The Curiosities Concerning Fate

∷ Chapter 18 ∷

THE HALLS OF Newgate Prison were silent at this time of the night, the prisoners fast asleep despite the circumstances of their living conditions. A lonesome man sat against the wall in cell 20, his leg bent and his elbow resting against it.

The full moon was visible through the barred window, accompanied by the misty grey silhouette of passing clouds. As he stared at it, his right eye twitched involuntarily, causing him to grunt in frustration, pressing his hand against it to stop the movement. In his state of supposed absentmindedness, he did not realise he had been tapping his fingers on the bars of his cell, the ensuing noise ricocheting across the empty halls.

"Hey, M," a hoarse voice called out, disrupting the otherwise peaceful silence.

The man's attention shifted in the direction of the cell directly across from his: cell 21, his piercing gaze zeroing in on its occupant, though he said nothing.

"Could you maybe stop that?" the figure in 21 bobbed his head slightly to indicate the man's fingers still tapping ceaselessly against the metal bars.

The man, M, glanced at his hand in an almost lazy-like manner, pausing for a moment before pulling away without a word. Silence ensued once more but was interrupted yet again when cell 21 asked, "Can't sleep?"

For a moment, it seemed as though cell 21 was speaking to himself when he received no reply. The silence between them stretched on before M suddenly asked, "How long has it been?"

It confused the inmate in cell 21 who hadn't a cause to regulate the use of his mental capacities. He frowned, unable to discern the question's purpose.

"I don't understand," he said.

Amending his earlier words, M said, "How long has it been since I got here?"

Cell 21 had been an inmate for far longer than him, and though the question required basic arithmetic, he couldn't seem to make it work. His frown deepened and he hazarded a guess instead.

"Ten years?"

M nodded, 21's assumption was surprisingly accurate.

"Ten years," he repeated. "Ten bloody years, stuck in this place and I'm finally getting out."

"Are you excited?"

M winced at the choice of word.

"I'm . . . anticipating the moment I get to walk out of here," he corrected.

M was essentially taciturn in nature, hardly speaking a word, but would often get a crazed look in his eyes whenever he spoke of his plans when he'd finally be released from Newgate. The same hints of insanity were reflected in his eyes now and it scared the inmate in cell 21 who had gone unnaturally quiet despite initiating the conversation.

After a moment's pause and the inability to keep his curiosity at bay, 21 found himself asking, "What will you do once you're free to go? What's your plan?"

Rather unexpectedly, a sly grin appeared on M's face. He shifted, angling his body towards the neighbouring cell.

"Are you curious?" he asked.

21 nodded.

M shifted again, lifting a hand and pointing to his right eye where a long scar stretched from the edge of his forehead to the bridge of his nose, cutting straight into his eye.

"Do you see this?" he asked, to which the inmate mumbled, yes.

Everyone in block 18A of Newgate Prison knew of the scar that marred the man's face and left him blind in one eye but no one knew the cause of it, nor were they brave enough to ask. The prison was a terrifying place and sometimes, it was best to keep your curiosity bottled and your mouth shut.

But the loss of his sight was not the only thing that resulted from the attack, for the nerves surrounding the eye had been badly damaged as well, causing spasmodic twitches that could not be controlled. The man's right eye started twitching just then, as though it knew attention had been brought upon it.

This time, however, he did not bother trying to suppress the involuntary movement, choosing to ignore it as he asked, "What was I convicted for?"

The answer was easy enough, and with confidence, cell 21 said, "Murder."

A common conviction among the many in 18A, a maximum-security block that housed the more dangerous criminals, with a staggering percentage of those whose charges included but were not limited to murder.

"Attempted murder," M corrected with mild annoyance. "The stupid bastard didn't die."

Cell 21 glanced at the scar on the man's face and in a quiet voice, asked, "Did the person do that to you? The one you wanted to kill."

"Self-defence was the plead at court," he scoffed. "But it was enough to get me convicted. These people . . . They never see it our way. They always listen to the poor, pathetic victim. What about us? No one listens to us."

"You're going to find them again, aren't you?" 21 asked, deducing the man's plan upon his release from Newgate. "The person who gave you that scar. You're going to find them, and you're going to finish what you started all those years ago."

M couldn't stop the smirk that threatened to appear on his otherwise composed expression. The inmate in 21 was right in his assumptions but he said nothing. He didn't confirm nor deny the words. He wasn't stupid. He wouldn't risk the possibility of having his words used against him in the future should he ever be suspect in a murder trial again.

"It's been ten years, M," 21 said. "None of us has had contact with the outside world. We know nothing of the advancements and what the world has become."

"And?" M asked, somehow irritated by that innocent observation.

"How will you find the person? How will you recognise them even if you did see them? Will you be able to recognise them?"

"You're asking a lot of questions," M said, causing 21 to reel slightly in sudden realisation.

"S-Sorry, I—"

"It's fine," he interrupted. "We won't be seeing each other anymore, anyway."

M shifted and leaned against the wall again, his gaze automatically finding its way to the barred window as he squinted slightly at the moonlight. He hated to admit it, but cell 21 had a point; a very good one.

M had spent the last ten years in Newgate formulating a plan for the perfect murder—one where he would never get caught. But it had completely slipped his mind exactly how he would go about finding the person of interest. Without them, there would be no murder, and he would've wasted his ten years in prison for nothing.

"Hey, M?" cell 21 said.

"What?"

"You were quiet for a moment there."

"I was thinking," he said.

"What about?"

"What you asked me earlier."

21 widened his eyes, afraid that his questions had caused unnecessary distress to the man.

"I was just thinking out loud, that's all."

"It was good thinking, then."

"It was?" 21 asked, relieved he hadn't agitated him.

M nodded.

"It will probably take some time to find them again, but that doesn't bother me. After all . . ."

He turned away from the window and faced the dark corners of cell 21.

"After all," he continued. "If there's one thing I learned from my time here, it's patience. And if I can wait for ten years in this godforsaken place, I can wait a lot longer than that if it means finally accomplishing what I set out to do."