Confinement – by Monika Hocks

His subconscious jumped up and down for attention, but as it didn’t communicate what was bugging it, Donnie ignored the intrusion into his meal.

When he’d eaten everything but the bones, the suit reappeared.

‘I trust the meal was to your liking, Mr Penfolde?’ he asked. He could have passed as the maitre’d in any hotel.

Donnie picked at a bit of chicken stuck between his teeth and sighed. ‘Could have done with a little more salt.’

The suit smiled and shook his head admiringly. ‘Ah, Mr Penfolde. You are truly amazing.’ He gave an almost imperceptible nod and the guards moved to flank Donnie on both sides. ‘I trust your final performance will not disappoint.’

‘My final performance?’

He didn’t like the sound of that. He considered using the stun-rod, but Bertie was standing beside him holding a gun. Donnie stared into his watery eyes and immediately knew he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. Something primal and raw raged behind those eyes and it wouldn’t take much to let it break free.

With a steadily-increasing sense of his own doom, Donnie let himself be led down another series of corridors. They didn’t encounter anyone else, although they heard the occasional scream.

‘Maybe you should go help them out?’ Donnie suggested, addressing the suit who was leading the way. ‘Electro-shock therapy not agreeing with them, eh?’ It was a shot in the dark but he had little else to go on. Loony bin, hospital, some rich bastards idea of a reality show… it was all the same.

They came to a large metal door and stopped. The suit punched a sequence of numbers into a keypad, the door opened and Donnie was ushered inside. He got the impression of a high ceiling, although he couldn’t tell for sure because it was dark. The sounds of shuffling feet came from somewhere above, so he assumed he was in some kind of theatre.

Good god, he thought. Not an operating theatre. Please not an operating theatre…

A buzz of fluorescence and the room was suddenly bathed in bright light. Donnie squinted and blinked as his eyes struggled to adjust and then, when he saw where he was, he wished it was dark again.

He was in a theatre; rows of seats lined the walls in concentric rings and each seat was occupied.  If Donnie hadn’t been so distracted, he might have noted the absence of women, but the audiences demographic was the least of his worries. For in the centre of the room stood a platform, and upon that platform was a gallows. Not the primitive, wooden variety; this was a structure of galvanised steel and electronic pulleys; a veritable killing machine. Donnie barely had time to draw breath before he found himself on the platform.

‘Uh, guys,’ he babbled. ‘I think there’s been some mistake.’