Abacus

of tampering, with the same finger he smoothed over the divot mark. There we go, he’ll never know , he thought, pushing the clear lid back on to seal the cake.
    * * *
    Sitting behind the wheel of his car in the jail visitors’ car park, Randall looked towards the old sandstone prison’s front entrance. “Betcha the gutless bastard won’t see me,” he whispered as he slid from behind the wheel. His heavy footsteps echoed loudly against the old sandstone structure as he marched across the asphalt car park with cake in hand. Entering the visitation building, he walked towards the warden at the front desk. Looking up from his folder, the warden appeared genuinely surprised. “Oh, it’s this time of the year already,” he said.
    Randall carefully placed the cake on the desk. “Yes, it is, and here is his cake as usual,” he said, tapping the container lightly.
    The warden glanced at the cheap sponge. “Randall, you know he’s not coming out, you know he won’t see you.”
    Resting his hand on the plastic lid of the cake Randall complained, “Well, tell me what kind of fucking world do we live in when crooks who are eligible for parole a year ago, choose to forgo it.”
    Removing his reading glasses and twirling them in his hand, the warden said calmly, “You’ve got him scared shitless , I would say. Not often they choose to stay in this joint, they usually can’t wait to get out of the place.”
    With hands on hips, a furious Randall paced up and down the room, cursing. He looked out the door towards the walls of the jail and shook his head, resigned to the fact Jenkins was not coming out. “Piece of shit,” he muttered before striding back over to the counter. “Well, listen, if that asshole won’t come get it I don’t care what you do with it, but please make sure you tell him I was here, with the cake, today.”
    The e lderly warden looked at Randall. “We know the drill. How could we not? You’ve been dropping these cakes off for the last twenty years. I think we have got it down pat by now.”
    Randall p ointed to the main cell complex. “And I’ll keep dropping them off till that prick is released; he’s got to have served his full sentence in another year or two, surely!”
    “Lik e I said,” the warden explained. “It is unusual for an inmate to want to overstay in this joint.”
    Randall slid the cake across the counter. “Anyway, you blokes enjoy, you guys deserve it having to babysit these grubs. But just make sure he knows I was here, with his cake, today.” An angered Randall turned and strode from the building, cursing. As he walked towards his car he looked at the high walls of the sandstone jail and spat indignantly in its direction. Cupping his hands around his mouth he yelled at the top of his voice, “You can’t hide forever, Jenkins, you weak bastard!”
    * * *
    On his way home he stopped at a set of traffic lights. He was still angry that the system had allowed Jenkins to remain behind bars longer than he should. The system was protecting Jenkins from an untimely death, at the hands of Randall. Nothing else mattered to him; his goal in life was to ensure Jenkins was painfully tortured before being brutally killed. He would stop at nothing. He just needed the chance to get to him. He had now waited decades and it seemed his opportunity wasn’t getting any closer which frustrated him immensely. He tapped on the steering wheel as he patiently waited for the lights to change. He thought about the first and only time he had spoken with Jenkins face to face in jail. Randall was twenty-nine at the time and Jenkins co-accused Fleming had recently committed suicide.
    Randall remembered eagerly sitting in the chair , jiggling his feet as he looked through the Perspex screen and down the hall, which led to the jail’s common area. Finally two figures appeared from the darkened hall. The first, a burly, gruff-looking prison guard, and next to him the handcuffed prisoner responsible for his parents’ brutal murder. The guard walked over and joined two others seated at a corner desk, while the prisoner swaggered to the visiting area with the usual cockiness and bravado attribute d to long-serving inmates. Kicking the seat out with his foot, he flopped into the chair, and looking past Randall smugly remarked, “Who the fuck are you, and what do you want?”
    Randall’s hands clenched into fists and his heart rate soared as rage over came him. He studied the heavily