Imprisonment

"You do realise that you've been in a position of privilege?"

"Privilege? You're kidding me."

Jervin put on a stern voice. "Yes, Mr Campbell, privilege. People spend a lot of money to visit the complex. Why should you be allowed to serve your sentence here? Society has been very good to you, Mr Campbell, you..." he looked down at the file before continuing, "you commit a crime against society and then society bestows upon you a great luxury."

Mike snorted.

The social worker continued, frowning. "I take it, then, that you don't like it inside?"

Mike leaned forward. "You're damn right I don't. Get this, I hate it. OK?" He never felt comfortable being angry, always feeling that he was imitating a actor in a film.

The social worker seemed unperturbed. "And you'd like to leave?"

Mike paused suspiciously, suddenly unsure. "Well, yeah."

"It just might be your lucky day. All cases are up for review. If I can give you some advice, Mr Campbell, stay out of trouble."

Jervin kept eye contact as his finger flicked the switch and Mike's presence vanished from his office. He sat for a moment, trying to bring his thoughts to some rational conclusion. He never felt quite safe when Mike was there, though obviously he could cause no physical damage.

He tapped in his recommendation to the board slowly, pondering his urge to send Mike back to the dreadful situation outside. It was the end of his shift again. He left the report unfinished and stood up. Taking a pad with him he walked across the veranda and stepped out onto the sand. The heat from the sun struck his shoulders. Beyond the lapping waves the water was clear and deep. He sat in the shade with his back against a palm tree and checked his account on the pad.

He had been saving up time inside for as long as he had been working here, now he had over a month in hand. One day, when everything got too much he would use it all up in one go, just go wandering up into the hills away from everyone for days. He watched the seconds of his store decrease now that he was in his own time. He reached for the button and punched out.

Feeling sweaty and stiff he stood up, casting an eye over the ranks of colleagues in the booths around him. He limped to the showers wishing there was sand to wash out of his toes.

At home Sara lay in bed, listening to the shouts of gangs in the street below. She pulled the thin sheets around her neck and stared at the ceiling. Police sirens echoed from around the city blocks and got louder as they approached. The shouting had stopped, she heard a bang from downstairs, and then the sound of a door slamming.

Blue lights raced each other across her ceiling. She heard her father cry out. If she half closed her eyes she could imagine the light was reflected from a swimming pool and that she was lounging in the sun next to it. She shut her eyes tight as she heard angry arguing from downstairs and tried to keep hold of her daydream.

The blue lights went away, there was silence downstairs. She looked at the now bare ceiling, with its cracks and its peeling dampness. She thought about Mike, always in a different landscape, always ready to talk to her. She thought about persuading him to meet her outside one day, how they would make love. She pulled at the rough sticky sheets, hugging them to her body.