Tom spent the rest of the afternoon banged up by choice. He had long missed lunch by the time his meeting with Sheridan had ended so he was given a cold coagulated mess on a tray to eat. It remained uneaten. He no longer had an appetite. Cunningham was off the wing, so he remained in his cell alone.
He couldn’t read, saw only words dancing on the page, couldn’t watch TV, saw only mouths moving but nonsense coming out. Couldn’t do anything. Except go over the conversation he had just had with Sheridan, then think about what he was planning to do.
It was a ridiculous, stupid plan. And worst of all, it might not even save him. But it was that or nothing. And nothing would definitely get him killed. Whereas this could buy him a little time. Then it was down to Sheridan.
He was starting to warm towards the detective. He didn’t think that would have been possible after their first meeting. Sheridan had been cold, arrogant. But that mask had slipped to reveal a conscientious copper trying to do his job as best he could.
Further thoughts were cut short by the sound of the key in the lock. The door opened.
‘Dinnertime,’ said an officer, walking away before the word was out of his mouth.
Tom stood up. Took a deep breath, exhaled. Another. Exhaled. Ready.
He stepped outside. The walkway of his upstairs cell was narrow, the metal steps downstairs to the food queue clanging and clattering with the footsteps of inmates all moving at once. He looked around, tried to catch sight of the person he wanted. Couldn’t see him.
‘Hello.’ Suddenly Cunningham was by his side. Smiling.
‘Hey,’ said Tom, continuing to scan the wing.
Cunningham smiled. ‘I’ve been thinking about things.’
Tom didn’t reply.
‘I’ve been to see the psychologist this afternoon.’
‘Good for you.’ Distracted, eyes on the crowd.
‘And she says I should open up more. I told her about the night terrors, like you said I should.’
Had he? He couldn’t remember.
‘And she said I should talk to you about them. Especially if you’re there to share them. I told her you’d been a friend.’
The word still jarred, even though Tom had used it first. ‘Right.’
‘Yes.’ Cunningham was nodding earnestly, the smile still on his face. ‘A friend. My friend. Because you stopped me getting hurt. And you helped me during the night. And we talked. Remember?’
‘Right.’
‘So she said—’
Tom was aware of a movement on the walkway above him. He looked up. There was the scarred man once more. Smiling the way he had that morning. But now he was joined by someone else.
Dean Foley.
As Tom stared, Foley cocked his finger and thumb, made a gun. Fired. Laughed.
Tom looked round, mind moving quickly. Message received and understood. He was in danger. Immediate danger. He needed to do something about it if he wanted to stay alive.
He looked again at Cunningham. The man had been about to say something. Might it be about the bodies? Could Tom risk it? And what would he do if it was? How would he get the information to Sheridan then?
Then he saw his target. Looked between the two men below, the two above, making his mind up on the spot. ‘Just a minute,’ he said and walked off.
Clive was lining up along with the rest of the men returning from the carpentry workshop. Tom pushed in alongside him.
‘Oi,’ came a voice from behind, a huge threat implied for such a small word.
Tom turned. ‘Won’t be a minute. Just want a word with my mate here.’
Clive’s eyes darted round the room like a swallow trapped in a barn.
‘Don’t I, Clive?’
‘We got nothing more to say.’
‘We were in the middle of a conversation, weren’t we? When I was dragged away. Now what were we talking about?’ Tom pretended to think. ‘Oh yes. You were telling me I didn’t have a clue what was going on. Isn’t that right, Clive? Yeah?’
Clive looked round once more. If he expected someone to come to his aid he was going to be disappointed. Others were curious about what was happening, but not enough to intervene.
‘So tell me, then,’ continued Tom. ‘Tell me what I don’t understand.’
‘There’s nothing.’
‘Oh, come on, Clive. Don’t be like that. You’ve gone all shy. Come on. Tell me.’ Tom put his arm round Clive’s shoulders, began to squeeze.
‘Get off me. I’ll call one of the screws over. I will.’
‘Do it,’ said Tom. ‘Because I really don’t care anymore. I’ve had enough of this place, of your shit. You think you’re protected? We’ll see.’
Clive turned to him, tried to squirm out of his grip. ‘I am protected. But you’re not.’ That sick little smile again. ‘Your days are numbered, mate. Numbered.’
‘I know that. And I’ve got nothing to lose. Nothing at all. So if I’m going down, you’re coming with me, Clive. Now tell me. What’s going on in here? And why are you involved?’
‘Oh, that’s the thing that really annoys you, isn’t it? You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’m doing here. You’re so used to having everything your own way, having every angle thought out that you can’t take it when that doesn’t happen, when someone pulls one over on you. You hate it, don’t you?’
Tom was really beginning to get angry now. He no longer bothered to hide it. ‘Then tell me. Enlighten me.’
‘Enlighten you? Oh, la di fuckin’ dah. Enlighten you.’ Clive laughed. Heads began to turn.
Tom felt his face redden with anger. He knew how this conversation was going to end but at least he could try to get something from it. He made one last attempt. ‘Just tell me, Clive. What’s going on. You’ve got nothing to lose. Just tell me.’ Hoping that his raised voice was one of anger not begging.
Clive just giggled. Then, with a quick lick of lips, he stopped. Thought. And spoke. ‘How’s your niece, Mick? How’s Hayley doing?’
Clive stood back, pleased with his retort. Even more pleased with Tom’s reaction.
Tom staggered back as though he had been punched in the heart. Staring all the while at Clive who kept giggling, a small, frightened man enjoying his moment.
He cocked his fingers into a gun, pointed. ‘Hayley,’ he mouthed.
And Tom lost it.