was watching with the sort of horror, but can't stop looking, behaviour of drivers passing a nasty road accident.
Greasy didn't seem in the least bit put out by the imminent rush of heavily armed guards that was about to hit him. He twisted the fork in his hand and as he did globs of a jelly like substance plopped to the floor. Mitch heard retching and realised that several men in the room were losing their dinner.
Greasy looked around the room with a kind of wonder as though unsure where he was. He lifted the fork as though he was going to drop it and then shoved it into his own eye. The guards rushed forwards at this point and Greasy was lost to view under the blanket of bulky uniforms and shields.

It wasn't long until word spread round the wing that Greasy had been transferred to one of those special hospitals, like Broadmoor. According to one of the chattier screws he'd managed to pull his own eye out before they'd got control of him though.
No-one seemed to know what had finally made the cheese slide off his cracker but apparently, when one of the guards lent over him, holding his arm to stop him jabbing his other eye, Greasy had breathed into his ear. Just like Calvin had done to him. A long outward breath. After that Greasy had started screaming. Wailing and kicking and clutching his hand to his damaged eye like he didn't know what had happened.




Paulie, the guard Greasy had breathed on, was one of the least pleasant of the screws. He was a short man with what Vince liked to call a "Hitler complex."
Paulie had an annoying habit of creeping into the cells and hoping to catch someone doing something they shouldn't. Quick to report prisoners for the slightest infraction he was universally despised.
On this particular day, Paulie was supervising the showers.
He was taking great pleasure in positioning himself so he could throw mocking looks at each man as he walked in and out of the showers. Everyone knows that there's barely any privacy inside but most blokes (and that includes screws) usually tries to do what they can to offer at least a modicum of dignity. Mitch stood behind Vince, they both had a towel wrapped around their waist, sliders on their feet and a washbag in hand.
The art was to whip your towel off at the last possible moment, leg it in, have a wash down and out as quick as possible with the towel back in place. In front of Vince was a bloke called Ranger. Ranger was huge. His shiny bald head loomed above the rest of the prisoners and his arms were so big that the prison issue shirt he usually wore stretched on the seams. Veins bulged from every limb, Ranger had no neck, just a wrinkled collection of skin like one of those bulldogs.
As he neared the front, Paulie marched over to him. Vince raised an eyebrow and gave Mitch a nudge. Paulie usually wore an expression like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle but today he looked blank.
Standing next to the man mountain that was Ranger, Paulie looked ridiculous. He stood on tiptoe and prodded Ranger in his massive bicep and beckoned him to bend down.
Ranger looked down; an irritated look passed over his face, but Ranger was an old timer. He knew the system and he knew that to piss off Paulie meant harder time. Bending reluctantly down he bought his huge face next to Paulie's.
Then Paulie did something strange. He leaned over and placed his mouth by Ranger's ear. His eyes were dull and unblinking as though he was in a trance.
Paulie breathed out, a long, seemingly unending breath. Ranger tried to pull back, to stand back up, but he didn't seem able to.
Mitch frowned. What the fuck was all this about?
Finally, Paulie stopped. His eyes cleared and his usual expression of dissatisfaction and irritation returned.
"What are you bending over me for Ranger? Do you think your sort frightens me? I've met bigger and harder than the likes of you."
Mitch very much doubted it. There couldn't be many out there the size of Ranger.
Ranger unfolded back up to his usual height. He towered over Paulie and his eyes glazed over. Usually, Ranger was a tanned looking man, although none of the prisoners had a chance to sunbath Ranger spent as much time outdoors as he could. Mitch noticed though, that his skin had a grey tinge and he looked pale under the patchwork of his tattoos.
He stared at Paulie like he'd never seen him before. His hand, the size of a garden spade, shot out and grabbed Paulie by the throat.
As Mitch and Vince watched with horror, he put his other hand on the back of Paulie's head holding him firmly in place. Paulie wriggled, like a fish on a hook.
Ranger made a claw out of the hand that had been holding his throat. He didn't hesitate. He dug it into Paulie's neck and with a yank, removed his windpipe.
Vince vomited. Mitch could feel his own nausea rising. Blood mixed with water on the tiled floor and Paulie's limp body hung from Ranger's huge hand like a broken rag doll.
He let go. Paulie slithered to the ground and lay in a crumpled heap.
That seemed to break the spell. Men started shouting, the emergency button was pushed, and chaos broke out as dozens of wet men, clad in not much more than a towel raced for the exit.
Mitch and Vince joined the exodus. Not that Ranger seemed to be taking any notice of any of them. With Paulie bleeding out on the floor, he stood still as a statue.
Alerted by the noise the other guards came running. Realising it was Ranger that was the issue they immediately went into a formation to take him down.
Ranger didn't seem to respond to any of it. His bare feet skidded on the wet tiles as the large group of officers hit him and he went down like a ton of bricks.

