‘So where are they from here, then?’
Dean Foley stood in front of the car, the prison officer’s own Audi, surveyed the moor ahead of him. He was dressed for the city streets, not the open countryside. Immaculate grey chalkstripe three-piece suit, crisp white ironed shirt, tie, polished, handmade shoes. A Crombie overcoat that cost more than the monthly wage of the officer accompanying him. He knew it was impractical for where he was, but he didn’t care. They were the clothes he wore entering prison, his business, cocktail reception, court appearance suit, and he wanted to wear it now. Inmates were allowed to wear their own clothes when they were escorted outside the prison and Foley wanted to feel something different to the cheap, itchy prison sweats against his skin, to remind himself of who he used to be.
Who he could possibly be again.
Baz stood next to him, shivering in his prison issue sweats and an anorak. Chris, one of his tame officers, stood with them.
‘Somewhere over there, I think they said they were going,’ said Chris, pointing off to a mist-shrouded rocky incline over by the horizon.
Foley looked where indicated then closed his eyes, breathed deeply down to his diaphragm. Exhaled. The air was cold, harsh, with a trace of damp. But so much sweeter than the foul stuff that came from prison. That mixture of sweat, cleaning products, bad food, cheap aftershave, bad breath and infrequently washed bodies. He would take the cold anytime.
‘Wonderful, isn’t it, Baz? The fresh air, the open countryside . . . You forget, don’t you? Cooped up in there all the time, you lose sight of things. Forget what really matters.’
Baz looked like it was anything but wonderful. His expression was miserable, his body language turned in on himself. Like he was counting the seconds until they could get back inside. Like he couldn’t function anywhere else. Foley smiled to himself. That was what he had suspected about him. It was interesting. All helping him to make up his mind, come to a decision.
He turned to Chris. ‘How do I get to talk to Killgannon?’
Chris shook his head. ‘Going to be risky. We can’t just walk up to them, tell him you want a word. Not with all those coppers there.’
‘So what do we do? You realise this may be my last chance to talk to the man before he disappears again.’
Chris pretended to look concerned. ‘Let’s get nearer to them. I’ll see what I can do. Depends who they’ve sent to look after him. Hopefully someone I can talk to.’ He nodded, remembering how much Foley was paying him, impressing on him his importance.
‘Right,’ said Foley. ‘Let’s do it then.’ He pointed to the rocky outcrop. ‘Just over there, you say?’
Chris nodded.
‘Come on, then.’ Foley set off walking.
‘Can’t we take the car?’ asked Baz.
Foley turned, looked at him. He seemed to have shrunk since coming outside, his whole frame diminished. Probably more than that: his identity. He could no longer cope anywhere but inside. And to think I used to hold you in such high regard, thought Foley. Pathetic, what you’ve come to.
‘Yeah,’ said Chris. ‘Might as well. Looks like rain.’
He got behind the wheel of the Audi. Baz scurried onto the back seat, grateful not to be outside anymore. Foley waited until they were both settled then slowly curled into the back of the car, like Chris was his chauffeur. Even if he did have to shut his own door.
‘Right,’ Foley said. ‘Let’s get going.’
He sat back, smiled. Tried to enjoy the journey.