Cunningham’s fists were clenched, rage flaring. He was big, bulky. Thick arms, stout legs, but from the way his stomach undulated a few seconds after the rest of him, Tom guessed he hadn’t been keeping up his exercise routine. His face was round and red, purple-veined, hair clipped short, stubbled chin, eyes black, deepset. Like an angry gooseberry past its best.
‘I wanted to be on my own, too,’ said Tom, unmoving, ‘but here we are.’
Cunningham took a step towards him. Tom remained where he was. He was in better shape than Cunningham but didn’t have his rage. In a confrontation that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing. For emphasis he flexed his biceps, his chest. Cunningham didn’t move.
The two stared at each other, Tom breathing quietly, Cunningham raggedly, wheezing. Maybe he’ll die of a heart attack before he gets the chance to confess, thought Tom. Or even speak.
‘Don’t think we have much say in the matter,’ he continued.
Cunningham didn’t reply.
‘But I’ve just arrived and I’ve been put in here. I’m on Enhanced. I worked hard for that. And I’m not going to lose it for anyone.’ Tom opened his arms. ‘So give it your best shot, big boy. Here I am.’
Cunningham stared, but Tom’s words had penetrated. The fire burned out of his eyes. He looked away, round the cell. Trying to find some way to back down yet still save face.
‘Just . . . stay away from me.’ The words gurgled out quietly. Drained away. Cunningham’s mood seemed to have changed completely. Where there had been anger, all Tom could see was wariness, fear perhaps.
Tom regarded him quizzically, noting the change. As if Cunningham’s anger had been a learned response from being inside. If in doubt, confront.
‘But I still have the top bunk.’ Sullenly, like a stroppy child.
Tom didn’t want to argue. ‘Your shout, mate. You’ve been here longest.’
Cunningham nodded, honour seemingly satisfied.
The Choirmaster Killer. That’s what the tabloids had dubbed Noel Cunningham. And they had played that up in every photo they printed. Round faced, cherubic, like the stereotype of an overgrown choirboy. Living with his aged mother. Dressed and groomed by her, by the look of him. Pudding basin haircut and bow tie. Photographs published and studied. Everyone looking for evil behind the jowls.
Tom didn’t recognise his new cellmate from the person the tabloids claimed he had been. It was as though being caught had stripped him of whatever camouflage he had used to exist in the real world, sloughing that skin, revealing the pathetic individual underneath. More damaged than dangerous.
He had started by abusing boys in a cathedral choir in Devon. A figure of respect in the local community, an odd one, but nevertheless thought of as harmless. Then children in the area started to go missing. The children were never from the choir. Too dangerous for him to do that. Too many questions asked. But the church did outreach in the local community. And that involved taking underprivileged kids away for weekends and during school holidays. Usually camping on Blackmoor. That was when he had first met them, sized them up. Moved in with a predator’s cunning. Picked off the weak, the fragile, the not easily missed. From there, simply befriend them, see them back in town, tell them about other trips to Blackmoor if they were interested. Then take them away with him. Never to be seen again.
The local police eventually put together a pattern that trapped Cunningham. He admitted his crimes, confessed easily, but still refused to say where the bodies were. Or how many there were. But he had always tried to be friendly with men who fitted Tom’s description. Tall, rugged.
‘Always looking for a father figure, according to the psychological profile,’ Sheridan had told Tom. ‘To replace the one he never had. You fit the bill. You should be just his type, so to speak.’
The tension in the cell had eased. Tom placed his bags on the floor, pointed to the wall. ‘This shelf mine?’
Cunningham shrugged.
Tom opened his bag, began to unpack. It didn’t take him long. Clearly Cunningham was on Enhanced too, having the privileges that came from playing along with the rules. Colour TV. Play Station. A shelf of toiletries. A framed photo of an older woman, smiling.
‘That your mother?’ said Tom, unpacking his own toiletries.
Cunningham nodded, grunted.
‘She looks happy.’
Cunningham didn’t reply. He had decorated the area round his bed with pictures torn from magazines and newspapers. They were all of beautiful boys who seemed younger than eighteen. Apart from their posing and pouting they had two other things in common. They had crude, swan-like wings drawn on their backs. And their eyes had been clipped out. They looked like dead-eyed angels.
Unnerved, Tom looked away, unpacked a couple of books, placed them spine out next to his toiletries. Took out some underwear, spare joggers, the shirt and suit he had been wearing when he entered the prison. Folded them all up, found a drawer for them. All the while Cunningham affected not to watch him.
Finally he took out a framed photo of himself and Lila, placed that on the desk by the bed. Cunningham became interested then, couldn’t help himself. Tom saw him staring at the photo, unblinking.
‘Who’s that? Daughter?’
‘Niece,’ said Tom. ‘She lives with me.’
‘Does she now.’ Cunningham didn’t – couldn’t – hide the leer on his face.
