Alfie, that was all his mother gave him. His name that sounded too soft for the world, a weak name he was determined to strengthen. He was the youngest prison officer to work at Larkwood in decades, but so far, he’d only be assigned to the brain numbing nightshift. Every time a post opened up on days, Ryan, his superior officer, always denied him. He said it was because he was too inexperienced, but he couldn’t get any experience until they shoved him on days, even working the visitor’s corridor would’ve been a step up.

Ryan didn’t like Alfie’s age, and he didn’t like that he was from the care-system. He never said it, but Alfie strongly believed Ryan thought he was a plant in the prison by one of the cons.

“Have a good night, Rook.”

Alfie didn’t turn at the taunt. He breathed deep and exhaled to an internal count of ten.

The day shift had just handed over to the night staff. The graveyard shift where the very walls looked like they were shifting in the darkness. He stood inside G-wing, behind him was the lobby, and on the opposite side was another gate the led to H-wing. The lobby acted as a space to ferry prisoners through whatever gate they needed to go. Whether that was to the hospital, the visiting area, the church, or the classrooms. Alfie imagined it was bustling with activity during the day, but at night it was an echoing chasm.

Staring straight ahead without blinking, the darkness bled into Alfie’s peripheral, until only black splodges remained, forming faces, sinister ones that put the prisoners to shame. The prisoners had been locked up since seven. All of them accounted for in the droning roll call. It was surprisingly quiet, and the only sound came from behind him.

The office where the night staff munched on doughnuts and drank coffee after coffee. Where the lack of activity turned them to zombies, and the tug of weighted eyelid was too much. People never grassed on those officers that fell asleep, but it did irritate Alfie that it was always the same one. Henry, wrinkled and frail, had wisps of white hair hanging from the back of his creased neck. They might’ve been attached, but Alfie suspected they had been trapped in his folds of wrinkles or had been stuck there with glue.

Henry believed himself to be a crafty bastard. He lounged in a worn chair facing one of the camera feeds from the bottom floor.

Dark green sunglasses covered his eyes. He claimed they helped with his apparent glaucoma, but everyone knew it was to hide, so he could nap. Once Alfie walked right up to him, clicked his fingers, rudely gestured, then finally picked up a stack of heavy books and dropped them from a height.