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I thought I had it all figured out. I thought I’d finally gotten my act together, landed a job that would set me right up for years. Decent pay, reasonable hours, and hard enough work to keep my mind off of the business of earlier in the year. Overdose. Rehab. Don’t really wanna talk about it, honestly, but… well. Here I am.
I started the job on a Monday. Sunny day, I remember. Packed a sack lunch and everything, like it was the first day of school. Completely unironically, I had a legitimate spring in my step. Now, I know you’re thinking, what kind of sick bastard’s excited to start work as a grunt at a Class A prison, but after the couple of years I’d had, I was more than ready for a new start.
Anyway, the honeymoon phase lasted less than a month before it all started to go to shit. Mind you, I didn’t know it was going to shit at the time, but it’s pretty clear when I look back where the cutoff was.
The day they brought in Elias Bouchard.
He didn’t seem like an A classer, honestly. All prim and pressed when he arrived, escorted by a handful of coppers. Savile Row suit, face like a headmaster. When they told me he’d been charged with two homicides I really thought someone’d cocked up something along the way. I mentioned it to one of the other guards I’d struck up a friendship with right away, bloke called McGee. He’d been there for a few years, and in private security before that, and he didn’t hesitate to give me the low down on not judging a book by its cover.
“He’s what we call a jack-in-the-box, I bet you anything,” McGee told me. “He gets wound and wound and wound up, tighter and tighter, but you won’t know it’s happening till he finally just snaps. Keeps it all bottled in, that one does. Or, well, you know. Kept it.”
The rota I’d been assigned to when I started included the hall that Bouchard’s cell was in. Just my luck, I guess. My superior, a big lump of a man named Naylor, seemed to know something about Bouchard that I didn’t. None of the other inmates in his hall had the kind of restrictions Naylor informed me and the rest of my rota about. Bouchard wouldn’t be taking meals in the mess hall; his exercise hours would be staggered to avoid overlap with the regular recesses.
It wasn’t as strict as solitary confinement, as Naylor was very insistent we know that Bouchard was allowed to receive visitors, but those visitors would have to be received in his own cell instead of the main visitor’s area. I thought that was odd, since the visitor’s area had all sorts of safeguards set up— triple-layer glass, and all that. If Bouchard really was so dangerous as to require separation from the gen pop, why not offer those same protections to his visitors?
But you’ve got to understand, I was just starting out, as low level as they come, and I was so grateful for the gig I didn’t want to rock the boat by asking questions. Curiosity was what led me down the road that ended with me half-dead on the floor of a bathroom in Brixton, so, you know, I was done with all that. I just nodded at Naylor and got to work.
Bouchard had been given one of the bigger class of single rooms. When I showed up that first morning to escort him to the courtyard for his exercise, the place was bare and bleak. The man was making his bed, folding the top of the blanket down neatly.
He straightened up at the sound of the door opening, and gave my name badge a quick glance. “Mr. Danziger,” he said, in greeting. Voice like honey. He could’ve been a BBC continuity announcer, I remember thinking, if the whole murder thing hadn’t panned out.
“That’s me.”
“Elias Bouchard,” he said, and offered his hand to shake. I’d been trained; I didn’t take it. He lowered it slowly, seemingly unoffended. Even if I hadn’t seen him in that pristine herringbone three-piece when he was booked in, I think I would’ve recognized how out of place he looked in his garish outfit, colorblocked in bright blue and yellow like a Year 1 classroom.
He seemed to sense my eyes on him, because he looked down at his togs and then back up at me with a sheepish smile. “Ah,” he said “yes, quite outlandish, isn’t it? I must admit, I’m not a fan.”
“Sorry, but you’re classed as an escape risk,” I told him, though he must’ve known that already. “You’ll be wearing that for the duration.”
“Hm,” he said, “I don’t think so.” And that was odd enough, but then he looked at me, really looked at me, at my face and down at my name badge again. I felt a shiver rip down my spine, a primal anticipation like he was about to leap at me, but I’d already cuffed his hands. Instead, he just smiled at me, which was somehow worse.
Later, during shift change, I passed Naylor in the corridor coming from the direction of Bouchard’s hall. He looked like he was about to throw up, or maybe he just had.
“Something wrong, sir?” I asked.
But Naylor just shook his head, avoiding my eyes, and carried on down the corridor past me.
The very next day, when I showed up to escort Bouchard out to the yard again, he was dressed in a gray dress shirt shirt and neat black slacks that were certainly not HMP standard-issue. I cuffed him and tried to keep my expression neutral, but some measure of confusion must have shown on my face, because he let out a posh scoff.
“If I’m to be kept here indefinitely,” he said, in a patronizing tone like he was explaining something to a child, “I require a certain level of accommodation.”
Naturally, the topic of Creepy Bouchard became well-trod amongst the lads in the canteen once word got out about his antics.
“Don’t envy you dealing that one a bit,” said my mate Kinsey later that week. His less-than-ideal assignment as a mess hall guard was rapidly becoming the subject of envy for everyone who had to interact with our very own Mr. Mind Games on a daily basis.
