Author's note: I make no claims to any hard knowledge about prisons, other than what I've seen in movies, much like our Mr. Steele, no doubt. So if you see something that looks out of place or such, remember, it's only a story, and not based in reality. Who wants reality, anyway? LOL!-Krebbie
Remington woke suddenly and painfully as the sound of a loud bell clanged seemingly inside his head. He opened his eyes to see the bottom of another bed above him.
"So sleeping beauty finally woke up," a man said from across the room. His accent was vaguely Australian, Remington thought, but he couldn't be certain. He was muscular, with blonde hair worn a little long and several tattoos on his arms that were covered as he put on a light blue work shirt. On the front of the shirt was a number 2689- and when he turned to look into the metal mirror bolted to the wall, Remington could see the words, "Evergen Prison" in black stenciled letters. The name rang a mental bell somewhere in the dim recesses of Remington's memory. A warning bell, at that. The man tucked his shirt into his loose jeans and said, "I'd get out of bed if I were you, mate. Just because you're new here don't mean you don't have to be in the yard in ten minutes like the rest of us. You already slept all of yesterday away."
Remington sat up, realizing that he was dressed similarly to the man. There were bars on the front of the room, revealing that this was indeed a prison of some kind. "What am I doing here?"
The man snorted. "Whatever they gave you did a number on you, huh? You're here for the same reason all of us are. You were a bad boy. Must've done something really bad to get sent to this hell hole."
"How long have I been here?" Remington asked, wincing and putting a hand to his aching head. There was a bump where he'd been hit. His memory was beginning to return.
"Since late night before last. Don't have a clock, so it's kinda hard to tell the exact time. Said they had to give you something to knock you out cause you were fighting so hard." He studied Remington's face. "Funny, you don't look like you put up much of a fight."
Remington smiled through the pain in his head. "You should see the other guy," he responded. He'd been in his car when someone had put a gun to his neck and forced him to drive to a little used side road that lead to an airstrip, where a small jet was waiting to take off. Before Remington could do anything, he felt a sharp blow to his head- probably from the gun- and had woken up here- wherever the hell *here* was.
"Yeah, well, you better get a move on. Warden Jenks don't like prisoners to be late. Even new ones. You learn the ropes quick here or you end up in solitary." He tossed Remington a towel. "You can use my razor to save if you're quick about it. Till you can get one of your own from the prison store, anyway."
Remington rose unsteadily to his feet and crossed to throw some of the brackish smelling water in the basin onto his face and looked at his reflection in the battered mirror as his cell mate went over to pick up a comb from his bunk. "You got a name? Other than the number? That's another thing. The guards don't use names outside of the cells. Once you leave this place, you're Prisoner 4079."
Remington paused as he started to shave with only the water and razor. "Name's Johnny." He somehow didn't think Remington would be a good name to have around this place.
"They call me Gabe."
The memories were starting to return now. And Remington didn't like what he was remembering about Evergen Prison. He'd thought it would have been closed down long before now. The last he'd heard about it had been- close to fifteen years ago. It was the last stop for repeat offenders from various countries. The dregs of humanity sent to the tiny island in the Pacific when their own prison systems had been unable to handle them. It was a one-way ticket, Remington recalled. No one ever escaped- or got a reprieve. The sentence was for life. He'd only known one man who had been sent here- the son of a wealthy racketeer in London, with whom Harry had hooked up fifteen years ago to work a con. They hadn't succeeded, only because James- yes, that had been his name, James Gardner- had decided to beat up on a young barmaid and kill her. Harry had testified against the boy to the police, sickened by what his partner had done. In return for his testimony, he'd been released from jail with a clean slate, but James had been sent off to prison- Evergen Prison, since it wasn't the first time he'd been in such trouble, a fact unknown to Harry until that point.
He rinsed his face and dried it with the towel as several guards came down the corridor, unlocking the cell doors as they passed, opening them. When Remington took a step in that direction, Gabe grabbed his arm and held him back. "Uh uh. You gotta wait till they get 'em all unlocked and the bell rings again, signaling time for formation in the yard. You stick your nose out of that door and you'll end up in solitary before your first day's finished."
"Not a place I want to be, I take it?"
"Think of it as hell on earth."
