Tom had tried, with his limited phone time, to contact Sheridan again but there had been no reply. It was like he was holding his breath. He was still here, in the cell with Cunningham, waiting for Foley to act. Waiting for Cunningham to talk. Waiting for something to happen.
Dinner time came and he and Cunningham queued up alongside everyone else for beige carbs. They stood with their plastic trays, plastic mugs. Not speaking to each other or anyone else. His senses were heightened because he knew what was about to happen. It was risky, but he felt he had no choice. He needed to demonstrate to Cunningham that he was on his side. That he could be trusted. And this seemed like the most direct way. And all it would cost him was a packet of Marlboro. Tom didn’t smoke but he always carried a few packs with him. They were valuable currency in prison.
Darren came charging out of nowhere, swinging for Cunningham. This wasn’t the kind of prison fight in films or TV. There was no warning, no build up. One second he wasn’t there, the next he was. And he wasn’t backing down. It was the prison way: get as many hits in as possible until everyone else stops staring and catches up, takes action against him.
The suddenness even took Tom by surprise. And he was expecting it.
Darren’s fist connected to the side of Cunningham’s head. Cunningham, almost too surprised to scream, held his arms up. Darren kept hitting. One side, then the next, not pausing for breath. Getting as much hurt in as he could.
Cunningham went down, curling into a foetal ball, whimpering. Darren stepped in to follow up. He brought back his fist, ready to transmit as much energy as he could down the knotted muscle of his arm and into his fist. And on, to Cunningham’s head.
Everyone else, those in the queue, those serving, the officers standing around, stared, too shocked to move. Tom was the first to regain his composure. He stepped up to Darren as fast as he could, grabbed hold of his swinging arm, forced it down by his side.
Darren looked at him, confusion on his face, about to speak.
‘Changed my mind,’ said Tom, so low only Darren could hear, if the blood hadn’t been pumping in his ears so much.
Anger blazed in Darren’s eyes. He tried with his other arm to swing at Tom. But Tom was ready for him. He placed his foot behind Darren’s heel, pushed him backwards. He was in mid punch, his body not expecting the sudden change of direction. He stumbled, fell backwards. Went sprawling on the floor.
Tom turned to Cunningham, tried to pick him up. ‘You OK?’
Cunningham looked terrified, didn’t seem to trust himself with words.
The guards had come to life and were piling on the prone body of Darren. Tom helped Cunningham to his feet.
‘He needs medical assistance. Now.’
Guards escorted Cunningham away, found a seat for him to sit on, assess the damage. Tom held his hands up, he was no threat. The two men were hauled off separately, Darren kicking and screaming, swearing and cursing in Tom’s direction.
Tom gave no resistance. Allowed himself to be led away.
That went about as well as could be expected, he thought.
*
He was taken to one of the wing classrooms, questioned by staff. He could hear Darren’s cries echoing off the walls as he was led off the wing.
‘What happened?’
Tom shrugged, made out he was as surprised as they were. ‘Don’t know. We were just standing in line and he comes straight for Cunningham. Starts hitting him. Hard. So I just . . .’ Another shrug. ‘Pushed him away.’
The officers stared at him, before going back to their office to check the CCTV, then their bodycams. Everything supported Tom’s version of events. He asked what had happened to Darren. He had been sent to the seg – the segregation block. A spell in solitary might calm him down, they said. Eventually they allowed Tom to go back to his cell.
Cunningham was curled up on his bunk. He jumped when the door was opened.
‘Only me,’ said Tom, as the door closed behind him.
Cunningham slowly sat up. Looked down at Tom. The left side of his face was swollen and red.
‘Have you had that seen to?’ asked Tom.
Cunningham nodded. ‘They said it would be fine. But it’ll hurt tomorrow.’ He sighed. ‘Hurts now.’
‘They given you painkillers?’
Cunningham nodded.
‘Good.’ Tom sat down on his bunk. ‘Well that was a bit of excitement, wasn’t it?’
Cunningham nodded. Still shaken.
Neither man spoke.
‘Thank you,’ Cunningham said eventually, voice small and whispery.
‘No problem,’ said Tom, aiming for lightness. ‘What friends are for?’
Cunningham moved about as if agitated. ‘Friends?’
‘Yeah. We’re stuck in here, with each other. We have to make the best of it. And that means being friends. Don’t you think?’
Cunningham didn’t answer straight away. The bunk started to move. Tom knew he was crying.
Tom lay back. This is what he was again, how he had to act, to live. He had used Darren, lied to him, given him extra, unnecessary hardship to contend with. And now he was lying to Cunningham, all to gain his trust and then drop him afterwards when he had what he wanted. Yes, Cunningham was a child murderer but he hadn’t started out that way. His life had been shaped and twisted until he had become that. If someone had intervened earlier he might have been stopped. And now here Tom was, the latest in a long line of people letting him down when he needed help.
This wasn’t who Tom wanted to be anymore. Years of being undercover had taught him to weaponise his humanity. Make friends, take lovers. Fake sincerity. Be liked by the right people. Like them in return. And then betray them. Walk away. Tell yourself it didn’t affect you. Keep telling yourself that. Then do the whole thing again. And again.
He could truly hate himself for doing this again if he allowed himself to. But he had to keep going. Tell himself – as he so often had in the past – that the end justified the means. Try to believe it this time.
‘She’s an angel,’ said Cunningham, breaking his reverie.
‘What?’
‘Your niece. She’s an angel. I’m just looking at her picture now.’
He felt something inside him curdle. Swallowed it down. He hated to use the photo of Lila but if it got Cunningham talking, especially now, then he would. And worry about how it made him feel later. ‘Is she now?’
‘Yes. She’s pure. Her hair, like angel dust . . .’
‘And you like purity, Noel? Yeah?’
‘Yes . . . purity. Children have it. It’s . . .’ Tom felt him moving about on the top bunk, getting in to his story. ‘Fleeting. You have to catch it, capture it. Then it’s gone. So fleeting. But beautiful while it lasts. Oh yes, beautiful . . .’
‘And what happens when it’s gone, Noel?’
Silence in response. It went on so long that Tom thought he had asked the wrong question. But Cunningham had been weighing his words carefully. ‘It’s gone.’ His voice had changed. Empty of creepy passion, devoid of anything approaching common humanity. Like a different person had entered the room. ‘Gone. And you have to dispose of it. You see, you take that purity, keep it, let it nourish you and then . . . it’s no good. You have to get rid of it.’ He laughed. ‘I can tell you this, now that you’re my friend. You can understand.’
‘Right,’ said Tom. ‘And that’s what you did, yeah? Got rid of the purity?’
No reply, but from the rocking of the bunk Tom could feel Cunningham nodding. Or at least he hoped that was what he was doing.
‘And where did you do that?’
Cunningham gestured towards the window. ‘Out there . . .’
Tom felt something shift within him. Like he was on to something. ‘Where in particular?’
Silence. Tom waited.
A sigh from the top bunk. ‘I’m tired now. Want to go to sleep. Thank you for being my friend, Tom.’
And that was as much as Tom could get out of him.