1888 AD

Six years later

Borden prison

Frank sat on the filthy floor of the prison cell, blubbering into his dirty cuffed hands. He was underweight, his eyes sunken, his nose hooked and his lips pale and thin. His short brown hair was greasy and matted. A grime filled crease ran across his forehead, where a felt cap had sat for the best part of his 27 years. He cried for his mother as they dragged him off to court. Standing in the dock between two prison guards, he waited for the verdict. Should he live or die? His future teetered on the edge of a self-made precipice. His case had taken little under an hour to run through, and come back with a verdict. His palms were pressed on the hardwood rail, slick with fear. His fingernails dug deep into the varnished oak, making his fingers bleed. Frank's knees quaked and slowly began to buckle. It gave him the appearance of a drowning man bobbing up and down in rough seas. The guards either side held onto his elbows, stopping him from sinking. Frank knew that nothing was going to save him from the depths of despair. He also knew that he was guilty.

Judge Burstwick sat forward.

"Gentleman of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"

The first juror standing turned to the bench. Stumbling over his words and sweating nervously, read out the verdict.'Yy...yes my lord. We the jury find the accused guilty of first degree murder.'

Nodding his approval, Judge Burstwick placed a black cloth cap upon his wigged head and turned to the accused.

'Mr Frank Gregory. In your life you have shown little or no regard for human life or suffering. I find your lack of social or moral decency distasteful to the extreme. You have been found guilty of the heinous murder of Molly Mcgubben. The crown orders you to be taken from here to the place whence you came, from there to the place of execution, and that you be hanged by the neck until you are dead. And that your body be afterwards buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall be confined after your conviction. May the lord have mercy on your soul.'

Waving his hand limply towards the rear door, the judge said, 'Take him away.'

A low moan deep within Frank rumbled and grew. It rose up to fill his throat, building, until it burst to the surface.

'Nooo...... Nooo, please nooo. I don't wanna die!'

Finally his knees lost the battle, and he sank below the waves of despair.

'I don't wanna die,' he sobbed.

The prison guards took Frank's weight and lifted him back to his feet.

'Come on, Frank, get up.' Said Officer Pete Stiles, a tall, solidly built, bold middle aged man.

'Yeah, Frank, keep it down will ya?' Chipped in the younger, shorter, Officer Ronald Burbank.

Stiles and Burbank pried Frank's fingers one by one off the rail, leaving behind his bloody fingerprints. They dragged him off struggling towards the door that opened into the yard. The wagon waited. Affectionately named Black Agnes, it would transport him back to Borden prison.

Stiles shoved him forward 'Good. Now walk out calmly with your head up.'

Sobbing into his chest, Frank struggled to stand. Half carrying, half dragging, the officers took him out of the courtroom, down the white tiled corridor and into the cold wet courtyard, leaving behind two long parallel scuff marks that showed Frank's passage. Outside, the guards threw him into the back of the black iron wagon. The prison was some way out of town and Stiles wasn't sure this old nag was going to be able to get them there before dusk. With no other choice, they set off out the yard and through the afternoon traffic. The streets were covered in horse shit and after the rain, muddy ruts made the going even more tiresome for the nag. After some time, they left the confines of the busy, smoke filled town and entered the quiet, clean and empty countryside. Still sobbing, Frank rolled himself into a ball on the wooden floor of the wagon, his arms wrapped around his knee, and rocked himself as he muttered, 'I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die.'

Frank didn't notice the wagon come to a halt. The long winding dirt track was deserted. A steady breeze loosened the final autumn leaves from the skeletal trees. Slowly floating down to the ground, they joined the golden brown wave that rolled along and crashed into the hedges. Jumping down from the wagon, Stiles took the reins and tied the horses to the nearest tree, and thought 'It would be bad enough to lose a prisoner, but the whole bloody wagon. Well, that would be just too embarrassing.'

Burbank followed behind, kicking plumes of leaves into the air. His hands in his pockets, he whistled like he was taking a summer stroll. Unlocking and opening the black iron door, they both jumped up, and in.

Sticking his toe in Frank's rib-cage, Burbank said 'Get off the bloody floor, you arse.'

Lifting him onto the bench, Stiles clouted him around the ear 'Shut your whining' he ordered.

Raising his head, Frank stared at them both. Hope and desperation poured from his eyes.

Frank whispered 'I don't wanna die.'