"And this isn't?" Remington asked as the bell rang again and the prisoners began to file out of their cells to stand waiting in a double line. A prisoner across the way was looking down, but his dark brown eyes slid across to where Remington was standing, narrowing into a look of intense hatred- and what looked to be satisfaction as well. That look shook him to the core, so that when the lines began to move forward, Gabe, who was standing behind him, had to give him a push to make him go. He'd seen those eyes before- fifteen years ago.
James Gardner was still here- and he knew exactly who Remington was.
***
The "yard" was in fact simply an open area, with no visible fence to hold anyone in. Not surprising, since the prison was located on an island, Remington supposed. Where was one going to escape *to*? The guards, a rough looking bunch, all carried rifles slung over their shoulders and tan uniforms. In contrast to the prisoners, most of whom looked either very fit or very emaciated, the guards appeared to be well-fed and clean.
From a small wooden building on the far side of the compound, a short, rotund little man appeared, wearing a dark uniform with more decoration than the guards, his gray hair glued to the bald area on top of his head in a useless attempt to hide that he was indeed losing his hair. The swagger stick he carried in his hand tapped restlessly against his leg as he came to a stop before the gathered prisoners. "Good morning. Today's assignments will be the same as yesterday- except that Prisoner 2967 will work in the water plant instead of the prison laundry. Our newest addition will take his place there. Prisoner 4079, step forward." Remington had seen the little man's beady eyes move in his direction even before he moved one step away from the other men. "Why are you here, Prisoner 4079?" he asked.
Remington struggled for a second. "I committed a crime?" he asked.
"What crime?" Jenks asked.
"Listen, if we could just talk alone for a few minutes- there's been a mistake-," Remington began, only grunt as one of the guards sent a fist into his stomach.
"I asked you a question, 4079," Jenks said, his thin lips forming a hard line in his heavily jowled face. "Never mind. Prisoner 4079 is here because he is an irritant to the system- as are all of you," he told the others. "There is no escape from Evergen, 4079. You will have noticed there is no fence, no high walls, and no barbed wire. We are on an island. We are not on a main trade route, and the nearest island is 200 miles to the north. The waters around the island are a breeding ground for sharks- and those who have tried to escape will tell you that it's impossible. If they were alive to do so. You will never leave this island. You have been sent here to pay your debt to society for whatever crimes you committed against it. From the moment you set foot here, you were dead to anyone on the outside. Family, friends- they have no meaning here. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes," Remington said, finally covering his breath. "But if you would just let me explain-"
Jenks turned to the man on his right, the same man who had hit Remington before. "Captain Riley, would you please give the prisoner a lesson in what happens to anyone who speaks without permission?"
Riley sent another fist into Remington's stomach, and another. Remington fell to his knees as he struggled for breath.
"Do you understand now, 4079?" Jenks asked.
Remington didn't look up at him, but kept his eyes locked on the ground and nodded once.
"Good. Go to your work detail area," he instructed the group as a whole, dismissing them from formation, and then looked back to where Remington was slowly getting back onto his feet. "Captain Riley will show you where the laundry is, 4079. Do your work; you will get a credit an hour to be used in the prison store. Slack off, and you will find yourself in solitary confinement. Do we understand each other?"
Another nod. "Yes."
"Excellent. If you would accompany the Captain, then . . ."
Remington saw Gabe moving away from the compound for another work area as he turned toward a building marked "Laundry" with the Captain.
The building was dimly lit, and smelled of detergent and disinfectant. The air was moist, and cloying in the tropical climate. Several other prisoners glanced in their direction as they entered, then returned to whatever they were doing. Riley looked around the room for a moment before nodding toward someone. "Prisoner 3568 is the laundry supervisor. He'll give you your assignment," he told Remington, and then left him standing there.
From across the room, Remington saw a pair of dark eyes, and kept locked on them as the man approached him. Glancing at the number on the man's uniform, he groaned inwardly. Prisoner 3568 was James Gardner. "You'll be on the steam iron," he told Remington. "Back here." He led Remington through the building, past various laundry areas where the sorting, and then the washing and drying were done, to a line of steam irons. Other prisoners were already at work, placing the clothing onto the table and lowering the lid to press it. It was hot, draining work. Luckily, Remington had spent some time as a youngster working in such a place, since one of his "cousins" had owned a laundry. "Think you can handle it?"
Remington grabbed a pair of denims from the wheeled basket beside the iron, and placed it on the padded lower surface, setting the seams before lowering the lid and pressing down on the steam arm. A moment later, he lifted the lid and James moved closer to inspect his work.
