"No. But there's an easy way you could get out of Basic status and 
into Standard or Enhanced status. You could ask for my job." 


More silence. Then: "You don't know what you're asking. | can't do 
that. Even if | were inclined to help you, | just... no, dear, | won't be 
doing that." 


"You should think about it," Keagan said. "| reckon it would be good 
for you." 


When Keagan was told the next day that he was to receive another 
visit, he assumed it was Fredericka Mendelbrot, come to try to 
change his mind about her bizarre work-release scheme. Instead, 
the woman sitting in the visitor's room was small, blonde and petite, 
with a short bobbed hairstyle. It took him a moment to realise that 
she had been present at his High Court appearance that now 
seemed a lifetime ago, when he had been sentenced for the murder 
of Flash and Slick. 


"Hello Keagan," she said, "how is life in prison treating you? You 
probably don't remember me—I'm Sam Deloitte." 


"| do," he said. "Brixton Herald." 


She nodded enthusiastically. "| remember you were upset about 
what happened. Have you made any moves to challenge your 
sentence?" 


"Another inmate was coaching me through a writ of habeas corpus 
to try to explain to a judge that at the time | didn't realise what 
pleading guilty would mean," he said, startled at how smooth it 
sounded. "| thought it worked like one of the plea bargains you see 
on American TV—you plead guilty and you get a lighter sentence. 
But that's not how it works in English law—at least, not for serious 
crimes. | co-operated with the police because | thought | was in the 
right for defending myself in my own shop. | gave them most of the 
evidence they then used against me. But now it doesn't look like I'm 
going to be able to overturn the plea. You've heard I'm being 
charged again for another crime committed inside, right? That's why 
you're here." 


"Well," Sam said. "| must admit that's when | spotted your name in 
the news. But what | really wanted to talk to you about was a lead 
I'm working on—I think there's a scandal in the prison system and | 
thought | might have an ‘in’ with you. I'm really sorry, | realise you 
must want to talk about the difficulties you're facing.” 


Keagan sighed. "Not really. What's this scandal you're chasing?" 


"Corruption," she said. "HM Government is conspiring with third 
parties to transfer prisoners to private custody and expunging their 
records from the system. There are cases I've reported on in the 
courts that no longer exist in the records. All serious, violent crimes 
—murder, armed robbery and the like. The Ministry of Justice strikes 
them from the statistics so it looks like they're tackling violence—and 
saves on the cost of housing them in the state prison system. This 
organisation—well, I'm not sure what they're getting out of it. A 
ready source of manpower, maybe." 


Keagan looked at her, uncertain what he could and could not believe 
about the surreal situation in which he found himself. "I think I've 
talked to them. A woman offered me a full pardon in exchange for 
participating in some kind of law enforcement or military experiment. 
| thought she was a lunatic. | tore up her card, but | think it said 
something like South Kensington Projects." 


The court reporter scribbled something in a notebook. "South 
Chelsea Projects, probably. There's lots like that—Southsea-Cowes 
Partnership, Security Cooperatives Petersfield, all revolving around 
the same initials. They're most likely fronts for the same 
organisation. Have you noticed other prisoners disappearing or 
being transferred?" 


Keagan nodded. "So why come to me? You didn't know I'd spoken 
to them." 


"No," she said. "But you're the sort of person they go after—lifers, 
preferably serving multiple consecutive sentences. But | guess 
you're not going to be taking them up on her offer?" She looked 
disappointed, in a cute, pixie-ish way. 


"| need to give it some thought," Keagan said. "I just learned 
someone | need to talk to has entered the programme." 


Sam frowned. "From what I've seen they recruit in shifts—about 
every 30 days. If you have to talk to this guy, this might be your only 
chance." 


"But you don't believe this leads to a pardon, surely. It would be all 
over the news if guys like him—and me," Keagan looked away, 
"were getting out years ahead of schedule." 


"No," she said. "There's no evidence they're able to offer a pardon. 
Also, | have to warn you—the whole reason it's been so hard to get 
information on these guys is because inmates who go into the 
programme don't come out anywhere, as far as | can see. | mean, 
maybe they fit them up with new identities, send them off to New 
Zealand. Officially, the transfers don't even happen—the prisons just 
wipe them off their rolls, return 'no information on this topic' to 
Freedom of Information requests. You've heard of families losing 
track of loved ones in the system? At least some of that's this 
organisation—but they mostly target people with no family, no 
children." 


"| see." 


