Dead Cert. (Short Story) by Dr. Strange

Dead Cert.

I’m dead; the odds are against me; everyone knows; they’ve seen it all before - but there are never any witnesses. Watch for those side bets, though; they’ll bet on anything in this place: how long will I last? Will I go down fighting, take the bastards down with me? Not likely but you never know - desperation can drive you to extreme acts. Maybe I’ll top myself like that poor fucker, the Thomson kid – another victim. He didn’t stand a chance and he knew it.

Am I really any different? I thought I was; I had a plan, I wasn’t going to take it lying down, make it easy for them. It might have worked too – but time has run out. I’ll never know now. A pity; I’d give anything to wipe the stupid smiles from their ugly faces.

I’d made friends, too few, too late. I was still an outsider, really – and that could be fatal here; you needed allies; needed to belong, to be part of a gang. And as for my plans; they needed time, they were useless now. Word was that I had a day at the most…

I felt like a caged animal – helpless pray for some bigger beast; a lamb for the slaughter. But I would not go silently. I wasn’t a defenceless animal; I had a weapon; I had a brain – my brain got me the weapon. I needed to use both; my brain was my weapon. They called me Egghead; they called me Bookworm, the Cogan’s called me Worm – they saw this as my weakness. Little did they know - this was my strength!

Must think! Revise the plan; think - there must be away; OK, I had to be fearless. But the problem was I was scared shitless! And fear paralysed the mind, paralysed thinking - I knew I wasn’t thinking clearly at all …I had to get a grip; I had to think, think - think! Those fuckers were not going to get the best of me. I had to stay in control.

I used the calming technique I had learned from Barlow, from my old hustling days. He called it fire breath; slow breathing, really - but it always worked, no matter how agitated I was. Slowly, with each deep breath, I became more settled, more focused. I was starting to think better, think clearly, to get my head into gear…to relax…

Barlow taught me this; saved my life, really. If it hadn’t been for him back on the streets…well there’s no point going there…let’s just say I owe him, owe him big time. I’ll never be able to repay him now; a real regret, a deep sadness. Everything else is bullshit. Barlow was a tough act to live up to – maybe he could save me again, a final time, even if I do fail.

I knew what to do; I knew what Barlow would do – that was enough. Whether it will work or not was another matter…

I had to see it like a con; they were the marks; they were greedy, boastful - stupid. There were weaknesses and assumptions that could be exploited. They would be over-confident; they would probably toy with me, seeing me as easy pray, defenceless. Let them believe they had me at their mercy, let them believe they were in control. That would be their first mistake. Maybe it would be enough.

When they came I was ready, as ready as I ever could be. I had rehearsed it in my mind, visualised the scene. Barlow had taught me; visualise what you want to happen, make it happen.

I was on the floor, on my knees, with my head bowed and my hands up in prayer. I didn’t need to look up; I heard the sniggers at my cell door.

‘ Ha! He’s praying ! ’ They saw weakness, an easy victim.

They didn’t see the wooden table leg taped to my back. They didn't see the fierce look in my down cast eyes. I didn’t move until their legs came into my line of sight. I had marked the spot. Then it was just my hands coming up as if in surrender. I didn’t take my eyes of big Cogan’s knee as he leaned forward.

I moved: just as I had visualised; I grabbed the table leg and swung. There was an audible crunch as my makeshift baton tore through knee cartilage!  Big Cogan collapsed, screaming. His brother’s retreating knee received the next blow and he was down.  I could hardly believe it!  I was standing now and they were both howling on the floor, clutching their legs. I think I went a bit crazy then.

When I got out of solitary the Cogan’s were still in hospital. I was no longer an outsider; someone had stuck a film poster of the Judge Dredd character on my cell wall, with the note: welcome back! They cheered and chanted on my return to B block: Judge Dredd! Judge Dredd! Judge Dredd!

I think I liked my old nickname better; Bookworm! I kept thinking I’m not dead, I’m not dead – I’m alive! I intended to make the most of it; make the most of my time; two years to serve and a well stocked library at my disposal…