Simon Decourt

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.

'… sorry, twenty-four years to think about what you're gonna do when you get out … and you don't know?' Simon didn't answer. And, in truth, he didn't know what he was going to do when he got out. Not that he hadn't thought about it, of course; especially as he laid down every night, listening to the guy two cells up singing about how he was going to travel the world, see the sights when he got out, and "rip it up". But that guy was a lifer with at least another twenty years to serve, so the Cell Seventeen Singer (as he was known by the other inmates) wasn't going to be "ripping it up" anytime soon. But Simon liked his idea of travelling the world and seeing the sights; it was something for him to ponder on, something for him to consider.