Tom stared at him. ‘Yeah. She does.’ The tone of his voice warned Cunningham not to pursue that train of thought. Cunningham complied. At least outwardly. Tom sat down on his bunk. ‘How long you been here?’
Cunningham grunted. ‘Six months. She looks very young.’
Tom ignored the comment. Wondered instead about the etiquette of asking other prisoners what their crime was. Before he could speak, that decision was taken away from him.
‘What you in for, then?’ Cunningham leaned forwards.
‘Actual bodily harm.’
‘How come?’ Cunningham’s expression changed. Like he was waiting to be told a story.
Tom obliged. ‘I work in a pub. Punter got too handy with my boss. Had to be taught a lesson.’
Something crept across Cunningham’s face. Tom couldn’t describe it. ‘How handy?’
‘Very handy,’ said Tom in a voice meant to discourage any further investigation. It didn’t.
‘You mean like trying to . . . you know?’
Tom didn’t answer. Cunningham took his silence for agreement, became more excited. ‘How far did he get?’ Then he shook his head as if to dislodge the thoughts growing there. ‘No, no . . . don’t . . . no . . .’ He looked up. ‘Did he get his hands on her . . .’ He couldn’t say the words, gestured to his chest, mimed breasts. ‘Did he?’
Tom stared at him.
‘No,’ said Cunningham, once more, to himself, ‘No. That’s wrong. Don’t think it. Don’t think about the, the dirty things . . .’ His face contorted, struggling. He looked up, a lascivious smile in place. ‘Then what? Did he force her down?’ He clamped his hand over his mouth, eyes wide, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just said. ‘No, it’s not right . . . You’ve been told, Noel, been told . . . you know what happens if you have those kind of thoughts . . .’ His voice had changed. Become older, more feminine. He closed his eyes, shook his head once more. Leaned forwards, body rocking to and fro. Opened his eyes only when he had finished violently shaking his head. His voice dropped low, scared to say the next words aloud but also defiant. He gave Tom a long, leering smile. ‘Did he fuck her?’
Years undercover had taught Tom to stay in character, play along with the target rather than impose his own values on a situation. Out of practice, he thought. He swallowed down his revulsion, tried to ignore the thought that this face was the last thing Cunningham’s victims ever saw. Kept his eyes hard, his cover intact.
‘No one fucks her but me. He learned that the hard way.’
His tone of voice had clearly been authoritative enough. Cunningham backed down from any more questions.
‘What about you?’ The ice was well and truly broken.
Cunningham made a noise that sounded like liquid gravel on the move, but Tom realised it was a laugh. ‘You don’t know me?’
‘Should I?’
‘You should. Famous, aren’t I?’
‘Tell me, then.’
‘I’m a murderer.’ Cunningham simpered, his eyes shining. Like a child trying to impress by saying the worst thing imaginable.
‘Right.’ Tom’s face was as still as stone.
Cunningham looked deflated. Expecting a bigger reaction from Tom. ‘Who’d you kill, then?’
Cunningham’s features became evasive. ‘Well, that’s the thing. That’s what they all call me. Murderer. Here. On the wing. Murderer.’ Said in an angry whisper, followed by a giggle. ‘Keeps them away from me. Let’s me be on my own.’ He did it again. ‘Murderer . . . Don’t go near him, he might murder you too . . .’ Another laugh. ‘They leave me alone then. Scared. Scared of me.’
Tom had seen the other inmates. Cunningham was deluding himself if he thought they were scared of him. He could imagine them leaving him alone, though. Too irritating to bother with.
‘So you’re not a murderer?’
Cunningham’s expression changed again. Sharply. Tom couldn’t gauge what it meant but something behind his eyes unnerved him. ‘Oh, I’m much more than that. Much more . . .’
‘Like what?’
Cunningham shook his head, a blissfully sick look on his face. ‘You wouldn’t understand. It’s . . . you just wouldn’t.’
He took his attention away from Tom, went back to the photo of Lila. Stared at it. ‘You wouldn’t understand . . .’
Tom’s first impulse was to jump up, hide it. Then smack Cunningham round the head. But he tamped it down. Kept in character.
‘So why aren’t you on the VP wing?’
Vulnerable prisoners were housed on a separate wing. Usually child killers or paedophiles but not exclusively. Anyone whose life was in danger, a suicide risk or even an ex-copper, they were all put in there.
Cunningham smiled as if he knew something Tom didn’t. ‘Who knows? Maybe they want someone to hurt me here.’ He leaned forwards. ‘Are you going to hurt me?’
The sick light in Cunningham’s eyes told Tom that he might not find that so unappealing.
Tom ignored him, took a paperback out of his bag, lay back on his bunk.
Cunningham just giggled.
Silence fell. Following his outburst Cunningham zoned out, sat slumped, staring at Tom’s photo of Lila, a smile twisting the corners of his mouth. He began to sing to himself. Tom couldn’t identify it but knew it was something holy. Something befitting an ex-choirmaster.
Tom tried to read but his mind was whirring too much.