Snakes and Ladders

Chapter 1

Dr Vernon Sange, killer of twelve, lies on his bunk. His hands are interlaced behind his head, his film-star face white as butcher’s paper from being inside so long. On his chest, a portable CD player moves up and down in time with his measured breaths. The ‘Queen of the Night’ aria plays through his earbuds.

His eyes move around the room but his head stays still on its stalk. Every so often he flicks the tip of his tongue over his teeth, tapping the sharp point of his canine then drawing it back into his mouth.

He glances at the small table bolted to the floor. On it, a stack of Penguin Classics and fat history paperbacks are arranged alphabetically, each annotated with comments, quotes and corrections in Crayola felt-tip pen.

Dr Sange isn’t allowed ballpoints or pencils. He’s not allowed anything with a hard cover either.

The Daily Telegraph is on the table beside the books. It’s been quartered precisely. Seven pages in, a man’s name has been circled. The ink has bled through seven sheets.

There is no noise in here apart from Dr Sange’s slow, rhythmic breathing. His cell is the only one in the corridor. Six by nine by twelve feet. Windowless. The walls grey up to head height.

As Dr Sange’s thoughts coalesce, his pupils contract into pinhole points of black. His thumbs cruise his occipital bone.

‘The husband!’ he whispers, his voice hoarse from lack of use.

His lips curl into a smile. He’ll make the call tomorrow.

‘My move,’ he says.