Tom wanted to stare, but he knew he couldn’t give himself away so cheaply. He kept his face devoid of emotion, his eyes fixed on the paper in front of him. He picked up a pencil, twirled it through his fingers, made out he was thinking.
He stole glances when he could. Foley seemed to be well known. Mike scurried up to him, treated him like a valued friend. Guided him to his workspace, asked if he wanted anything. Foley behaved as if this near deference was what he was used to, didn’t expect anything other than that. He told Mike he just wanted to get on with what he had been working on. Mike then brought his work over and set it before him. Foley looked at the half completed painting and with that Mike was dismissed.
Tom kept studying him. He was older than the last time he had seen him, obviously, but beyond that he didn’t look much different. Perhaps bulkier, although prison often did that. Once one of Manchester’s most feared drug barons. A man who was never attacked or challenged by his enemies, whose presence was so terrifying that he had the confidence to appear in public without bodyguards. A man who believed he had legitimised his empire, had respect, or the veneer of it, from the community at large. A man who was ultimately betrayed by one of his closest lieutenants when he was revealed to be a police officer working deep undercover. He still carried himself as if his empire was intact, as if his downfall had never happened. As if the person who had betrayed him wasn’t at the opposite end of the room.
Tom doodled, making scratches on the paper, head down, his mind – his body – wanting to be somewhere else entirely but knowing he had to keep all his mental and physical receptors open. He was bearded now, his hair longer, but he doubted that would be enough to stop Foley recognising him. Not with a hatred that deep.
‘Need inspiration?’
Tom jumped, looked up. Then quickly down again, hoping he hadn’t attracted any attention. ‘What?’
Mike. Hovering at Tom’s side. Smiling, a pleasant, open face.
‘I’m . . .’ Tom’s voice dropped too. If Foley didn’t recognise his face he wouldn’t miss his voice. Tried to disguise it, neutralise it. ‘I’m just getting going. Yeah.’
‘There’s books over there,’ he said, gesturing to a shelf on the other side of the room, the side where Foley sat. ‘Different kinds. Landscapes, nature. Photos, all of them. Some of the class like to copy them to get going. Want to help yourself?’
‘I’m . . . fine at the moment.’ His words a whispered near hiss. Bent over, he made himself as closed off as possible.
‘Well, if you’re sure, I’ll leave you alone. Anything you need, just ask.’ Mike walked off.
He must be used to people talking to him like that, Tom thought. They were all prisoners, damaged men. He couldn’t imagine anyone being pleased to be there. He pushed everything else from his mind, tried to think. Ran through possibilities as quickly, analytically, as his thumping heart would allow.
What was Foley doing in Blackmoor? And why was he in the art room at the same time as Tom? How big a coincidence was that?
Tom froze. The understanding, the answer to his question made his heart skip a beat. He couldn’t believe it but it had to be. The question wasn’t what was Foley doing there, it was what was he doing there? Or rather, how did he get there?
Clive.
That ratty little bastard. That’s why he had so many questions for him when they arrived. He must have recognised him. Then told Foley.
So who was Clive? And since Clive knew who he was, why hadn’t Tom recognised him?
He sneaked another glance at Foley who seemed to be in his own world, happily painting, a smile lifting the edges of his lips as he concentrated.
Tom wasn’t fooled. He had seen that look before. Too many times. Up close. Masking what was really going on in the man’s mind. Disguising his true intentions. Letting his prey believe they were safe before swooping unexpectedly, violently. Sometimes terminally. Then his face showed a completely different expression. The memory of which still unsettled Tom.
He looked at him again. The man was giving nothing away.
He risked another glance round the room, this time seeing if Clive was there. He wasn’t. His absence just added weight to Tom’s theory. He felt his anger at Clive rise, competing with his fear of Foley. Tried to tamp down both emotions. Fall back on his training. He couldn’t let either of them get the better of him.
So he drew. At first he had no idea what he was doing, just making trembling marks on the paper. But gradually a picture began to emerge. A young woman’s face, drawn from memory. Not brilliant or particularly competent, he didn’t think, and perhaps the features were only recognisable to himself, but it was heartfelt. Honest. It was what was in his mind right now.
Hayley. His real niece. The one whose death he still felt responsible for.
He glanced up again, that familiar anger mixing with that familiar fear. Foley. He was the one who should be blamed for her death, not him. But that would be too easy, that would give himself a free pass from the pain his actions had caused. And it wouldn’t help right now, in this place. So he put his head down again, worked.
Eventually the bell went. It had been one of the longest hours of Tom’s life.
Everyone reluctantly stood up, began to tidy their work away. Tom didn’t know what to do. Move first and be left waiting for the officers to arrive, mingling with inmates from other wings. Or be last, risking the possibility of attracting attention to himself, have all eyes on him as he dawdled. Perhaps even get a name for it. So he stood up when the rest of them did, tried to hide among the mass of prisoners. But there was a greater problem. To put his work away he had to walk past Foley.
Foley hadn’t moved. Head still down, as though the room was his and he was waiting for everyone else to clear so he could have some peace and quiet. Tom edged past his desk, trying not to even acknowledge the man but at the same time not to make it obvious that he was turning his face from him.
He risked a glance as he passed. Foley’s gaze didn’t seem to have changed but Tom wasn’t so sure. There was an infinitesimal flicker at the corner of his eye, like he had been looking but didn’t want to be caught. The expression on his face remained the same. Or was the smile deeper?
Tom’s stomach lurched. He knows, he thought. He knows it’s me.
Hands shaking, he put his work away, made for the door where he tried to lose himself amongst the other inmates.
Soon their escort arrived and he fell in with the men coming out of the classrooms, going back to the same wing.
He didn’t look back.
*
Once on the wing Tom, along with everyone else, was herded into the queue for lunch. Instead he went to the small glass office where most of the officers sat.
‘Oi,’ an officer said, behind him. ‘You. Over here.’
Tom held up his hand. ‘Just a minute.’
The officer didn’t want to give up. Tom tried to make his body language unthreatening, but urgent. He kept moving towards the office. The officer inside looked up.
‘I need to call my solicitor,’ Tom told him. ‘Now.’