"Not bad. So, what are you calling yourself these days, eh? Still Harry?"
"Gave Harry up years ago," Remington told him. "But I think you know what name I'm using now, don't you, James?"
James' eyes narrowed again. "No idea what you're talking about."
"Johnny. Johnny Todd."
"Okay, Johnny. Finish that basket. Once you iron the clothes, make sure they're matched by number-" he showed Remington where the number was on the inside of the jeans " -and fold them-" he quickly folded the freshly ironed jeans and set them aside. "Once you've finished with this basket, we'll see how you're doing." He moved off, and Remington watched him as he nodded to a few of the other men operating the steam tables, then set to work. The thing about this job was that it allowed him time to think- and to worry.
Foremost in his thoughts was Laura. What had she done when he hadn't turned up as scheduled? Was she looking for him? It took a moment for Remington to realize that some of the other steam irons weren't being put to use, and he looked around to see that their operators were standing behind him, blocking his avenues of escape. For a moment, his mind dropped back to his days on the streets, and he cursed himself for allowing his mind to wander from the danger of where he was. He smiled, hoping he was hiding the nervousness he was feeling. "Can I do something for you?" He glanced at the numbers on their shirts.
One of them, a terribly thin, pale man with the number 1390 on his shirt, grinned. "Yeah. You can." He laughed softly, the sound barely carrying over the noise of the laundry.
Prisoner 4680 pushed Remington's shoulder. "That shirt's a bit wrinkled. I think it needs ironing, lads, don't you?" he asked his friends.
"Look, I don't want any trouble," Remington said, backed up against the iron.
"Too bad, cause you've got it," Prisoner 1357 said, and before Remington knew what happened, he found himself facing the iron, felt his head being pressed downward. He turned his head and felt the warm surface against his ear. He stopped struggling so suddenly that it surprised the trio and gave him a chance to kick backward, bringing 1390 to his knees, grasping his crotch in pain. Wincing, Remington whirled and pulled the laundry cart between himself and the other two.
"Back off," he warned as a couple of guards arrived on the scene.
"What's going on here?" one of them, whose nameplate revealed his name to be "G. Cavel" asked. "Who started this?"
The man on the floor pointed at Remington. "'E did. Called me a fag!"
The guards laughed. "You are," the second one said to him. His name was "P. Ferguson".
"Yeah, but 'e ain't go no call t'be goin' around sayin' things like that on 'is first day 'ere," the man insisted, slowly getting to his feet. "Got no call t'be kickin' me in the balls, either."
"Keep your hands to yourself, and you won't have that problem," the guard told him. "Get back to work. All of you." The other three left for their own irons, shooting Remington looks that promised retribution later, once the guards were gone. He smiled at the guards.
"Thanks," he said, and found himself pressed against the iron by a billy-club under his chin by Cavel.
"Don't thank me, 4079. I don't like troublemakers. Next time, you'll get a chance to find out what solitary's like." He withdrew the club and stepped back. "Keep your trap shut."
Remington saw James Gardner out of the corner of his eye, watching the scene with intense interest. He had the feeling that he'd just been tested, and wondered if he'd passed- or failed as he returned to his work.
***
He ate his lunch - watery gruel, he'd eaten far worse- alone at a table, his gaze on James Gardner the entire time. He was slowly coming to realize that somehow Gardner's father was responsible for his being at Evergen, as revenge for having testified against James all those years ago. The question was, how long was James going to wait before he claimed that vengeance that he could see promised in those dark eyes?
As he was finishing, his chair was bumped by another prisoner passing behind him. The gruel spilled on his shirt. Remington decided to ignore it, after all, it could have been an accident. But when it happened again, he knew it wasn't. James was sitting across the large dining room, watching him. Slowly, so not to draw undue attention to himself, Remington slipped his spoon up the sleeve of his shirt and rose from his chair to join the general exodus of prisoners back to their work areas. As he left the room, he saw James get up and approach a guard. So far, so good, he thought, then slowed his movements, waiting for the next step in the plan.
It didn't take very long. James came out of the dining hall, and Remington was waiting. "Hello, James."
"Harry- sorry. Johnny, now, isn't it? Still can't quite make up what name to use, eh, mate?"
Remington put an arm around James' shoulders, laughing. "You know, James, if I were you, I'd call off your pit bulls and tell Daddy that this isn't going to work."
