The Grim Room (A Novel)

A Prison Thriller

* “The Grim Room” is another novel of mine. It’s an unusual one for me in many ways. I started working on the novel sometime in 2013, when I was interning for a literary agent in the Bay Area. Sometime in 2014 I finished a draft. I worked on it tirelessly, both in the original writing and in the exhausting revisions, rewrites, editing, polishing, etc. I had multiple published author beta readers who gave me extensive feedback. I had editing done. Eventually I submitted the novel to agents. Many read it. Some really liked it but, for some mysterious reason, never took the novel. Many of my friends and family have read it. I did an incredible amount of research for the book. It has four points of view.

Anyway, this is a little experimental but here’s my thought: Along with my free and paid regular posts, I’ll post one chapter every week or so (plus or minus) of “The Grim Room.” They’ll be paid posts. Free subscribers will get previews but you’ll have to get a paid subscription if you want to read the whole book. This is all, of course, dependent on whether readers like the book and want to read more. So: We’ll see!

I hope you enjoy it.

Michael

***

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

The Grim Room

CHAPTER 1

Christopher Doyle stood in his cell for the last time, gripping one of the cold metal bars with one hand, and with the other, clenching his AA Big Book, saying the prayer his sponsor had taught him: God, grant me the serenity, to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

            His brother was waiting outside. Rebecca was out there somewhere.

            The click-clack staccato of guard Don Hicky’s booted heels resounded among the tier. Echoes of voices pulsed down the cells; rugged hands reached through bars. Chris felt nervous, anxious. He looked behind him at the stainless steel toilet, the cot with the thin hard mat, that fluorescent buzzing bulb, the single, lonely, cobalt-colored chair in front of his desk, the concrete 6 X 8 cell he’d spent the past 26 months in.

            Jesus, he thought, his sweaty hand clutching the steel bar tightly, I’m finally getting the hell out of this place. Time to live again. Time to start over from square one.

And that’s when the fear hit him like an invisible slap to the face: Was he ready for the real world?

            Hicky arrived, his tan shirt tucked into olive-drab pants, the curling walkie-talkie cord around his shoulder. His bulging muscles presented a warning. He nodded and proclaimed, “Opening cell #28, to release inmate #17273!” Hicky fumbled for his keys, the giant key ring full.

He opened the cell, the creaking sound of steel.

            The guard led the way. Chris faced straight ahead using his peripherals to watch the inmates behind bars. Paco, one of the Southern Hispanics, reached his gnarled, veiny hand through the bars and eyed Chris. “Hey, gringo. You better not come back.” His sweaty hand clutched the tattered, hardcover Big Book. Voices rang out but they sounded light and distant against Chris’s anxiety. That familiar smell emanated from the hallway, rank inmate body odor and the stench of the floors and griminess inside the cells. 

            Chris approached the uniformed woman behind the counter. Double pane glass protected her. It said “Receiving and Release” in gold letters above the glass.

            The woman told him to wait and came back with a box containing his “dress-outs,” the clothing his brother had sent. She also brought a prison-issue duffel bag he’d prepared the night before, with his belongings. He opened the cardboard box and pulled out his old ripped-up blue jeans, his Venice Beach, California shirt, his biker boots with the metal buckles, and his coveted leather motorcycle jacket. He took the clothes into the bathroom.

            What if Rebecca were here? What would she think? What would she say? A thumping throb began in the pit of his stomach, his apprehension beginning to rise, his low-level panic starting to increase.  

            Picking up the duffel he once again followed Hicky.

            The guard unlocked the arch door of East Gate. Chris didn’t know why but he felt like returning to his cell, returning to the womb of Folsom. But no: he could only go forward.

            As he stepped into the cold foggy morning, Hicky extended his palm. “You gonna be alright, kid?”

            Chris dipped his head. “I’m cool. Thanks for everything.”

            “Forget about it, kid. Don’t come back, ya hear?”

            “I won’t,” Chris said. You know you won’t make it, bud. You’ll be back. It was Kid Maniac’s demented voice, assaulting him, the inmate from hell.

            Hicky closed the heavy door and headed back into the castle-like dungeon that was Folsom State Prison.

            Chris spotted his brother’s blue 1971 Chevelle, two white lines painted down the hood. Julian leaned against the car, smoking a Marlboro, his teeth biting down on the filter like he always did, James Dean with a beard.  

            Julian ripped the Marlboro out of his mouth and smiled. They stood a few feet from each other, staring. Julian looked him up and down. “You’ve outgrown those clothes.”

            Chris took in a breath and released. “I know.”