Free Seizure by Nick Oldham

where he was and what he was doing at any time of day.
    The first habit he’d got into was waking up at six forty-five a.m. precisely every morning. Then he would lie in his king-sized bed, his hands clasped behind his head, listening to the twitter of garden birds in the trees outside and the gentle breathing of the woman next to him. The heat of the Mediterranean day was already rising.
    An idyllic peace.
    Next he would turn to the woman who, familiar with his habits and needs by now, would flutter open her eyes, blink the sleep away and gaze adoringly at him.
    â€˜Hi, hon,’ she would always whisper in that throaty, early morning way.
    â€˜Darlin’,’ he responded with a half-smile.
    She would snuggle in close, her voluptuous naked body hot and soft against him from the night’s sleep. He could feel every contour of her and would start to respond as her fingertips danced lightly across his hairy chest, down over his stomach, making his muscles quiver as she took hold of him. This forced a grunt from his throat as she worked him deftly. Then at the right moment her tousled head would disappear under the single sheet.
    Afterwards he would clamber sleepily out of bed into the en-suite shower for a long hot soapy wash, followed by a close wet shave and the application of a soothing balm to moisturize his face and keep his skin young looking.
    As he returned naked and refreshed to the bedroom, his woman would be propped up on a bank of pillows, a sultry smile on her face . . .
    . . . And Felix Deakin’s dream would then abruptly turn sour as the cell lights flickered on behind their protective cage, the screws would start to bang and shout, and another day would begin in Lancashire Prison at seven a.m. All Deakin’s pleasant thoughts would evaporate in to the ether and another round of prison life.
    He cursed. With an expression of distaste on his rough, unshaven countenance, he swung his legs out of the top bunk and dropped barefoot on to the carpeted cell floor, ignoring the guy on the bottom bunk and the third prisoner squeezed into the cell on a camp bed. He went to the stainless steel toilet affixed in the corner of the cell and pissed away his erection, furious that this was the reality of his life: the fixed routine of a prison where he had no choice about where he was and what he was doing; where it was all chosen for you, whether you liked it or not, even if you wielded a huge amount of power inside the joint, as Deakin did. It had been his routine for almost the last four years, and would be for at least another six unless he did something drastic about it.
    â€˜Hit me with it.’
    Deakin’s solicitor looked across the table at his client.
    â€˜Bad news, innit?’
    The solicitor nodded. Deakin deflated inside. His appeal against his conviction had been turned down, one of his hopes for early release or a retrial at least. Now he faced six more years inside, taking him up to ten of the sixteen-year sentence the bastard Crown Court judge had handed down to him. The halfway mark in a sentence was often when prisoners were released, but that judge had recommended that Deakin serve a minimum term of ten for the crimes he’d committed.
    â€˜On what grounds?’
    â€˜No new evidence, the trial was fair, and you were found guilty of all offences, including witness intimidation,’ the solicitor said. His name was Barry Baron, the same solicitor who had represented Richard Last at Blackpool Police Station. He was a much sought-after defence solicitor in the Manchester area, especially by high-level criminals, and made a very good living – particularly from Deakin. Deakin knew he had worked hard behind the scenes at the trial, doing his best to discredit the cops, witnesses and evidence – everything, in fact, including the intimidation – through a third party, of course. Yet still the Crown had won.
    Deakin got to his feet, breathed and paced