CASH & CREDIT 12

The morning began with an unaccustomed thunderous sound that seemed to shake the whole building. As his mind struggled to consciousness, the nightmare returned. He was a prisoner.

A single stark light bulb protruding from the grimy ceiling suddenly came to life, causing his companions in the cell to curse and mutter darkly about ‘screws’ with a few adjectives thrown in.

“Got some burn, mate?” growled one of his cellmates, a black man who hadn’t shaved in a long time, his fingernails black and ragged.

“No” he said, daring not to say “Sorry”. He instinctively knew that it would be suicide to show weakness in this place of jackals. He turned his head away to avoid seeing the third man squat over a pot to pass the piece of dope he had stashed there from a visit earlier that day.