Winking at Burbank, Stiles turned to Frank smiling.

'Now listen carefully. Soon, you're going take a 4 foot trip. The floor will open up, and swallow you whole. The only thing stopping you hitting the ground hard will be your neck. If you're real lucky, it'll snap fast. The question is, do you want to be there to find out?' Stiles asked. Burbank, grinning, couldn't help but add, 'Yeah, Frank. Your eyes'll pop out. Blood'll gush out the sockets. Your ears and nose will run red. You'll shit and piss yer britches. And yer tongue will swell out yer mouth.' Burbank continued to chuckle.

Turning to the younger guard, Stiles said 'Shut the fuck up, Burbank. You're making me feel sick.'

Burbank's smile reached from ear to ear. 'Mr Stiles here, has a very delicate tummy, ya know.' said Burbank guffawing, blowing out a wet snot bubble. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his uniform.

Stiles frowned. Shaking his head he turned back to Frank 'Well do you?' he asked again.

Frank looking back and forth between the two confused 'Is this a joke? If it is, you're sick fuckers.' Frank said.

Stiles rolled his eyes and clouted him again. 'Just answer the damn question will you?' Stiles insisted.

Rubbing the side of his head Frank spat on Stiles shoes. 'Course I don't.' he moaned.

Scowling, Stiles wiped his shoe on Frank's trouser leg, and said, 'Well good. You want to start a new life, yes?'

Still staring with a look of confusion, Frank's face couldn't make its mind up. Should it smile, or should it frown? What he got was a look of foolish bewilderment 'What. What's the catch?'

Stiles raised his hand to the side, shutting Burbank up before he could make another annoying comment. Placing a hand on Frank's shoulder, Stiles said, 'No catch, Frank. You'll be working for the Governor now, your savior and boss. He has the power to get you out this shit. You'll do what he asks, when he asks, no matter what he asks. Making the tea, or topping anyone who happens to piss him off.'

Burbank nodded 'Yeah, and if yer don't do as yer told, we'll kill ya. Ya cock up, we'll kill ya. Ya blab, we'll kill ya, and we'll really enjoy it.'

Stiles sat back, folding his arms across his chest and said 'Governor Henry, he's the man round here. But if you tow the line, you'll be living comfortably, with more money in your back pocket than you've ever seen. You understand?'

Frank sat up, a smile creeping across his face, his sobs, a thing of the past. Removing his cap, he ran a hand through his greasy hair and stared at Stiles 'Yeah, I understand. When do I get out?'

Grinning, Stiles sat forward and slapped Frank's shoulder 'Hold yer horses, sunshine. We've gotta hang you first.' and laughed.

Frank Gregory's mother, taught him very little whilst she was alive. The one thing she did manage to teach him though, was how to hate women, all women. A good thrashing every day taught him well. She hated men, all men, including her own son. She was a two penny upright, a lady of the night- and any other time of day, just as long as the bastards had money. And with every trick she performed, she hated men even more. Prostitution had its drawbacks, other than the obvious degrading nature of the beast. Pregnancy was her drawback at the moment. Some dollymops abandoned their drawbacks. Others gave them away. One or two even sold them. A rare few smothered and buried them.

Frank was going to be one of the rare few. His mother stood over him, hatred spilling from her eyes. A once, white frilled pillow in her hands. She could feel the lace edges as she twisted and wrung it in her hands. She battled against the little conscience she possessed. Gradually lowering the pillow closer to the infant's face, she let it envelop her baby boy. Pressing down hard, she had expected him to cry and struggle. But he didn't, he just lay there, quietly dying under the hands of his own mother. It was the quietness that got to her, quietness and stillness of a little baby, slowly succumbing to a mother's wickedness. But she couldn't go through with it. She lifted the pillow up to reveal her baby boy staring her straight in the eyes. Then he began to wail, breaking the deafening silence that had shaken her. Life hadn't started off too well for Frank and it wasn't going to get much better.

For fourteen years, Frank suffered mental and physical abuse at the hands of his mother. He feared her and cowered whenever she came near. She made him learn the hard way in everything he did. She blamed him for surviving. She resented him for all the extra low life's she had to tally, to put food in his mouth. One night her hatred of him came to a sudden and abrupt end. As night drew in, Frank did as he was told. First he lit the remnants of the previous day's candles, which gave only a little light, and then he brought in a scuttle bucket full of coal. Putting two heaped shovels of coal onto the embers in the grate, the fire took hold quickly. Seeing the fire burning hot and high, his mother flew into a rage.