"If you do decide to go in, please; find some way to call me, 


message me. Tell me what's going on with this thing. As far as | 
know I'm the only one reporting this—I've gone to the national 
dailies and they aren't interested; they think whatever gets lifers off 
the books is good news. What scares me is that it's happening so 
clandestinely—shadowy organisations taking killers out of the 
system with no judicial review. | haven't been able to get full 
statistics yet, but | estimate around 360 prisoners a year are 
disappearing from the system in England and Wales alone, all lifers. 
The official figure for murders in the past year was 722. Factor in the 
number of people disappearing from the system and our murder rate 
is higher than Bolivia. We're being lied to about how safe we are. 
Worse, they're re-writing the past, erasing convictions from history." 


She scribbled down addresses, telephone and mobile numbers and 
email addresses on a sheet of paper. "Memorise these, if you do 
decide to go in. Don't put yourself at risk, but the British people 
deserve to know what's happening to their country." 


"Thank you," said Keagan. 


Over the next few days Keagan watched and waited. On 30th July 
the prison was thrown into turmoil by the sudden disappearance of 
Marvin 'Marv' Hagman. The refusal of the guards to confirm or deny 
the rumour that quickly spread amongst the prison population that 
he had been transferred to Category 'A' prison HMP Belmarsh led to 
sporadic, small-scale riots, as well as fights breaking out as his 
underlings attempted to establish supremacy. 


Creepy Bastard had begun to leave the cell, first for a few minutes at 
a time, then up to a hour. Finally, on the 30th, he rose at six, 
showered, and went to breakfast. Keagan didn't see him again until 
the afternoon, when he padded back in and pulled out a sheaf of 
papers from under his shirt. 


"You still want me to keep this safe, dear?" he asked, quietly. 
"Yes," said Keagan. "| don't know whether I'll be able to use it." 


Creepy Bastard nodded slowly and began folding each page up 
small, tucking them into the cracks between the walls and the floor. 


Something occured to Keagan. "You haven't been approached, 
have you? By a woman from ‘South Chelsea Projects’ or anything 
like that?" 


"No, dear. Why do you ask?" 


Keagan explained the strange story of his visits and unlikely offer of 
pardon, and his subsequent visit from Sam Deloitte who was 
convinced the government was turning murderers over to private 
research organisations to whitewash crime figures. 


"Well, | don't imagine I'll get that offer," Creepy Bastard said, looking 
down. "I'm not in for murder." 


"You're kidding me," said Keagan. "That whole serial-killer thing you 
do.." 


"Developed over time, dear, piecemeal. | found it was easier. No, | 
did a lot of things that make me sick now. But they're still a part of 
me, dear, they flowed out of who | was. There was never a moment 
when someone put their hand on my hands and made me do them 
—every step | took was because of who | am. Did you know a life 
sentence can be imposed for any crime, if a judge thinks the severity 
is great enough?" 


Keagan looked at Creepy Bastard, sitting, eyes watering, in the 
glare of the summer light from the narrow window, and realised for 
the first time that under his long, dull hair and pallid skin he was 
young—probably no more than early twenties. 


"| don't want to know what you did," Keagan said, suddenly feeling a 
wave of revulsion. 


"I—I used a knife, dear," Creepy Bastard said. "| never killed 
anyone, but | used a knife." And with that, he had apparently 
exhausted his limited stores of will and curled up tight into a ball. 


Keagan sat there for a few minutes, then went in search of Taggart 
and the business card. 


It all proved very simple. Taggart made a telephone available and 
Keagan spoke to the clipped, Received Pronunciation voice on the 


other end of the line. A time for a meeting was arranged, and 
Fredericka Mendelbrot was there with a group of men in anonymous 
dark jumpers and tracksuits, worn like uniforms. Papers were put in 
front of him to sign. 


"You've made the right decision," the woman said, and Taggart 
studiously found somewhere else to look. Keagan picked up the pen 
and scribbled K. O'Neill in the box that said he had conferred oral 
and written powers of attorney over his life, health, property and all, 
to the SCP Foundation. 


Chapter Four: "Lighter" 


The prison bus that drew up to the front of HMP Wormwood Scrubs 
was plain white, without the usual private security logos. Keagan 
was given fifteen minutes to make any last phone calls or say 
goodbye to any acquaintances. He considered the prospect of trying 
to place another call to Lauren but reasoned it would likely take him 
longer simply to brawl his way to the front of the queue. Instead, he 
thanked Creepy Bastard for his forbearance, took one last wistful 
look into the library through the window in the rec room, and 
submitted to Taggart's ministrations. He was cuffed, hands and feet, 
and handed over to three stern-faced men who neither spoke to him 
or indeed gave any indication that they regarded him as anything 
more than a large and potentially unruly sack of flour. 


