About Henry Fellows

Post 95:

Episode Sixteen:

On Killing and Innocence: The Chronicles of Henry Fellows

Chapter Six Continued

            …It was obvious the next day that it had been some kind of inside job, but they all knew the risk. The whole thing cost me twenty million bucks. I know. Can’t put a price on freedom. From there I hitched another ride in a semi down to the coast and hopped a freighter to a little Caribbean island where my new visage was waiting for me. It was needed. My face had been pummeled by the Aryan Nation, the Nation of Islam, and the Mexican Nation the first three days in there. One more nation would have killed me.

            As a little insurance policy for the people that helped me, I set them up with untraceable offshore numbered accounts. Banks that deal in anonymity. You know, banks for criminals. No way I deal with regular, criminal banks. As an extra insurance policy I had a very traceable million dollars wired into the accounts of the warden, the head of corrections, and the head of the U.S. Marshal Service. None of them were complicit in my escape, but I figured they’d be a little less inclined to poke around if they had to explain that one.

            Believe it? Well, either way, I’m in London, home of my ancestors. What’d you think, I Shawshanked my way out of there in less than a week? Nope.

            I get off at Paddington Station and take this tube and that tube to Covent Garden. Floyd’s got a flat right near the station, a bit central for my taste but if I was just a guy on a visit it would be ideal. Cosmopolitan. Big for fashion types, stage actors and dancers that have cash. Busy. He likes it for the reasons I don’t, hiding in plain sight and all that nonsense. See his place up ahead, one flat in a row of dozens. It’s not an opulent or large joint, but it must be expensive. Shoulders scrape shoulders through the hustle and bustle of the London scene; tourists maneuvering their way down the little streets while buses plow by and people drive on the wrong side of the road. It’s raining, but only slightly. Nobody seems to notice. It’s England, after all. Suddenly my person and my locale are in focus. I’ve spent a lot of time in this town, but I’m every bit a man from the New World...