"What isn't going to work?" James asked as they walked through the compound.
"This little game you and he have somehow arranged to get back at me for testifying against you fifteen years ago. I'm not the one who sent you to prison."
"But the court wouldn't have found me guilty if you hadn't told them-"
"Hadn't told them what?" Remington questioned, slipping the spoon into James' back pocket easily. "That you beat that poor girl til she was a bloody pulp and then beat her some more?"
"She deserved what she got. She was a little tease and you know it. Getting us up there into that room and then backing out that way-"
"*I* never wanted to go up there with her to begin with, James," Remington pointed out. "And even if I had, she had a right to change her mind without bein' killed for it."
"You're a dead man, Harry," James promised. "Not right away. I want you to know what it's been like for me in here these last fifteen years. What I had to go through before the Warden finally accepted a bribe from my Dad and let up on me. By the time they've finished with you here, you'll wish you were dead- and I'll be more than glad to oblige."
"What's goin' on here?" the guard from the dining room asked, causing the two men to move apart, the conversation finished.
"Nothing, Cartier," James said. "My friend and I were just having a discussion, that's all."
"We've got a spoon missing from the dining room," Cartier told them. "Against the wall." Another guard approached to watch as Cartier started to frisk the two men. James' smug smile at Remington faded when Cartier patted Remington down first and found nothing. Cartier turned to do the same to James, and said, "Well, what have we here?" and drew out the spoon from James' pocket.
"I didn't take that," James insisted. "He- I'm the one that-" His eyes narrowed in Remington's direction as they lead him away.
"The Warden will want to talk to you about this," Cartier was saying.
Remington smiled for a moment until the other guard prodded him with the barrel of his gun. "Back to the laundry, 4079."
***
James returned to the laundry an hour later, and Remington saw the anger in his eyes immediately. He was steaming a shirt when the other man approached. "That wasn't very nice, mate."
"Looks like you survived," Remington noted, folding the shirt. James was standing between him and the table where he was putting the finished items. "Excuse me?"
"You pull another stunt like that, and I'll tell everyone in here who you've been the last four years. I think several of them would love to get their two bits out of Remington Steele, don't you?" he asked, moving away with the threat hanging in the air between them.
***
Remington flopped down onto his bunk, hot, sweaty, and exhausted from his day in the laundry. Gabe entered a moment later, dripping with sweat and smelling of the earth. "Where have you been all day?" Remington asked.
"The prison farm," he explained. "I'm the farm trustee," he explained. "How'd your day go in the laundry?"
"Hot."
"Yeah." He looked thoughtful as he tossed some water onto his face and rubbed it around his neck. "You know, the new ones usually get started on the farm, not in the laundry. Wonder why Jenks changed it?"
"No idea," Remington said. "I could use a shower."
"Yeah, I know," Gabe agreed, stripping his shirt and tossing it onto the floor near the front of the cell. "They'll signal shower time before long- course, it doesn't do much good. Cold salt water isn't easy to clean up with."
Remington remained on his bunk, hands behind his head, looking at the cell across the common room outside. "What's his story?" he asked, nodding in that direction.
Gabe looked, then shook his head. "James? You *don't* wanna tangle with him, mate. The way I hear it, his old man's a rich gangster in London. Didn't like it much when his kid got sent out here. So he kept sending larger and larger bribes to Jenks, thinking he could buy the kids' release. All Jenks has done is make things easier on him. Goes light when James gets into a scrape, things like that."
"I thought the Warden said that there was no contact with anyone on the outside?"
"There's a supply boat comes in once a week- usually brings in new prisoners. We're not allowed anywhere near it. The guards unload it themselves. But you came in special- by airplane."
"Airplane? There's an airport on the island?" Remington asked, sitting up at the news.
"A small airstrip on the far side. Big enough for a small jet to take off and land. I can't be sure, but I think James' old man has been here a time or two to see him."
"Must be paying Jenks pretty well, then."
"Jenks is an old man- been running this place for nearly thirty years now, since he took over from the previous warden who was killed in a riot. First thing he did was have all of the prisoners involved in the riot walk out into the bay and take their chances with the sharks. Those that survived and got back to shore stayed- those that didn't- got buried in the prison cemetery- what they could find of 'em, anyway."
"Were you here then?" Remington asked.
