Page 16 of When You're Alone

Shankland didn’t bite on the provocation. Instead, he reached forward to check the padlocks and metal hoops keeping Wendell’s ankles secured. Satisfied they were still tight, he returned to his seat, crossing his arms. “You cause trouble on the ride, I’ll have you sedated so fast you won’t see straight for a month.”

Wendell chuckled low in his throat. “I believe you.”

The van jostled over a pothole, sending a spray of water up the side. The guard glanced at Wendell’s cuffed hands. “You look too calm for a man in your position. I’d be sweating bullets if I were you. You’ll be rottin’ up north soon enough.”

“That depends,” Wendell said quietly, his voice lost in the clamor of the rain for a moment. He tapped a finger on one of the chain links, a slow, contemplative rhythm. “What’s the name of your boy—Timothy, was it?” His gaze flicked to Shankland. “And Sally, your daughter. She must be, oh, seven by now?”

Shankland’s face tightened, a pulse beating visibly in his neck. “I don’t have kids.”

Wendell let the moment hang before replying with an almost sympathetic tone. “That’s what you say, but I know otherwise. Heard a few rumors in Barlinnie. If you ask the right people, pay the right cigarettes, you can learn anything. I bet she has your eyes, doesn’t she?”

In a flash, Shankland shot forward, fist cracking across Wendell’s jaw. Wendell’s head jerked to the side, a metallic taste blooming in his mouth. He let out a grunt of pain but wore a triumphant smirk as soon as he turned back. Shankland looked livid, breathing hard.

“You say anything about my family again,” Shankland hissed, “and I’ll break your skull, you hear?”

Wendell swiped his tongue along his lower lip, tasting blood. “Touchy, aren’t we?” he whispered, eyes glittering with malevolence. “But you see, some folks are quite talkative. Even behind bars, you can learn so much about a guard’s life—address, family details, bedtime routines.”

Shankland’s fists clenched. “You vile piece of—” But the van lurched, braking hard.

They had arrived. The vehicle rocked to a stop, and the side doors opened with a whoosh of frigid air. Rain pelted inside, drenching the steps. Two uniformed officers stepped up with a flashlight, illuminating Wendell’s form as he squinted into the glare. Outside, the gloom revealed a discreet railway siding. On the narrow track sat a train engine with a single coach attached, lit only by a few meager lamps strung along the siding’s perimeter. The station was minimal—just a raised platform soaked by the downpour.

Shankland beckoned Wendell out. “All right, out you come. Move slow.” He undid one chain to let Wendell shuffle forward, but the rest of the restraints remained. Wendell’s boots splashed onto the wet concrete outside, the icy rain stabbing at his skinlike tiny needles. The night was dark, the overhead lights casting flickering shadows on puddles and streaming rivulets.

Waiting near the train were three more prison guards, each wearing thick waterproof jackets with the insignia of a different facility. Evidently, this was the specialized transfer team to ferry Wendell north. Shankland handed over the paperwork with an exasperated sigh. “All yours,” he told the guards. Then he turned to Wendell, voice low with anger. “I hope you rot in your new cell. Away from decent folk.”

Wendell merely bared his teeth in something that might have been a grin. “That’s sweet. Make sure Timothy and Sally stay safe while I’m gone. Wouldn’t want anything happening to such lovely kids, would we?”

Shankland roared, lunging at Wendell. The new guards intervened, grabbing his arms and pulling him back. Wendell's chains clattered as he staggered slightly, keeping his balance with a strength that belied his wiry frame. One of the new guards hissed at Shankland, "Control yourself, man, or you'll be out of a job. Ye ken?"

Chest heaving, Shankland glowered, then shoved himself free from his fellow guard’s grip and stomped back to the van. He slammed the door with a final oath. The engine revved, and moments later, the headlights cut through the gloom as it reversed off the siding, leaving Wendell alone with the three other officers in the downpour.

“Right, scum,” said one of them, a tall man with a shaved head. “Inside you go.” He nudged Wendell forward.

The rain slicked Wendell’s hair, which was cropped short, but not so short to hide the scars on his scalp. He followed the guards up a short step and into the single train coach. Dim overhead lights revealed a row of seats, all vacant. At the far end was a small compartment that presumably served as a makeshiftholding cell. Wendell let out a low, mocking laugh as he took in the emptiness. “A private train, just for me. I’m honored.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” grunted another guard. “No one else wants to share a carriage with scum who kill men, women, and kids for kicks.”

Wendell’s expression didn’t flinch at the condemnation. He simply licked a stray raindrop off his lips. “It's never about what you want. It's just luck,” he said cryptically. “You know... I was caught by chance. Could’ve gone on a lot longer if not for that off-duty copper stumbling across me in an alley. She recognized me, wasn’t even on shift. Lucky break for the law, unlucky for me. But luck can be undone.”

One guard spat on the floor near Wendell’s feet. “You’ll be seeing no one now, not for the rest of your miserable life. We’ll stick you so far in the back of beyond, nobody will remember your name.”

Wendell let his gaze wander over the chain linking his wrists. The train swayed gently as the engine hummed to life, preparing to depart. “We’ll see,” he replied softly.

At that moment, he felt something press into his palm—small, metallic. He resisted the urge to glance down. It was the key. He’d fished it from Shankland’s belt pouch during that heated moment when Shankland struck him. The slight brush of contact then had been enough for Wendell to close his fingers over the key. The guard, too enraged, never noticed.

Now, the rough edges of that key dug into Wendell's palm. He kept his face impassive, relishing the quiet triumph. If these new guards recognized the subtle tension in his posture, they showed no sign of it.

The train jerked forward, wheels squealing on the damp rails. The three guards took up positions around Wendell, presumably to keep watch for the entire journey. One or two tried to settle on benches, but they kept their eyes on him. The shaved-headguard sat across from Wendell, arms folded, occasionally casting hateful glares. Another stood near the carriage door, and the third paced as though patrolling a small prison corridor.

Wendell’s mind drifted to a mental map. He knew from stray comments overheard at Barlinnie that they were taking him to a secure facility in the Highlands—some fortress-like institute rumored to be inescapable. He listened to the thrum of the train, the patter of rain outside. For a killer with nine bodies on his rap sheet (that they’d confirmed, at least), a life sentence in solitary seemed inevitable.

But he had the key now. It might not fit the heavier locks, but it might open something that gave him an advantage—his ankle chain or his wrist shackles. He didn’t know yet. He just sensed an opportunity that might present itself at the right moment.

One guard muttered to the shaved-head man, “He doesn’t look so tough now, does he?” The other answered with a harsh laugh. “Nah. He’s nothing but a twisted wee pathetic man.”

Wendell made a show of exhaling, as though bored. “Good luck sleeping tonight,” he said idly, letting them guess at what he meant. He pictured Shankland’s enraged face, the half-gleam of panic in his eyes when Wendell mentioned Timothy and Sally. Fear was a powerful currency. Even locked in chains, Wendell knew how to spend it.

He slowly, carefully closed his fingers around the key, ensuring no one noticed. He’d bide his time. The train picked up speed, rattling down the track into the cold Scottish night. Outside the windows, only darkness and the reflection of the carriage lights were visible. Inside, tension crackled, the guards fully alert.

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