Whispers filled the corridors. Some prisoners claimed it was divine punishment. Others accused the guards of secret abuse. Margaret’s patience wore thin to the point of exhaustion. She ordered a total lockdown, a review of all records, visitor lists, staff schedules. The results showed nothing unusual—no blind spot, no missing data, no chance of outside contact.
A week later, a fourth prisoner tested positive.
Then the fear appeared.
Margaret called an emergency meeting with the senior wardens. “Someone has managed to breach my walls,” she said in a trembling voice. “And we’re going to find out how.”
The atmosphere at Westmere had become poisonous. The inmates avoided eye contact. The guards whispered to each other in the corners. Fiona hardly slept. Her mind kept wandering around the same unanswered question. Until one cold evening, as she walked past the courtyard, she noticed something strange against the far wall. The soil looked freshly dug, as if someone had been digging.
She bent down and pressed her palm to the ground. Beneath the thin layer of soil, she felt air. Empty space.
“Bring a lantern,” he said to the guard next to him.
They began to dig, their hands shaking. A wooden plank appeared—an old one, but recently moved. Fiona lifted it cautiously and looked down. There, in the darkness, was a long, narrow tunnel.
Her voice was barely a whisper: “Call the warden immediately.”
By morning the yard was surrounded by servants. Margaret arrived, pale but composed. “Find out where this tunnel leads,” she ordered. “No one comes out until we know.”
The investigators descended into the tunnel. It was damp, cold, lined with rough wooden beams. After about thirty meters the passage branched. One end led to an abandoned warehouse beyond the fence. The other to the neighboring institution, St. Alders Men’s Prison.
