Confinement – by Monika Hocks

‘Afternoon,’ he muttered, keeping his face averted. The guards gave him a cursory glance as they passed.

‘Whatever,’ one of them grunted.

Donnie exhaled in relief. Thank goodness for public schooling.

He continued without mishap until he came to what he assumed was a mess-hall. Rows of tables and chairs spanned the length of the room, and a wall of steel-shutters ran down one side. The kitchen must lie beyond them, he reasoned.

He made it to the centre of the room when the door in front of him slammed closed and he heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Turning slowly, he was surprised, and a little put out to see six guards watching him with guns leveled at his chest.

‘Hi guys!’ He smiled amiably. ‘Come to join me for lunch?’

Not a flicker of intellect marred their neolithic features. Here were men who were proud of their Y’s; from their oversized y-fronts right down to the degenerating chromosome that gave them hair on their backs. Hoorah.

Donnie thought back to his piggy friend and wondered if the same technique mightn’t work here. Sure, there were six of them now, but what was six against a truncheon-swinging dandy such as himself?

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of slow clapping.

‘Well done, Mr Penfolde; well done.’

The speaker, a fit and wiry individual in his late fifties emerged from behind the shutters, his confident poise and expensively-cut suit identifying him as someone with authority. ‘You gave us quite a turn, you know?’

‘Did I?’ Donnie shrugged. ‘Sorry and all that. Didn’t mean to.’

The suit smiled indulgently. ‘Oh yes.  Poor Bertie here is quite inconsolable.’

He gestured at one of the guards and the mans lower lip started to quiver; in anger or despair, Donnie couldn’t tell which.

‘You see,’ the suit went on, ‘he and Mister Panix were especially good friends, and you made quite a mess of Panix, didn’t you?’

Donnie could only nod dumbly in response, his eyes held fast by Bertie’s. The guard was watching him with the intensity of a tiger moving in for the kill. A stupid tiger who’d eaten way too many hippos, but a tiger, nevertheless.

‘Would you care for some dinner?’ asked the suit.

The question threw Donnie for a six. ‘Huh?’

The suit motioned at a table. ‘You must be hungry, Mr Penfolde. Please; sit down and I’ll have a meal brought out immediately.’

‘Uh, sure’

Having no possible idea of where this was leading, Donnie carefully lowered himself into a chair. His hand automatically crept to the stun-rod at his side and the cooling strength of the metal made him feel slightly more secure. Play along, boy, play along, he cautioned himself. Anything to stall for time…

Ten minutes later, he was tucking into the fattest chicken he’d ever seen. Breasts the size of a melon and every bit as juicy. As the fat trickled down his chin, he glanced across at the guards. When the food had arrived they’d moved to the other side of the room, and were now watching him stuff his face.

Donnie gave them a little wave before shoving another gravy-soaked spud into his mouth. He’d left fear and confusion far behind and had settled into a strange kind of lunatic calm. None of this made any sense at all; they were all clearly soft in the head. The suit was nowhere in sight and Donnie wondered if he hadn’t imagined him.