Keagan had for some reason expected to see Patrick Goettsch, 
Marv Hagman and Travis Lemure, as though they had been relaxing 
on the prison bus for the past couple of days. There was, in fact, 
only one other lifer from Wormwood Scrubs, a skinny youth with a 
scrubby beard and wild eyes he vaguely recognised as a perennial 
starter of fights in the mealroom. He, together with another prisoner 
he didn't recognise, were the only passengers in the bus at first. It 
was dark inside, with raised seating areas on either side and high- 
set windows you had to sit stiff upright to see out of. 


The driver stepped on the gas and they moved off, a smooth purring 
noise that reverberated through the passenger unit. Keagan craned 
his neck and watched, hardly able to keep his mouth from dropping 


open, as they moved through the light and open space, though the 
streets of London. In just a few short months, his world had shrunk, 
he realised, to a series of boxes, connected by corridors. Even the 
yard was a box—the sky above had become just an illusion, a solid 
surface stopping in line with the buildings. The thought of being 
under unbounded heavens—even confined as he was in a vehicle— 
was breathtaking to him. The twitchy young man next to him 
favoured him with a scornful look, as though he were an imbecile for 
wanting to look out at a world he could never reach or touch. 


At first they travelled east, through Paddington, Islington, and 
Bethnal Green. Keagan hoped for a glimpse of the Thames, spread 
wide and silvered before him, but instead they crossed on the A102 
via Blackwall Tunnel, and the plunge into suffocating darkness— 
punctuated only by the pulse of the passing headlights—almost 
stifled his desire to look out of the window, as though he had been 
thrown back into solitary. Then—rebirth, emerging near the 
Millennium Centre they had travelled under. East again, past the 
leafy pocket of Broadwater Green and a massive warehouse 
bearing the legend 'Screwfix', which drew a bark of laughter from the 
inmate Keagan presumed had been picked up from another prison. 
They drew up to the walls of HMP Belmarsh, where they stopped, 
idling while short, terse conversations were had with staff. Another 
couple of men got in—one youngish, shaven-headed and talking 
nervously, the other older, massively built with saggy jowls and 
dropping, grey-rimmed eyes, a full head of dark hair, greying at the 
temples and combed roughly back, and a spasmodic cough. The 
younger prisoner chose the seat furthest from his fellow inmate; 
Keagan noticed this with a careful eye. 


Then they travelled west, across Peltman Crescent and the dome of 
the Greenwich Islamic Centre, then under construction, surrounded 
by a conglomeration of curry houses and spicy chicken vendors. 
The older Belmarsh inmate took this in and spat a glob of phlegm on 
the floor, though whether in response to the house of worship or the 
fast food Keagan was unsure. Past Woolwich High Street, and for 
the first time Keagan became aware of the presence of other people 
around them on the pavements, jumping into focus as though he 
was back in his shop and something had jolted him out of his 
meditative contemplation of a leaking brake line or poorly set air 


Item: Proposal to transport SCP-682 to an orbital asset, then 
activate SCP-1012. 


Tissue Test Record: 
Denied by O5- 


Termination Test Record: 
Testing denied by O5- 


Notes: Once more, with feeling. There are three possible outcomes 
of this test. Case 1, it works. Case 2, you've just given 682 its own 
spacecraft. Case 3, the spacecraft isn't as insulated from Earth as 
we hope, and 1012 takes us out too. Denied. 


Item: SCP-2337 


Tissue Test Record: 

SCP-2337 was informed that the SCP-682 tissue sample was a 
tone-deaf food critic who needed to hear a convincing argument as 
to which food item is the greatest in existence. After a 10-minute 
speech from SCP-2337 on the superiority of gummy worms, the 
tissue sample had been disintegrated from the resulting sonic 
shockwaves. SCP-2337 appeared highly pleased with itself. 


Termination Test Record: 

After being told that SCP-682 was a "prominent anti-gummy-worms 
extremist", SCP-2337 emulated the sound of a charge trumpet and 
entered SCP-682's chamber. 


<Begin Log> 


SCP-2337: Noble turkey stance! Fist of the eleventeen 
thousand war cushions! It are the cackening! Damn the 
tornados, siss boom cack! 


SCP-682: Leave. 
SCP-2337: Gooten idea-have. Cack! 


[SCP-2337 demolishes the Southern blast door to 
SCP-682's chamber with a vocal shockwave, then exits, 


filter. Here they were, young and old, black, white, in T-shirts, trench 
coats, burgas, all joined in contemplation of London the hair salon, 
London the football club, London the bookies, the MOT centre, the 
pub. They pushed past the prison wagon, sometimes on crossings 
but more often not, coming so close he thought he could feel the 
heat of them. Did they understand they were so close to a people 
who could not join them, he wondered?