Mitch was due release in a couple of months. The governor had called him to the office earlier that day and given him the happy news that his release was being bought forward and he'd be leaving at the end of the week.
"Considering the trauma that you've been through and that you haven't long left on your sentence it's been decided that we should release you earlier than planned."
Mitch had thanked him and shaken his hand and was now telling Vince his bit of good news.
"Two more nights in this shit hole and I'm out of here!"
Vince tried to put a bright face on it, but Mitch could see that his news was a reminder that Vince still had another five years to go.
The bloke that had sexually assaulted Vince's much adored younger sister was still in a coma, and apparently even if he did wake up, he'd likely suffer "life changing injuries."
Vince wasn't repentant, he was always clear that he'd do the same again if the need arose. Mitch himself didn't have a story as exciting as Vince's. He hadn't been a knight in shining armour, defending the vulnerable or a loved one. Mitch was just unlucky.
Out for a drink with his mates one night a drunken punter had taken a dislike to him. Mitch was used to blokes wanting to fight the tall guy and tried to de-escalate the situation with a bit of humour. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the drunk had lost his sense of humour some time ago. He shoved Mitch and when that didn't have the result he wanted, he smashed his pint glass on the bar and charged at Mitch. Jagged glass outstretched in front of him, his face creased by rage he aimed at the highest point he could reach, which was Mitch's upper chest.
Mitch, fearing serious injury or worse, did the only thing he could think of. In a blind panic he grabbed the bar stool next to him and swung it at the drunk.
Uncoordinated by the alcohol on top of it being a completely unplanned move, the stool smacked the drunk across the head.
He toppled over like a skittle hit by a bowling ball and then landed right on the broken glass he'd been aiming at Mitch with.
He'd pleaded self-defence. He'd produced plenty of witnesses too. Not just his mates but other drinkers and the bar staff. All of them had testified that the drunk had started it and that Mitch was left with no choice but to defend himself.
In court Mitch was hopeful of a non-custodial sentence, something suspended, maybe community service. That hope was crushed when the judge, with a serious expression and grim voice announced that only a custodial sentence would send the message to young drunk men that this behaviour was unacceptable.
The drunk man, it turned out, was a wealthy banker. Mitch's defensive move had caused him permanent "life changing injuries" in the form of a long, angry scar down his chest from the broken glass. He was also claiming that the trauma had left him with PTSD and unable to work.
The judge had taken into account Mitch's previous good behaviour and lack of previous offences and in light of the provocation he reduced the sentence to 12 months. Mitch had been stunned. A whole year in prison? His defence lawyer had reassured him that no-one did the whole term and that he'd be out within 6 months if he kept his nose clean.
Now after only doing 4 months he was getting out.

The next day dragged. Mitch was finding that with a release date looming time seemed to slow right down. He focused on the routine. Getting up, having a shower, eating breakfast, shit like that.
On his last night he was in his cell alone. Vince was at the showers and Mitch was pottering around the small room checking if he'd packed everything, he wanted to take out with him. Engrossed in his mental tick list he jumped when he heard someone clear their throat at the door.
Heart pumping with a sudden rush of adrenaline Mitch spun round. It wasn't unheard of for a prisoner to take a beating on their last night and without Vince here to back him up he'd be fair game. He felt his heart slow back down as he realised that the man at the door was Jimmer.
Jimmer was one of the older prisoners, a lifer who kept his head down and had the respect of the other prisoners and screws. Mitch had never had trouble with Jimmer and certainly didn't expect any now. Jimmer wasn't looking well, Mitch thought sadly. His face was pale and tinged with grey, his eyes looked sunken, and he hadn't shaved for a few days.
Jimmer wandered in, uninvited. That was unusual too, Jimmer wasn't the sort to just walk into another man's cell unless asked to.
He put an arm around Mitch and placed his hand on his shoulder blade. Using a small amount of pressure he pushed, indicating that Mitch should bend down.
Mitch, unsure what to do for the best, decided to go with not irritating the man. He bent until his head was level with Jimmer's mouth.
Jimmer bent forwards. He exhaled a long breath into Mitch's ear. At first it felt like a gentle tickle, then the pressure grew into a sensation like a finger poked in his ear. Mitch felt an urge to pull away but found that he couldn't move.
Jimmer's breath was surprising cold, and Mitch could've sworn he heard a faint whisper.
Finally, Jimmer stepped back. Looking disorientated as though unsure how he got here he raised a hand in greeting.
"Hey there Mitch. I must be getting old, can't remember what I came here for! Well, I hear you're off tomorrow? Good luck."
Jimmer shuffled off out of the cell and Mitch plonked himself in the chair. His legs suddenly felt like jelly and his ear was itching.

That night Mitch hardly slept a wink. His mind was racing with too many thoughts, and he was starting to feel as though he had a cold coming on.
The guard on the front desk noticed when he stopped to collect the belongings he'd come in with.
"You look a little peaky fella."
Mitch nodded, "I do feel a bit off. Reckon I've got a cold coming."
The guard made a cross with his fingers, "stay away from me then. I could do without catching it."
Dressed in the clothes he'd worn to court the day he was sentenced and carrying his belongings in a bag supplied by the prison he was escorted to the front gates. Despite still feeling as though he was coming down something, he found himself walking confidently out onto the street.

Jack
For 62 years he'd been seeking the perfect host.
Someone like him.
Someone who'd suffered a miscarriage of justice.
Jack shuddered at the memory of some of them. They were either nasty, horrible, dirty people or unlikely to get released. He'd had his fun though. Pitting them against each other and punishing the screws.
Finally, he'd found the right one.
This one would take him to where he knew an 85-year-old Wendy was living out her final days.
This was the one that would grab her by her scrawny, wrinkled neck and squeeze the light out of her eyes.
Jack felt pleasure. He would enjoy watching as she faded away. He'd feed on her fear, and he'd make sure she knew who he really was before the end came.
Then he'd leave. Then he'd spend the whole of eternity making her pay.
Jack took a deep breath, the clean air of freedom filled his lungs and he smiled.