di’Mucci.

Randell slumped on his bunk. Hands pressed to his ears.

Noise was his constant companion. Orders were hurled and foul-mouthed, rarely compliant, responses, were masked in the clatter of cell doors opening and shutting, keys rattling and turning and endlessly marching, echoing feet. The bedlam drummed a constant rhythm into Randell’s brain.

For a month, Randell had been the butt of every joke, defenceless against every thuggish bully. They thought it amusing to upend his cell furniture and tear to shreds his precious photographs and letters. It was equally amusing, in the recreation yard, to trip him and kick him or stamp on him. Twice Randell had taken a mauling in the latrines and, in the Mess Hall, the food which wasn’t knocked from his plate was spat on, to the guffaws of every onlooker.

In the showers? Randell wanted to forget.

The guards laughed, with just the one exception. Epstein had taken him to one side. “Go with the flow, boy. Go with the flow,” he’d whispered. “They’ll soon find someone else, maybe next week, maybe next month. Then they’ll forget about you.”

But no one forgot Randell. Each day, his agony was renewed; each night, lockdown allowed him to escape the other inmates, but there was no escape from his nightly dream.

He was running down a green-tiled corridor. Outstretched hands lunged at him from barred cells. Denim-clad, faceless, identical, snarling prisoners deluged him with paper, his confettied photos and letters. His own cell offered no refuge. Fists and feet hammered on its door making it bend, shake and, finally, creak open.

Before Randell was engulfed, he would awake, sweating, shaking, a scream upon his lips and arms lifted in protection.

One morning, it was Epstein, the warden, who shook Randell from the dream. “Wake up, boy,” he said. “Get a grip or you’ll be in the prison hospital. I’ve arranged you a job, in the library. di’Mucci the Librarian will look after you - but be careful. Watch him. Don’t turn your back on him.”

It was favouritism, almost - for which Randell expected he would pay somehow, sometime - but so badly did he want to escape the Wing, he gladly let Epstein march him away from the metal gangways of the cellblock to a corridor where the walls were lined with green tiles, the floors were real wood, not metal grilles, and the doors not barred. The library, down at the end of the cool, fresh, tiled corridor, was untidy, and even the half-closed door showed it haphazard with books and comics, magazines and newspapers. Epstein pushed the door further open. “di’Mucci,” he called. “Are you there?”

Randell glanced in. On a book-littered table, he saw a kettle, lime-scaled grimy mugs and a milk carton rimmed with yellowed cream. A water closet flushed and di’Mucci, short and fat, swarthy and grimy, appeared; he belched, thoughtfully scratched his crotch and fastened his jeans. He glanced at Randell, but greeted only the warden. “You here already, Epstein? You said ten o’clock. It’s only nine.”

“Where else would you be going, di’Mucci?” smirked Epstein. “Tea with the Mayor? If you’ve got a pressing appointment, it’s most likely in the laundry. So sorry to inconvenience you.”

Epstein’s sarcasm was studiously ignored.

Epstein pointed at Randell. “This is Watson. He’s new, finding things tough. Now I’m assigning him to you. Look after him and give him plenty to do.” He gave Randell a parting instruction. “Be ready to be escorted back to your cell at fourteen hundred hours.”

 “Bastard Epstein,” di’Mucci muttered, honouring the departing warden with a one-finger salute. Randell noticed the torn cuticles and nails bitten to the quick and beyond. “Bastard Epstein thinks he’s bleeding wonderful.” He addressed Randell. “I’m di’Mucci, in charge of the library. Only been doing it a while. What you in for? How long you doing?”

di’Mucci didn’t wait for Randell’s answer, but filled the kettle, switched it on and ran a finger round the inside of one of the mugs. “Not too bad,” he murmured as he sniffed his finger and the mug. “Tea? A cookie?” He looked at Randell and smiled.

Randell almost wept; a friendly smile! So much better than a threatening scowl.

di’Mucci waved a cookie airily over the chaos. “I’ve been looking for something. Not found it yet, but I will. You help me fix everything up, find what I want. Pile the books over there – sort them how you want,” he mouthed, spraying cookie crumbs towards the shelves. “Put the magazines and stuff on the floor. There’s a book I want, cover’s blue or maybe green. Try to find it. Some newspaper cuttings too, inside. Try to find them.” di’Mucci sat down heavily, putting his feet on the table. “And make some tea.”

He let Randell start on the mess. Randell didn’t know what he was looking for, but decided he could enjoy this work. The library was cooler than the laundry, anyway.

Randell was surprised when Epstein returned.

“Fourteen hundred hours? Already?”