“I’m wondering,” said McGee, “how many times the flash bastard watched Silence of the Lambs before getting booked in. If you ask me, he’s putting it on.”
“Yeah,” agreed Larson. “I bet he practices in front of the mirror.”
“And those creepy smiles,” I added. “They freak me out. He’s definitely going for that Hannibal I-want-to-eat-you thing, but it just comes off like flirting.”
I was expecting laughs, but Larson and McGee fell silent and looked at me like I was mad. “He’s been smiling at you?” McGee said, incredulous.
“Mate, that’s not good,” Kinsey said, warningly. “You must be his favorite.”
“What? Me? But why? ” I asked, but nobody could give me a satisfactory answer. Larson was just as new as I was, we’d started on the same day, so it wasn’t that Bouchard could somehow tell I was fresh meat. And I didn’t think I was his type— I mean, by then we’d had the Captain in, so rather, I knew I wasn’t his type.
But they were right. Just my luck, I suppose. Naylor hadn’t been quite the same since I passed him in the hall that day; I supposed it was down to whatever the creep had told him or done to him that made him rearrange the rota so that I was on Bouchard duty for a good three-quarters of all my shift hours.
Even then, I still didn’t think it was that bad. In denial, I guess. There were other prisoners I’d had to deal with on my shifts, other dangerous bastards with multiple murders to their name, and worse— the torturers, the paedophiles, the sex traffickers. What was one smiling slimeball to the lot of them? I could handle being his favorite, I told myself. All I did was take him food, escort him outside, stand watch outside his cell door. He wasn’t violent or disruptive like the others could be. Maybe this was even some kind of lucky break.
“Jonah,” said Bouchard, about two weeks into his imprisonment, “do you pass by a Boots on your way into work in the mornings?”
I was so thrown off by the question I didn’t even think to notice that he’d started calling me by my first name. Which I’d never told him. “What’s it to you?”
Bouchard handed me a slip of paper, a list written on it in a neat, almost old-fashioned joined-up hand. I scanned it, disbelievingly. “What the—?”
“Please bring me the items listed,” Bouchard said, “if you would, Jonah. In the event they’re out of the 2% hyaluronic solution I’ll take the rosehip toner instead, but make sure you get the moisturizer with the pink lid, not the blue one.”
“Look, I don’t know what you think my job is here, but it’s not to be your personal shopper, Bouchard,” I said, nearly outraged.
He tapped a finger on his chin. “It’d just be a quick trip.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am not, Mr. Danziger. If you don’t acquire the components of my skincare routine as requested…”
“What’ll you do? Flake dry skin on me?”
“This job of yours,” Bouchard said, “you’re quite lucky to have it, aren’t you? It’s rather to your strengths, and you get on so well with your fellow guards. I’ve seen some truly heartwarming displays of camraderie.” He looked me up and down. “But, curious. You had no experience in security or enforcement before this, and a large gap in your employment history… Now, McGee’s on duty after you tonight, if I’ve got my calendar right. Would be a shame if I told him all about the favor the Inspector did for you, bringing you on here.”
I didn’t know what to say.
But I guess now is when I have tell you about how all my... priors meant that I didn’t quite land the job on my own.
See, my mum had had to pull some strings to get it for me, is the thing, due to my history. Her best friend going way back to uni, Elise Calgary, had recently risen to Chief Inspector, and after a ladies’ night and plenty of wine, my application just so happened to appear at the top of the stack. Above dozens of men, all far more qualified than me.
Anyway, nobody at Belmarsh knew I’d been helped out by my mum and Calgary. Nobody knew anything about me, and I was desperate to keep it that way. This was the first time I’d had a real job since I was a teenager, since before the drugs and the dole and all the near-misses that led me right to rehab at last. The first time I’d had real friends, honestly. If the other lads found out I was a momma’s boy and a former junkie to boot— I’d be done for. They’d never look at me the same way again, never laugh with me in the canteen during breaks.
So, anyway. Bouchard was looking at me, waiting for me to say something.
I managed to bluster, “How the hell do you know that? Has— has Calgary been in here?”
“Not today, Jonah. I doubt she’d tell me that sort of thing, anyway. She’s a good woman. Loyal enough.”
“Then how—”
“Does it matter? All you need to know is that I know, and that if you don’t want all your mates to know as well, you’d best do what I say.” He pronounced mates like it was a dirty word.
I nodded, silently. He’d known he’d had me from the start, I couldn’t see the use in keeping up the protests. The next morning when I came to bring him his breakfast, I passed him the bag of skincare products and he unleashed that awful smile on me again. “Thank you, Jonah,” he said. I grunted some response, ashamed out of my mind.
I was meant to be posted outside of Bouchard’s room, but after that, he started to call me inside when the mood struck him for company, which was often. He’d make me sit there and listen while he droned on about politics, the Tory bastard, or classical music or modern art. It’s not that I had anything to contribute to the conversation, obviously. I could tell he was just used to being listened to, used to having people to boss around. I was there simply to fill that need.
