Simon Decourt

Simon Decourt lay on his bed, waiting. In the cell that had been his home for the last twenty-four years, he patiently bided his time. Soon a guard would come. Soon he would be told that "it was time". Soon the slate would be clean, dues paid. He was ready to once again take his place in society, promising himself that he would never end up behind bars again.

During his long stay at Smithsville prison, Simon had been - for the most part - a model inmate, always doing what he was told to do by the guards, never crossing the screws who ran the place with an iron fist. He was the type of guy who melted into the background and kept himself to himself. It was safer that way. And because he was neither a rapist nor a paedo, the other residents tended to leave him alone.

When he had first arrived at Smithsville, a fresh-faced, naïve twenty-two-year-old lad, he'd had a lush, full head of black hair, and was only showing the earliest signs of receding. He used to slick it back with wet-look gel, which served over the years to emphasize his gradual hair loss. By the time he was thirty-five, he was as bald as a Coot.

Pulling himself up and sitting on the edge of the bed, he looked towards the window to his right, squinting at the sunlight streaming through bars that he'd spent so many years looking out of longingly, sweat glistening on his bald head.

Looking at a picture of a hot blonde on the wall, dressed in a very revealing red mini dress, hands on hips, one eye closed shut in a permanent wink, sultry red, wet lips slightly parted, she was a constant tease to him and a reminder of the wonders that lay beyond the walls of his prison. He could feel himself getting a hard-on.

'Not long now, uh?' Danny Smith, his cellmate, said.

Simon smiled. 'No, not long now.' Danny, who was lying on the bunk above him, leaned over the side his bed and looked down at Simon, his big, fat round face as red as beetroot. 'What you gonna do when you get out? Where you gonna go, uh, baldy?' 'I dunno.' 'What do you mean, you don't know?' 'I … dunno!' 'So you're telling me that you've had twenty-three years …' 'Twenty-four years,' Simon corrected matter-of-factly.