Tom was too tired to get up. He had barely slept, only drifting for a couple of exhausted hours when the dawn arrived. Now, he just wanted to roll over, stay in bed all day. He didn’t even mind having the door locked. At least he would be safer that way. Probably. But he had to get up. He was working, things to do.
He didn’t want to open his eyes, though. Or his nostrils, for that matter. Cunningham was sitting on the toilet. From the smell, his body was in as parlous a state as his psyche. The lack of privacy, or dignity, was something Tom didn’t think he could ever get used to. He had been in the army and was used to living up close to other men in regimented conditions, but this was worse. He tried to block out the groans Cunningham was making too.
Instead he retreated once more inside his own mind. Tried to think. Plan.
No news from Sheridan and no way to call him until later. He expected to be pulled out any second but until that happened he had to come up with a way to keep himself safe.
Clive. No surname yet, just that. And he didn’t recognise him either. He had tried to place him, gone through as many faces as he could remember from undercover operations, villains he had crossed, but he came up with nothing. Yet it seemed that Clive knew him. Or knew who he used to be. And that kind of knowledge was currency in prison. He couldn’t see any other way Foley knew he was here.
The art class. He was supposed to be attend again this morning. He couldn’t risk it. If Foley said something, did something, it would jeopardise more than just this operation.
The cell door was opened.
‘Breakfast. Up you get. Outside, line up.’
Tom threw back the covers, got up. He pulled his joggers on, slipped a sweatshirt over his head, laced up his trainers. His day clothes barely differed from his night clothes. And showers were a rare commodity on the wing. He had begun to smell like every other inmate. A mixture of poorly washed and dried clothing, cheap soap and sweat. Prison cologne.
He had a quick wash, still holding his nose, brushed his teeth, made his way to the door, looked out at the wing. All the other prisoners were lining up to receive their food from the kitchen. He joined the queue. Face as neutral, as slack, as possible, his eyes on full alert all the time. He didn’t know if Darren had any friends on the wing who wanted retribution for what he’d done to him. And that was without the threat of Foley. The food smelt like bad school dinners. Tasted even worse. But it was that or starve. Again, he thought of the army and was unsurprised that so many ex-squaddies ended up in prison. There was little in the way of lifestyle adjustment to make. Only downwards.
Then he stopped dead. He hoped his expression hadn’t changed but was sure it had. What he saw threw him off guard. There, about ten people ahead of him. Clive. Queuing up for breakfast.
Tom’s mind whirled. Why was Clive on his wing? When had that happened? Must have been overnight. Why the move? Could be any reason. But he knew the main one: Foley wanted Clive to keep an eye on him. A few days ago he might have dismissed that as fanciful but not now. It wasn’t a huge leap of the imagination to think that Foley could do something like that. He still had influence, power, money. Enough to pay off a few officers, for sure.
Tom could do nothing, say nothing. So he just pretended he hadn’t seen him. Tried to look from the corner of his eye, see if Clive was watching him.
He reached the counter, chose his food, took it back to his cell to eat.
Cunningham came in after Tom, sat down, started to eat. The door was closed behind him.
‘Another day,’ Cunningham said, trying for a smile.
‘Yeah,’ said Tom.
Cunningham finished his food, placed the tray on his bunk. Stood up, hovered over Tom. It was clear he had something to say and Tom knew it had to do with his behaviour during the night. Tom said nothing. Waited.
‘It’s hard sometimes,’ Cunningham finally said. ‘You know. At night.’
‘Yeah,’ said Tom, as noncommittal as he could manage.
Cunningham sighed. ‘It’s hard.’
‘Yeah,’ Tom said again. He waited, wanting to grab Cunningham, scream at him: Just tell me where they are! But he didn’t. Instead he said, ‘Do you tell the psychologist about these dreams?’
‘Sort of. No, not really. She might . . . I don’t know. Laugh or something. Or send me somewhere worse.’
‘She won’t do any of that. Just tell her. She’ll understand.’ And hopefully make my job easier, he thought.
Cunningham nodded, said nothing more.
Tom turned on the TV. Breakfast television. Brightly painted presenters in a brightly painted studio. Compared with the drabness of the cell it hurt Tom’s eyes. He blocked it out, tried to think.
Clive had forced him to put down art on his education choices. Or rather made the choice for him. But what had Clive put down? He had seen Clive’s form. He tried to visualise the paper, Clive holding the pen in his hand. There were marks against certain subjects. If he could only remember . . .
He opened his eyes again. Got it.
The door opened once more. An officer stood there, clipboard in hand.
‘Right. Killgannon, Art. Cunningham, Bookkeeping. Get ready, you’re going now.’
Tom stood up. ‘I’ve made a mistake. Can I change it?’
The officer stared at him, face impassive yet angry at the same time. The majority of them seemed to have perfected that look, he thought.
‘Please,’ Tom said. ‘I’m not trying to cause trouble or make your life difficult. I’ve just put down the wrong thing. I went to art the other day and hated it. Can I go to the carpentry workshop instead? Please.’
‘You’re not supposed to change like that. You have to do it properly.’
‘I know. But I don’t know who to talk to. It’s my first time in here. Please. I’m not messing you around. I’ve made a genuine mistake.’
Tom waited. If that didn’t get through to the officer he would have to try another way. But he wasn’t going to the art class today under any circumstances.
The officer sighed, looked at his clipboard. Erased a mark, made one somewhere else. ‘Go on. Put it down to clerical error. Wouldn’t be the first time.’
Tom smiled. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’
‘Get moving, then.’
He did.
On the wing the inmates were lining up, getting ready to go to their respective classes and workplaces. Their names and destinations were called out and they left with their officers. Tom saw Clive standing near the back of the line.
‘Carpentry shop, this way.’
The group started to follow the officer. Tom stepped in with them, coming up next to Clive.
‘Hello, Clive. Surprised to see you here. Changed wings, have you?’
Clive jumped. The colour drained from his face and it took him a few seconds to regain his powers of speech.
‘What . . . what you doing here? You’re, you’re supposed to be going to art.’
Tom smiled. It was a lot less pleasant than the one he had given the officer. ‘Change of plan, Clive old son. I’m doing carpentry now.’
‘But . . . you can’t . . .’
‘Can’t I?’
Tom moved in closer. Grabbed Clive’s arm, gave it a squeeze. Clive winced.
‘Going to be spending all morning together. I think it’s time we had a little chat. Don’t you?’
From the expression on his face, Clive clearly didn’t agree.