The same two officers who had given the tour of the topping shed escorted them to the workshop. There was something different about their attitude, Tom noticed. As though they had been told a secret about him and it had changed their opinion. They weren’t scared of him, but they were apprehensive. Tom couldn’t decide if they wanted to rush him, or back away from him. But they were definitely watching him more closely.
On Foley’s payroll.
His closeness to Clive on the walk was making them take even more note. Clive tried to telegraph his fear to them, show them in his eyes and body language that something wasn’t right. Tom countered this by seeming as cheerful as possible. The officers were given no excuse to intervene.
As they walked, Tom noticed another inmate coming in the opposite direction. He was unescorted but that wasn’t the most unusual thing about him. His face was covered in scars but strangely overly symmetrical. Like he had placed a mirror too close to one side of his features. He noticed Tom and Clive walking together. Clive just stared at him, as if silently begging him for help. The scarred man ignored him, kept looking at Tom. Then he smiled and was gone.
Tom tried to shake the encounter from his mind. He didn’t know what had just happened but he knew it wasn’t a positive development.
They arrived at a prefabricated hut. One of a number erected on a patch of land by the furthest perimeter fence. Some had been turned into offices, some classrooms. Tom entered with the rest of the group. Gave his name, number and wing to an officer inside, looked around.
It was like being back at school. Workbenches dotted the room, tools hung in locked cupboards on the walls, felt tip outlines of each so missing ones could be easily spotted. A couple of full-size lathes. The teacher wearing a grey overall, waiting for everyone to enter.
It was the same as the art room. The regulars went to their benches, took out their work. Went through the procedures to be given tools to work with. Everything counted off, ticks on clipboards. Tom, being new, didn’t know what to do or where to go.
‘You’ll need an induction,’ said the teacher. Sour looking, middle aged. Nose wrinkled as if perpetually smelling something unpleasant. Talking like he might expire before he’s finished his sentence. ‘There’s always a few new ones every week. Just wait there till I’ve sorted everyone out with work to do.’ His worn-out features and bitter eyes seemed to resent not only the inmates being there, but the officers and himself as well.
He walked off, made a cursory circuit of the room, nodded at what he saw then returned to Tom and the other two men with him. They were then given a tour of the room, had the machinery and tools explained to them, given warnings about what would happen if they misbehaved or even worse, misused the tools in any way. He asked whether any of them had experience of working with wood. The other two put their hands up. The teacher took them away, got them started. Tom was once again left on his own.
He saw Clive at the other side of the room, sanding down a small box. He checked to see if anyone was watching him. They weren’t. He went and stood next to him.
‘What you making?’ Tom kept his voice as loud and cheerful as possible, as though he and Clive were old mates.
Clive had no option but to respond. ‘A box.’
‘I can see that.’ Laughter from Tom, the funniest joke in the world. ‘What kind of box?’
‘For my granddaughter. Something for her to keep. To remember me by.’
‘Nice,’ said Tom, voice still loud. Then he let it drop. Moved in so no one else could hear. ‘I know you’re only a small bloke, but I mean. Bit tiny for a coffin, isn’t it?’
Clive stared at him.
Tom, unblinking, kept on. ‘I could work with it, though. If I had to.’
He straightened up, smile in place once more. Clive’s eyes darted round, hoping someone had heard, but knowing they hadn’t.
‘So what’s going on, Clive?’ asked Tom, his voice as conversational as possible. ‘You set me up with the art class. And you know who with. Now I’m guessing you’re not bright enough to pull that one yourself. So why do it?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.’ Trying desperately not to look at Tom, concentrate on his box.
‘Yeah you do. You filled in my form. And I know who you’re working with. Or rather for. Want me to say his name?’
Clive said nothing. Just kept sanding away.
Tom bent in again, pretended to be admiring Clive’s handiwork. Even pointed at a dovetail joint. ‘You set me up. With Foley, Clive. Didn’t you?’
No response.
‘I’d go so far as to say that you recognised me as soon as I arrived here. That right?’
Clive kept sanding.
‘Then you went straight to Foley, told him I was here. And Foley told you to get me to the art class. How’m I doing so far?’
‘Nice . . . nice story.’ Clive’s voice as uneven as his handiwork.
‘Yeah. Lovely. And then after that, Foley managed to get you sent over to my wing. Spying on me, Clive? Reporting back? Surely Foley could have got someone else to do that. I’m sure you’re not the only one on the payroll.’
No response.
‘But there’s something niggling at me, Clive. You see, I could well believe you capable of all that. Well believe it. But here’s the thing. I’ve never seen you before in my life, Clive. I’d remember a weaselly little face like yours. Might have even slapped it around a few times. But I’ve racked and racked my brains and got nothing. So tell me, Clive, where do you know me from?’
Clive stopped sanding, looked up. ‘You don’t scare me,’ he said, the words barely coming out in between swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down so much it was quivering.
‘Your voice says otherwise.’
‘I’m protected. You’re not. Not in here.’ Voice stronger.
‘You’re only protected as long as you’re useful, Clive. And at the moment you’re useful. But only while Foley wants you. When that changes you’ll be tossed aside. If you’re lucky, that is. Might be worse. Then what’ll you do?’
Clive stared at Tom. A weird intensity began to grow in his eyes. As though he was developing bravery.
‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’ said Clive. ‘Not a clue.’
‘About what, Clive?’
‘About what’s going on here. About you. Not a clue.’ He was on the verge of laughing. A giggling, unhinged laugh. ‘Have you?’
Tom wanted to keep pressing, find something out, anything that would give him a clue. But his interrogation was cut short.
‘Killgannon,’ shouted a voice from the door.
Tom looked up, startled. ‘Yeah?’
‘Solicitor visit.’ An officer had come to the door, a slip of paper in his hand.
Tom straightened up. His heart began to beat faster. This was it, he thought. He didn’t have to question Clive about anything. That wasn’t important now. All that could be dealt with later. When he was on the outside.
Because this was it. Sheridan had come through.
He was going home.