This is the final part of a fiction serial, in 750 words.
So off I went to Broadmoor, a maximum security prison hospital in Berkshire. Home of the crazies who are too dangerous to be around normal prisoners. I wasn’t unduly concerned of course, as I was not remotely mad. In fact, I was going to be better off there than in a mainstream prison. Maria’s husband may have had a long reach in the prison system, but he was not going to be able to engineer my killing in that place.
Once I got used to the smell, the food, and the occasional unspeakable madman who had to be avoided at all costs, it wasn’t so bad. I had a proper room on my own, with an en-suite bathroom. I was lucky to be in the refurbished wing of the Gothic monstrosity, the oldest intsitution of its kind still used by the Prison Service.
There was routine of course. Regular interviews with the doctor assigned to me, activities that were more or less compulsory unless you were disruptive. And they probably drugged my food, as I was fairly tired all the time, and surprisingly calm. In that place, seven murders were nothing much to shout about. It housed some of the worst sickos and weirdos imaginable.
To try to keep my mind active, I signed up for Art Therapy. I had been hopeless at Art when I was at school, but now I had unlimited time on my hands, I might as well give it a try.
From the first lesson, I hated the tutor. She was a civilian who was paid to come in and teach the nutters how daubing some paint about would make them nicer people, and hopefully inspire them to recant their wicked ways. To keep her safe, two attendants were present in the class at all times, not that the medicated zombies who sat painting were likely to do her any harm.
She called me Daniel. I asked her to call me Danny. I gave her that chance. But she kept calling me Daniel even after that. And she had a stupid name too. Rosalinda. Who calls their kid a name like that? Her parents must have been avid readers of romantic fiction set in the eighteenth century. And she took the piss out of my work, though she called it constructive criticism. Her most used phrase was “No, no, no”, whenever she looked at my work in progress. Then she would shake her head and smile at me like I was six years old.
One day as she started to head over to me to look at my idea of ‘the perfect view’, I quietly snapped off the end of my paintbrush. If she was about to come out with her catchphrase, I will never know. As she leaned over me, I stabbed her in the neck with the sharp end of the brush. I got in eight good thrusts before the two attendants wrestled me to the ground and sounded the alarm.
Despite some trained nurses and a doctor being rushed to the Art Room, Rosalinda didn’t make it.
Shame about that.
I expected the padded cell, or whatever they used at the time. But they transferred me to Rampton instead.
The trial was by video link. I stayed silent, and was found guilty of course. When you are already in Broadmoor for seven murders and then kill someone else, the trial is not the same as it is outside. Like I cared, either way.
Rampton was so much nicer. More modern, and great facilities. I was a marked man though, often in restraints when moved around, and always on my own for the first few months. The guards were obviousy wary of me, and that was fine by me.
A few years went by. To be honest, I lost track of time.
There was a visitor. He was a writer, and he was keen to tell my story.
“People are interested, Danny. They want to know about you. I have a book deal in place if you cooperate”.
He called me Danny. So I agreed. I told him my story, and he wrote it up as you are reading it now. I got a copy in the post, a hardback. Not as thick as I would have liked, but there you go.
Maybe you understand me, maybe not. I don’t really care.
But if I ever get out of here, and you happen to run across me somewhere, always remember one thing.
Call me Danny.