He walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Then he undressed quickly, catching a glimpse in the mirror of his heavily scarred back as he pulled off his T-shirt.
Doyle sucked in a deep breath and stepped beneath the cold water, ‘Fuck,’ he hissed, allowing the water to strike every part of his body. His healing wounds stung under the powerful jet. He stood beneath the shower head and tilted his face upwards. Water soaked his long hair and it hung down like a nest of comatose snakes. For interminable minutes he stood beneath the spray, gradually becoming accustomed to the cold water. Eyes still closed he leant forward, his forehead resting against the tiles.
He had no idea how long he stood under the shower. His muscles were numb by the time he finally stepped from beneath the spray and reached for a towel. He found two Nurofen in the bathroom cabinet and swallowed them dry as he wiped himself.
Doyle wrapped a towel around his waist and padded back into the kitchen where he filled the kettle and spooned Nescafe into a mug while he waited for the water to boil.
In the street outside a car hooter blared loudly.The sound seemed to penetrate his very soul. He wondered how the hell he’d driven home. If, indeed, he had. He had been drunk before, many times, but he couldn’t remember ever having been so completely wrecked.
Supposedly one drink destroyed a thousand brain cells. If that was the case he’d done some real damage last night.
Doyle poured water on to the coffee and stirred it, sipping at the black fluid, ignoring the fact that it was so hot it burnt his lips and tongue.
Better get dressed.
Why?
He drank more of his coffee.
It’s not as if you’ve got anywhere to go, is it?
Doyle carried his mug into the living room and set it down next to the television. He switched the set on and flicked channels.
Kids’ programmes. Some chat show.A quiz. He found the news.
The usual shit.
Train delays. Problems on the roads. A famine somewhere. A couple of murders.
Doyle switched it off and sat in the silence.
HMP MAGHABERRY, NORTHERN IRELAND:
The early morning wind was cold and Vincent Leary shivered slightly as he stepped into the breeze.
The T-shirt he wore beneath his denim jacket offered little protection against the chill but he was more than happy to suffer the minor discomfort. It wouldn’t have bothered him if there’d been six feet of snow. He was free again and that was all that mattered.
As he and the four others released with him made their way slowly towards the main gates of the prison, Leary glanced back at the place he had been forced to call home for the past three years. He’d spent his first night in a cell two days after his twenty-seventh birthday.
Maghaberry prison was unusual because it held both male and female inmates.
The latter were housed in Mourne House, well away from the men who were incarcerated in four two-storey cell blocks bearing the names Bann, Erne, Lagan and Foyle. Each block contained one hundred and eight cells.
Leary had learnt that around four hundred and fifty men were currently serving or awaiting sentence inside
the complex. Eight hundred and fifty staff ensured that the prison ran smoothly.
Ten of those officers were stepping briskly along with the prisoners now, one on either side of the men to be released. Leary looked at their faces but found no trace of emotion there.
The officer at the head of the column brought it to a halt with some curt commands and Leary stood patiently as the doors were opened mechanically.They slid apart to reveal the car park beyond.
There were a number of vehicles there, including outside-broadcast units from television stations on both sides of the border.
But it was the large, white, twelve-seater minibus parked twenty yards away that caught Leary’s eye. This vehicle would take him and his companions back across the border into the Republic.
Home.
He smiled to himself and gripped his holdall more tightly.
The formalities of release papers had already been completed within the complex itself, and the first man clambered up into the waiting minibus and took a seat at the rear.
Leary dug in his pocket and found a roll-up. He lit it and dragged heavily.
All the men except Leary were now on board.
‘Come on, Leary.’
The voice came from behind him.
‘Don’t you want to go home?’
The prison officer was looking fixedly at Leary who merely took another drag on his cigarette.
‘Think yourself lucky you’re not spending another fifteen years inside like you should be,’ the uniformed man told him.
‘Like you will be?’ Leary said. ‘I mean, you’re the one with the life sentence, aren’t you? Sure, you go home every night, you’re not locked up like I was, but you’ve spent all your working life inside this place and you’ll finish it here too.’ He nodded towards the officer’s key chain. The length of that chain shows your seniority, doesn’t it? It also shows you’ve spent your whole life keeping men from their freedom. Are you proud of that?’
The officer leant close to Leary, his voice low.
‘I keep scum like you away from decent folk,’ he hissed.
‘Not any more.’ Leary smiled and tossed away his cigarette. He clambered on to
the bus and slumped into a seat on the right-hand side.
The driver waited a moment longer then guided the vehicle down the driveway that led away from the prison.
Leary was aware of the television cameras being turned in their direction.
Some of the men near him covered their faces. Leary looked out of the window and smiled at them.
It would take a couple of hours to reach the border so he decided to get some sleep. He never had a problem dozing off and could snatch a rest anywhere. The low babble of conversation from the other men only served to hasten his oblivion.
Within ten minutes he was asleep, blissfully unaware of the countryside and ignorant of the towns and
villages they passed through on the way to the border. The minibus bumped over a cattle grid but even that didn’t wake Vincent Leary.
Two of the men on the back seat were playing cards, engrossed in their game.
The others were either talking or lost in their own thoughts.
None of them had noticed the dark-brown Corsa that had been following them for the last fifteen minutes.
w
hat the fuck’s going on?’
The shout came from one of the men on the back seat of the minibus.
The vehicle had stopped so suddenly that it had skidded for three or four yards, finally coming to a halt on a road that wound tortuously between high hedges and thickly planted trees. Beyond lay fields.
It was from one of these fields that the tractor had emerged. Masked by the trees and foliage, the farm vehicle had appeared as if from thin air, thick clods of mud falling from its huge rear tyres.
The bus driver had reacted quickly, slamming on the brakes as the Massey Ferguson rumbled on to the narrow thoroughfare, blocking the other vehicle’s route.
High up in the cab, the tractor driver drew a deep breath, seemingly as shaken by the near collision as the men on the minibus had been.
Vincent Leary woke from his nap and peered at the tractor.
One of the men from the back seat of the bus was making his way to the door, gesturing angrily to the driver of the tractor.
‘Tell him to get out of the way,’ he hissed to the bus driver.‘Stupid bastard could have killed us.’
Leary looked on impassively as the tractor driver waved an apologetic hand and prepared to guide the farm vehicle off the road.
He turned the key in the ignition.
The tractor’s engine sputtered and died.
He tried again. Nothing.