'How much coal did you use?' She screamed. Afraid, Frank backed away from her, saying 'I did what you asked, mother.'

She raged on 'Do you know how many men I have to fuck to keep you warm? So you can chuck coal on the fire as if it was free? Do you know, do you?'

Picking up the coal shovel, she lunged at him, striking him across the face. Cowering down, Frank raised his arms to fend her off. Bringing the shovel down hard on top of his head, Frank staggered back, dazed. A second and third blow landed, knocking him to the floor. Looking up at his mother's angry hateful face, Frank began to rise. The red hot coals of the fire reflected in his eyes. Holding onto the coal scuttle, he pushed himself to his feet. Taking a step towards her, he swung the scuttle up, around, and into his mother's side, knocking her back against the hearth. A rage had taken hold of him. Years of undiluted hate poured out as he hit her again and again. Screaming, she fell under the barrage of blows. Crawling on hands and knees, she fumbled for a handhold on the mantelpiece, trying to get away from her crazed son. Frank towered over her, a white hot blaze burning in his head.

'Mother this has to stop. I'm going to stop it, NOW!' he screamed at her.

Stamping a foot on the small of her back, Frank forced her down on her stomach. Jumping onto her back, he forced her forward, face first into the fire. Screaming for her life, his mother tried desperately to push herself free of the inferno, and of her son. Grabbing a handful of her hair, Frank slammed her face back into the coals. Screaming in terror and agony, her mouth filled with red hot cinders, scorching her throat with a fiery breath. Her lungs withered to ash. Blinded, her eyes began to boil and turn milky as they swelled out of their sockets. The air all around smelled acrid with burnt hair and the warm smell of cooking meat. Franks rage cooled and subsided. Untangling his burnt fingers from her singed hair, he sat heavily on a chair by the fire and stared at his mother's smoking corpse.

'It had to stop mother. I had to stop you, didn't I?'

His mother did not reply. Instead, she continued to lay face down in the fire, quiet and still, smothered by spitting coals. No frilly pillow for her. He would feel no survivor's guilt for her. Frank breathed deeply. The smell of cooking meat would always remind him of this night. It would never affect his appetite though, whether for food, women or violence, his appetite would always remain unfulfilled. As his mother burned in the hearth, Frank packed the few possessions he had and left her, and his old life behind.

Walking across town towards the docks, he decided he would go to sea. After searching the local taverns and haunts of the North Sea fishermen, he found himself a place aboard the Annie-may, a deep sea trawler bound for the Baltic Sea the very next morning. And for the next thirteen years Frank worked and slogged in the cold northern seas, only ever coming ashore to drink, fight and on occasion, quench other appetites.

On the day of his arrest, the Annie-may docked and unloaded its catch of arctic fish and its crew of hungry men, some going straight to their local tavern. Others to the street corner where they would find the company of a lady. Some had homes and families to go to. Frank chose the tavern first and the company of a young girl called Molly second. Drink mixed with exhaustion and his hatred of women, proved to be her doom. The evening grew late and his hunger for her deepened and turned down a darker path. Giving Molly his belt, he instructed her to thrash him across his back until he told her to stop. She never heard him say stop. After several lashes she heard him say.

'Mother, this has to stop.'

Molly played along. 'You've been a naughty boy, Frank. I'm so disappointed in you.' slapping him playfully across his face. The pain intoxicated him. He began to relive his past. He found himself hard and aroused at the memory of his mother's cruelty and at the same time ashamed, and disgusted. Molly put down the belt as Frank began to cry softly into his hands. She reached out and gently touched his shoulder and asked, 'Frank, you OK?'

Flinching away from her touch, he suddenly stopped crying and became very still. Talking through his fingers he said, 'Yes. Yes, I'm fine, mother.'

Looking at Molly, he grinned wickedly and stepped towards her, 'This has to stop, mother.'

Molly was found the next evening, crumpled by her bed, naked. She had been bludgeoned to death, her face unrecognizable. Blood stained every inch of her broken body. The police came for Frank on board the Annie-may, as she was about to set sail. He screamed and cried for his mother as they dragged him away.

(Please don't forget to Vote & leave a comment. New chapters every Monday, Wednesdays and Saturdays. Thank you)