had been the one to knock it out. She’d been studying everyone with the same ghoulish fascination, wondering what the men they were visiting were in for. Whose partner was a murderer? Whose son was a burglar? Whose brother was convicted of rape or assault?
‘Thought so,’ the woman said, seemingly pleased at her deduction. ‘You got that look about you. Don’t worry though. The natives are friendly. Well, mostly!’ She nudged Vicky’s arm and laughed. ‘My Don has his moments,’ she added brightly.
The woman’s words struck a chord, and Vicky found herself looking into a future that she did not want to see. How often did these children get to see their father? Once a fortnight, for an hour? And for how long had that been? And for how long would it be? Half their childhoods? If she resolved anything – which was hard, because Paddy did what Paddy wanted – it was that she would do anything she could to ensure he was never locked up again.
Still, the woman, for all that her life seemed to be the one Vicky least wanted, was helpful and cheerful and reassuring in the face of all the strangeness. She explained that after signing in, being patted down and surrendering her handbag to a locker, she’d be given a number and shown into a waiting room. There, amid a batch – there were various concurrent visiting sessions – she’d hear her number called and a guard would take her in.
‘They let you keep your purse, love,’ the woman explained. ‘You’ve brought some money with you, have you? There’s vending machines, see. So you can have a cuppa together. They like to be a bit spoilt on a visit, of course.’ She smiled. ‘And there’s usually home-made cakes and stuff, and all.’
As if it was a school fete, or something. As if all of this was normal.
The vending machine was the first thing Vicky did see – standing like a sentinel at the back of a room full of tables, at which of each sat a prisoner. The tables were set in rows, like exam desks laid out in a school gymnasium, except here, in place of invigilators in suits, who smelled of chalk, there were prison guards, unmoving, like stone pillars.
Her batch of visitors began to stream out around her. And soon the silence was replaced by a hubbub of noise. Chairs being scraped back. Throats being cleared. Greetings, exchanges of kisses, the whoops of excitable children. The sharp shushings of mothers and soft cooings of fathers. It was almost like Vicky imagined a reunion after a war.
She felt nervous and exposed, anxious to pick Paddy out in the sea of blue prison garb, but at the same time anxious about meeting his gaze, as well. Glancing around, watching women sitting down opposite their menfolk, she wished she’d decided to dress differently. Here, in the uniform world of the prison, the sense of occasion was only heightened further. Painted fingernails. Giant hairdos, glued in place by cans of hairspray, tight jeans, killer heels … even in her best jeans and a little white broderie anglaise top Paddy liked her in, she felt she’d not made enough effort. Was that what you did, though? Tarted yourself up to remind them what they were missing? Had she read how you did this all wrong?
But there he was, and the look in his eyes reassured her. And his smile. It was just so obvious how pleased he was to see her. Perhaps absence really did make the heart – his heart – grow fonder. Perhaps this enforced separation would be good for them both.
‘Alright, babe?’ he drawled, as she hurried across to him and pulled her chair out. Then he half stood to embrace her, and kissed her hard, on the mouth. He smelt different. Clean, but still different.
Vicky took her seat, feeling embarrassed by the ardour of Paddy’s kiss. She glanced across at two officers who were talking in low voices. About her?
‘Ignore the screws,’ Paddy said, his hands palm up on the table, ready to grasp hers. She placed hers in his. ‘You look nice, babe,’ he said softly. ‘Like I remember.’
Like he was remembering. Remembering her unclothed. He didn’t need to say it. ‘It’s only been a fortnight, babes,’ she said. ‘How much was I going to change?’
He squeezed her hands, sliding his thumbs back and forth over her palms. ‘I’m just so glad you didn’t plaster your face like the rest of the slappers that come in here. Bunch of tarts. Fuck me,’ he added, leaning in towards her, ‘I’ve missed you.’
Relaxing now, she smiled at him. ‘How are you coping, babe? I miss you too.’ And as he squeezed her hands again, so gently, she almost told him, but he spoke first, glancing from side to side, as if he was a spy or something.
‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘But I tell you what, babes, I’ve had time to do some serious thinking. And I’ve worked it out. It’s all down to that fucking Jimmy Daley.’
‘What is?’
‘Don’t be dense, babe. The reason I’m fucking in here. How else would his dad have known? I’ve worked it all out, babe, like I said. He’s got someone on my case. And he grassed me up to his dad. It had to be him. Who else could it have been?’
Vicky knew she wouldn’t have been the only thing on Paddy’s mind. But even so, his insistent tone made her anxious. ‘But how would Jimmy have known?’
She wasn’t about to say so, but she knew Paddy had lied to her about that evening. And Gurdy too, albeit to protect her. She hadn’t wanted to believe it at first, but she had proof that he’d lied about the video recorders, because she’d since found out that he’d pleaded guilty to some of the car-related charges. Why would he do that if he could prove that he hadn’t even been there?
‘Because fucking Gurdy knew!’ Paddy said. ‘Or at least he had half an idea, the little Paki fucker.’
‘Gurdy? Grass you up? He’d never do that, babe, never.’
Paddy let go her hands, leaned back, and then leaned in again. ‘He must have. I can’t think of any other explanation, can you?’
‘But he’s your friend—’
‘And his too. They’re both up each other’s fucking arses, aren’t they?’
‘No they’re not. Paddy, Gurdy is your friend,’ Vicky insisted. ‘He wouldn’t say anything, especially not to Jimmy. He knows how the two of you are. Honestly, babe,’ she added, hating that she had come all this way – all this fucking way – and having to sit here and to defend bloody Gurdy. She still had to though. ‘Babes, he just wouldn’t.’
All the warmth seemed to drain out of Paddy’s face. ‘Why’d you do that?’ he asked her.
‘Do what?’ she said,
‘Do that.’ He waved a hand languidly in her direction. ‘Go against me.’
‘I’m not going against you. I’m just saying—’
‘Where’s your fucking loyalty? Seriously, Vic. I mean, shouldn’t you be on my side in this?’
‘It’s not a question of sides, Paddy,’ she told him, feeling her hackles rise despite herself. ‘I just think – no, I know – you are barking up the wrong tree. Gurdy adores you—’
‘Yeah, but you don’t.’
‘Babes, you know I do—’ She snaked a hand across the table. He withdrew his. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that the nearest guard