Gabe laughed and shook his head. "Nah. Been here goin' on- oh, twenty years, I guess. Lose track, you know?" Remington nodded. "It's a lot better now than it was back then. He didn't mind losing a few prisoners every now and then. Easy to replace 'em. But nowadays, he's got less and less countries sending prisoners to him. Fewer prisoners means less money. So while you might wish they'd kill you sometimes, they always stop just short." He lit a cigarette and took a puff, offering Remington one. Remington shook his head no. "You know, you're a lot better than my last cell mate. Look a lot like him, but at least you'll talk. All Hank wanted to do was lay around and whine about how much he missed his wife and kiddies. I told him he shouldn't have killed them if that was the case. Surprised me they replaced him so quick."
"What happened to him?"
"He died. A fight in the yard during some surprise free time. We don't get that much around here- and when we do, some of the guys tend to get a little crazy."
"You said I look like him?"
"Yeah. He had dark hair and your coloring. Your build, too."
"How long ago did it happen?"
"Just a few days ago. They took him to the prison doc, but that old man can't manage to treat a hangnail, much less a knife wound."
"He was stabbed? Where did someone get a knife?"
"They're all over the place. Easy to make with a spoon from the dining room- if you want to risk getting caught with one. So watch your back, Johnny. Never know who's a friend and who's an enemy in here."
"Gabe, I'm not supposed to be here."
"That's what everyone says," he said with a laugh.
"No, I'm serious. Until a couple of days ago, I was living in Los Angeles, running a- my own business."
"Los Angeles? You sure?"
"I've been there for four years now."
"The Warden doesn't take prisoners from the United States," Gabe said. "Says the do-gooders over there want too much say so in how he runs his prison. If what you're saying is true, why are you here?"
Remington nodded across to where James was laying down on his bunk. "I think his father kidnapped me, drugged me, and sent me here to get back at me."
"For what?"
"Fifteen years ago, I was running a con with James. We barely knew each other, and we both thought we knew it all. The con was just starting to work when James insisted we stop into a pub one night and have few pints. There was a barmaid there, pretty little thing, friendly, willing to make a couple of customers a little less lonely, if you get my drift," he said, and saw Gabe's longing look. "We got up to her rooms, and she got cold feet. I was willing to walk out and not think about it, but James- James went crazy. Started hitting her-"
"You don't have to go on. I know what happened. He killed her. And it wasn't the first time. I heard about how he likes hitting on women and killing 'em. I'm no prize package, but I've never hurt a woman."
"Someone heard her screaming, heard me yelling, telling him to stop, trying to *make* him stop, but he was a madman. The police arrived, too late to save the girl, and arrested us both."
"And you testified against him to save your own hide," Gabe said. "I don't blame you. I'd have done the same in your shoes, mate. I may've killed a few men for money, but to kill just for the sake of killing- and a woman at that-" he shook his head. "So you think that his old man sent you here to get revenge or something like that?"
"I'm just wondering where your dead cellmate's body fits into this. And why the put me with you." Remington considered everything he'd learned. "You said that you'd killed men for money?"
"I was hired killer," Gabe said, flexing his muscles, working the kinks out, Remington supposed. "I'd kill anyone if the price was right."
"Even me?"
"What good would money do me in here, mate?" Gabe asked, laughing. "Got nowhere to spend it." He shook his head. "Those days are long gone. Now, I spend my time plotting ways to get off this island and start over somewhere else."
"The Great Escape," Remington mused. "Steve McQueen, James Garner, Richard Attenborough, a host of other familiar faces, United Artists, 1963."
"Come again?"
"A band of prisoners of war plan to break out of a unbeatable German prison camp," Remington said. "Rather ingenious. They built their own plane."
"I don't think we can manage that here," Gabe told him.
"Perhaps not. What are the chances of your having me transferred to the prison farm?"
"Slim, mate. If it's James who wants you in the laundry, that's where Jenks will leave you. He's not about to give up that gravy train just yet."
The bell rang, and Gabe grabbed his shirt and put it on again. "Shower time."
"Wonderful."
"Ain't no one gonna bother you if they think you're with me," Gabe said, and grinned. "I'll be right behind you."
Remington gave him an uncertain look. "Should I be worried?"
The grin widened. "If it puts your mind at ease, I *like* women. Ain't *had* one in a long time, but that doesn't mean I don't remember what is was like."
