Santo is beginning to bore me. In that respect also he’s like Mulqueeny. Just now, lying on his bunk across the room from me, he said. ‘Why did you not ask me to go to the farmhouse with you?’
I’d sensed that something had been bugging him. ‘You weren’t around.’
‘Why did you go with that arsehole Nikola?’
‘He was one of many.’
‘We’re friends, aren’t we? And friends do things together.’
It strikes me more and more that the man’s a fake. He doesn’t believe in what he’s doing. He’s too easily swayed by those around him, and everything he does – the sniping, the visits to the farmhouse, even his joking around – is all an act. I’ve seen his sort in the school playground: they go along with the other kids because it’s easier than standing up for their own beliefs. They pretend.
‘We are friends, aren’t we, Englishman?’
He sounded pathetic, but I was tired. I answered, without conviction, ‘Yes, sure.’