The only time I got a moment of respite was when he had visitors. Inspector Calgary came by sometimes. She didn’t look happy to be there, more like it was some kind of obligation. I wondered what he was telling her.
There was Nancy Drew, as we called her, because Bouchard would always crow, “Detective!” when she walked in. I’d lock the door behind her and then listen to muffled shouts and arguments from inside. For all she seemed to hate him, she sure showed up a lot.
But by far Bouchard’s most frequent visitor was the Captain. You ever meet someone real short, who somehow manages to come off like they’re tall? Well, this guy was the opposite. He must’ve had six inches on me but there was something about him that was… diminished, I don’t know how else to put it.
The UK prison system doesn’t allow for conjugal visits, but we all knew what was going on when the Captain came by. They certainly were loud enough about it, even through the thick metal door. During visits there were two guards on duty, the other one usually being McGee, and he and I would go back and forth, trying to guess what positions they were in, and all that. Just to pass the time.
It really didn’t follow any protocol I was aware of, the way we handled Bouchard. It was like the whole prisoner business was a fetish of his that we had the privilege of indulging, instead of part of the due process of law.
And I still couldn’t figure out why I’d been chosen to be his favorite. I’m nothing special, honest. Sixth-form dropout, no skills or standout talents.
I did ask him, mind you. But all he’d say was, “You remind me of someone I used to know.”
Somehow, this went on for months. He’d stare at me with those eyes, pale and blue and looking somehow out of place on his sallow face, and ask me questions about myself that I got the feeling he already knew the answers to already. When I’d refuse to answer, trying to preserve my dignity, he’d bring up the Calgary thing, or some other highly embarrassing item it was even more impossible for him to have known— my porn habits, my love for Doctor Who.
There were a few times I nearly went to the warden about it. I’d practice what I was going to say, how I could get him to believe me. Sir, Bouchard needs to be stripped of his privileges and fitted with a gag, due to the fact that he’s a freaky fucking psychic who gets off on blackmailing you with your darkest secrets.
But before I could work up the nerve, I saw the warden leaving Bouchard’s cell. One of the other lads must have beaten me to it, telling him (or trying to tell him) what was going on. And he had that same look I’d seen on Naylor’s face before Bouchard got his nice clothes; the same look I must’ve worn when he taunted me about Calgary’s nepotism.
And the next time I saw inside his cell, Bouchard had managed to acquire an expensive looking stereo turntable and an impossibly thick blanket for his cot. He had us running a fucking five-star hotel for him. It disgusted me— he’d killed two people, for Chrissakes.
The last straw was— well, it’s why I’m here, honestly. Everything else was explainable, or at least ignorable.
But then one day, about an hour into a visit from the Captain, McGee leaned over and snarked to me, “D’you think he leaves the captain’s hat on when they fuck?” And with the absolute perfect timing of a man who’d broken a mirror with a big meaty elbow in the gent’s earlier that week, that was the precise moment the door creaked open to readmit the Captain into the hall. McGee went as red as a tomato as the Captain stared at him, obviously having heard the jab. His hat was on, and underneath it, his face was unreadable. From inside, I heard Bouchard laugh cruelly.
And then the Captain waved his hand, and McGee was gone. Just— gone.
I could deal with being a one-man harem. I could deal with the stares, and the smiles, and the questions, and the constant invasions of privacy. I’ve been through a lot, and I’m English— my tolerance is high.
But McGee was my friend. I’d done what I did, all that humiliating shit with Bouchard, fetching him creams and sitting there listening to his stupid operas with him, so that McGee would stay my friend. And now Bouchard’s shriveled, musty boyfriend had gone and—what, erased him? Deleted him?
I’d had enough. Not even the money could keep me there anymore. I couldn’t be dealing with fucking ghosts or psychics or psychic ghost murderers. And I didn’t want to be there when the rest of the lads found out about McGee.
So I quit. Didn’t even give notice, just dropped my uniform and badge off in the warden’s office. I never wanted to see Bouchard’s prissy little face again.
I was on the Tube home when it happened. Doing a bit of yoga breathing like I’d been taught in rehab, trying to center myself, tell myself it would all be alright. I’d find another job. Somehow.
And then suddenly Bouchard’s face was filling my mind, like a hallucination, only I knew I was sober, I’d been sober for a year. But there he was, all the same, smiling at me, leering at me from inside my own head, and I could hear him just as clearly as I could see him, and he said, “Be seeing you, Jonah.”
I got off at the next stop, even though it wasn’t mine, and vomited into a bin right there on the platform.
When I finally staggered back to my flat, I looked up Bouchard online. Don’t know why I hadn’t earlier, though I suppose it was because I knew his criminal case hadn’t been reported to the public, and that was really all that mattered at the time.
The first result that popped up was the website for this place, the Magnus Institute.
I read the about page, and there’s an old photograph of the founder there. Funny— same first name as me. And we look a bit alike. Strong jaw, light eyes, dark hair.
But that’s just a coincidence. That has nothing to do with any of this.
Right?
Statement ends.
**