Another night in Blackmoor. And Tom was trying to chase down sleep.
Other inmates didn’t seem to have a problem. Some would sleep round the clock if they could. With their bodies, their lives, rendered down to basics, being locked up for most of your twenty-four hours a day, alone with just the thoughts and impulses that had got you inside in the first place, then sleep was the only free, legalised oblivion on offer. And you took it willingly. But not Tom. His head was whirring too much.
The terror of losing control of his environment had dulled but not disappeared. He no longer lay awake worrying whether he would burn to death if there was a fire, whether they would forget to unlock his cell door in the morning. It had become part of the low-level, constant anxiety of negotiating prison life. He couldn’t sleep because he was terrified he might never leave.
He worried that he might end up like Charles Salvador; in for something minor but his constant aggression ensured he would never be released, so he changed his name to Charles Bronson and styled himself the most violent man in prison. He could see how something like that could happen. Looking for threats around every corner, challenging anyone who stepped in front of him. He could understand how that would escalate, but he also worried he would be forgotten.
After returning from Pearl and Lila’s visit, Cunningham seemed to have slipped back into his own sullen mind. The progress Tom had made now reversed. Tom knew why, even though neither had expressed it: because Tom had visitors and Cunningham didn’t. He might consider Tom his friend, but having visits from his ‘niece’ reminded Cunningham he was truly alone.
So Tom hadn’t pushed it. Just waited, with as much patience as he could muster, for the time to be right.
Cunningham wasn’t making his quest for sleep any easier. His night terrors playing up once again.
Tom heard the now familiar wailing coming from the top bunk, accompanied by the equally expected thrashing and punching. The crying crescendoed, the words becoming clear: ‘I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . . please, please don’t, I’m sorry . . .’ And yet more thrashing.
Tom lay on his side staring at the thin strip of light coming under the door, showing there was some kind of life beyond his cell, that he was still connected to it. The lack of sleep here, as well as in the seg block, had built up within him. He felt like he would never rest again. Like his body would never be allowed to recharge. And now Cunningham. He had had enough.
Anger coursed through him as he sat up and swung his legs down onto the floor. He sighed, stood up, turned to the top bunk ready to yell at Cunningham, make him shut up, just let him get some sleep for once, just once in his cretinous fucking life, just once . . .
The cell was never truly dark. There was the twenty-four/seven light from the wing coming under the door, the glow of the perimeter lights through the smudged and filthy windows. Cunningham sat upright, staring at the wall. The shadowed corner of the room, the only true darkness in the whole cell. Tom knew what was coming. Cunningham telling him there were ghosts in the shadows, that he could see them, wanting Tom to see them also. Tom didn’t want to look again.
‘Cunningham, listen, why don’t you—’
‘Look. Just . . . look . . .’
Cunningham stared at the corner, arm outstretched, finger pointing. Tom tried to fight it but couldn’t. He followed Cunningham’s gaze.
‘There, it’s . . . there . . .’
‘There’s nothing there, Cunningham, now—’
Tom stopped. Stared. There in the shadows, something was moving.
Like a gas trying to become solid or a dream trying to become real. A figure taking shape before his eyes. The rest of the room dropped away, the faint lights from outside and under the door dimmed. There was only the figure in the corner.
‘You can see it as well, can’t you?’ Cunningham’s voice, quieter now, almost calming.
Tom didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Just kept looking.
The figure became almost recognisable then drifted apart.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Cunningham, voice lowered, reasoning, not screaming anymore, ‘I really am. Please, let me make it up to you. All of you . . .’
Tom didn’t know what Cunningham was seeing. He saw only one image. One person. A young woman. And he knew instinctively who it was.
Hayley.
‘I’m sorry as well,’ he found himself saying. ‘I really am. I wish it could have been me and not you. I want that so, so much. Spent ages thinking that after it happened, tried to make it happen . . . but it didn’t. So I’m here and you’re . . . there. Wherever. And I’m sorry.’
He was aware of movement at his side. Cunningham had moved his attention from the shadowed corner to Tom.
‘You really can see . . . You . . . your own ghosts . . .’
‘We’ve all got our ghosts, Cunningham.’
‘Mine talk to me. I tell them sorry, I’m always saying sorry. But I think they’re hearing me this time. They’re telling me . . .’ He cocked his head to one side, listening. ‘Yeah, they’re telling me . . . that they want to be put to rest. So do I . . . so do I . . .’ Almost crying with those last few words. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll do it, I’ll do it . . .’
Tom kept staring. But he couldn’t see anything now. Just shadows. Whatever had been there – or he had imagined had been there – was gone. He blinked. There was nothing. Just a sleep–deprived man looking at a corner.
Cunningham was still talking. ‘Yes I will,’ he was saying. ‘I will. I promise. And then everything will be all right. I’ll make it all right.’ Nodding. ‘Yes. Thank you. Thank you.’
He turned to Tom, almost smiled. ‘Time for sleep now.’ He lay down and within what must have been seconds was out.
Tom wondered whether he had ever been awake.
*
Next morning, Tom opened his eyes as the lights went on. He had slept. Actually slept. For the first time in ages.
He got out of bed. Cunningham was already up. He sat on the chair watching him. Smiling.
‘Good morning, Tom.’
‘Morning.’ Tom was instantly wary.
Cunningham stretched, smiled. ‘This is a new day.’
‘Isn’t it always?’
He laughed. ‘No. This is a real new day. The first new day in a long time. Praise God.’
Tom didn’t answer. He stood up, made his way to the steel toilet. Cunningham loomed behind him.
‘I’m going to tell them where they’re buried, Tom. All of them.’ Still smiling like he had shaken hands with God.
Tom paused, turned back to look at him.
‘What?’
I’m going to tell them where the bodies are. Their souls have gone, but the bodies are still there. And I’m going to show them. Show them all.’
Tom just stared.
‘And you’re coming with me.’
And in that moment, Tom saw his way out.