Louisa ushered Tom back into his cell, both of them trying not to make eye contact that could be read as significant by anyone else. Cunningham seemed to have barely moved. Even though it was well past breakfast Tom wondered if he was still asleep.
‘Morning,’ said Tom.
Cunningham came alive immediately. Jumping up, looking at Tom like he was a ghost. Staring at Tom but not truly seeing him. Then he noticed the state Tom was in.
‘You . . . what happened? Where’ve you been?’
Tom sat down on the rigid chair, tried to look relaxed. Compared to where he had just spent the night this was beginning to feel positively homely. It was easy to see how inmates became accustomed to it and became scared to leave.
‘I seem to have made some enemies since I’ve been in here,’ he said.
Cunningham examined Tom’s injuries with his eyes, let them rove all over him. Tom couldn’t tell if Cunningham was excited by what he saw or appalled. Truth was, he didn’t want to know.
Tom sighed, rubbed his face with his hands, trying not to reopen wounds, pull dressings off as he did so.
Cunningham was fully interested now. ‘Have you been . . . what happened?’
Tom sighed, not wanting to go over it again. He was about to brush Cunningham’s question off but stopped. This might be it, he thought. A way of sharing something, getting him to open up. He sat back. Took a deep breath.
‘I was attacked. In the old topping shed. Two blokes. They came at me with shivs.’
Cunningham’s eyes widened. He glanced nervously towards the door, as if expecting the blokes to come barging in.
‘It’s OK,’ he said, ‘they’ve gone now. I took care of them.’
‘Two of them?’ Was that fear in Cunningham’s voice or admiration? Tom couldn’t tell. Yet.
‘Like I said, I seem to have some enemies.’
Cunningham nodded, his jaw slack. Thinking. He looked up. ‘Was this because of me?’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘Because you stopped that man attacking me the other day? Did they come after you for what you did to him?’
Tom was about to say no, it was something else, but stopped himself. ‘I don’t know. Might have been. Dreadlocked Darren might have wanted me taken care of.’
Cunningham’s eyes were off somewhere else. ‘You did that for me . . .’
Tom nodded. ‘Could well be.’
Cunningham’s mind was off somewhere else. Tom waited.
‘So you saved me from him and then they did this to you. Because of him. Because of me.’
‘Looks that way,’ said Tom.
Cunningham was nodding once more. ‘So you are my friend, then . . . you must be my friend . . .’
‘Told you I was.’
‘Yeah . . .’ Cunningham slipped back into his own world.
Tom waited. Was this the right time to ask him about the graves? Would there be a better one?
‘How’ve you been?’ he asked. ‘Since I was away.’
Cunningham looked up again, confused by the question, not used to being asked by anyone not in a professional capacity. ‘I . . . I’ve been . . . here.’ His head fell, eyes darkened. ‘I’ve been . . . lonely.’
Tom tried to contain his excitement.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘No need for that. I’m back now.’
Cunningham frowned. ‘Did Dr Louisa drop you off?’
‘She did. She’s good, isn’t she?’
‘She’s helped me a lot. Since I’ve been in here. I told her about you.’
‘I know. She said. Said it was good that we were friends. That we could help each other. Confide in each other.’
Another nod from Cunningham.
‘She knows you want to go and see your mother and she’s keen to arrange that. And you know what they want to know. But like I said, if you wanted to tell me, I could let them know as and when you needed me to. If that would help you.’
Tom said nothing, waited.
Eventually Cunningham looked up at him. Smiled. He opened his mouth, ready to speak.
And the cell door opened.
‘Visiting time for Killgannon. Come on, mate. On your feet.’