The time had passed very quickly and Randell, as he returned to his cell, was already anticipating the next day. He’d found a friend and an absorbing, not unpleasant job.

That night, Randell did not dream.

It was easy enough to make inroads into the library’s disorder. Randell easily saw how its shelves might be organised, but he decided he’d take his time. If he finished too quickly, he’d be back on the Wing so he thought up plenty of delaying excuses for di’Mucci and Epstein, asked for cleaning materials and tools to mend the shelves and kit to repair the damaged books.

Randell dragged out his work, relishing every minute away from the Wing. di’Mucci made the tea and shared the cookies while Randell’s next six days ensured his progress was very slow. Even so, he could point to the library shelving he’d repaired and cleaned, show the books he’d mended and sorted into groups and the bin-loads of trash. Randell felt proud of his achievement in the library, savoured what he had done, and returned each day to the Wing and his cell with rising confidence. However, the newly established order in the library could not be long hidden.

On the seventh day, di’Mucci gazed round. “It’s good,” he pronounced, passing Randell a cup of tea, stronger and sweeter than usual. di’Mucci scratched his armpit, “Seen my book? I still want it.”

di’Mucci’s book was an intrusion upon Randell’s handiwork, but he knew just where it was. “Remind me what was it called. What colour cover did you say it had?”

“Not sure I can recall its title.” di’Mucci hesitated a moment. “The cover might have been blue, maybe green. Got torn off. Ages ago.”

Randell was so impatient to bring the book, he noticed neither di’Mucci’s hesitation nor the look on his face. Randell smoke-screened a search of the shelves and produced what di’Mucci coveted. The book had neither cover nor spine and half the title page was missing. The remainder of the sheet said ‘Notor…’

“Is this your book?” Randell held it out.

di’Mucci snatched it, eyes agleam. Scraps of paper, yellowed newsprint, fluttered from the back of the book. di’Mucci scooped them up quickly into his jeans pocket. He seemed to know the book well and he rifled through to the page he wanted. He gave a contented sigh; he had found what he needed.

“di’Mucci?”

di’Mucci was so engrossed in reading the book he didn’t hear. He knew the pages so well, he mouthed the words, smiling as a familiar account unfolded. An arrogant pride swelled upon his face.

“di’Mucci?” Randell spoke again, more loudly. di’Mucci turned to answer, a flash of annoyance on his brow.

“You still here?” Randell realised his usefulness had come to an end. His work had not been to restore the library, but to find this book and these cuttings and return them to di’Mucci. “di’Mucci? Is this book important to you?” Randell asked, “What is it about?”

“Not what, boy. Not what at all! Who!” di’Mucci looked up. “It’s called ‘Notorious Murderers’.” He passed the book to Randell. “Look at page 137. It’s about me. I’m di’Mucci!”

The book virtually fell open at page 137. Randell read, ‘The poisoner Wayne di’Mucci was found guilty on seven counts of murder. He was sentenced to 99 years’ imprisonment with no possibility of parole.’

“That’s you?” Randell queried, but he knew the answer. “How did you …” Randell searched for the right word.

“How did I do it? Like it says, boy, poison every goddam time. In the tea, you see. Easy. A smile, a cookie and loads of sugar to take away the taste. Easy. They fell for it every time.”

More newsprint, used as a marker, protruded from the book. Randell looked at the date, then headline and read on.

 ‘Murder in Lockwood Glen Penitentiary.

Three days ago, an inmate of Lockwood Glen Penitentiary was found dead in the library. CSI proved he was murdered by poisoning and are investigating how poison could have been brought into the prison. It is believed the murderer may have had inside help, but the police have found no proof to help their search.

One of Lockwood Glen’s inmates is Wayne di’Mucci, the notorious poisoner, who is responsible for the deaths of seven people and is now jailed for life.’

As Randell finished the paragraph, the door opened. There stood Epstein. A smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. “Hello, di’Mucci.” Epstein’s eyes noted the book and the cutting that Randell held. “They’ve turned up, I see.”

Randell looked at Epstein, looked at di’Mucci and recognised the web into which he had been drawn. Randell tasted again the too-hot, over-sweet tea he had just drunk and explored the peppery heat that welled into his throat. His swollen tongue filled his drying mouth and his lungs rattled as he fought to breathe. He staggered into the corridor. The tiled walls seemed to bulge and warp as he slumped to the floor. His fingers clawed uselessly at the floorboards. He knew that di’Mucci and Epstein were following, but his legs felt limp and he was too weak to crawl any further.

Epstein leant over him. “Let go, boy,” he whispered. “Go with the flow.”

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