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Naive about the value of the man, the prison service gave all the details of his release in an official statement, so the mob outside the gates that morning could have constituted a Parliament of the fourth estate. It was the wait that caused the trouble.
Had they released him first thing in the morning, at seven fifteen, just as the night shift went off and the day officers came on, those who arrived overnight wouldn’t have had time to plan their moves. As it was, the gate opened at ten thirty and Meehan stepped out of the small door punched into the big metal gates, straight into the hot hands of the waiting press. A riot broke out.
The Express grabbed him by the arms and threw a jumper over his head so that no one else could get pictures. Jostled and battered by the crowd, he was bundled into the back of a car where his wife was waiting to be reunited and interviewed with him. They locked the car doors, shouting at him to get down on the floor. Meehan complied, lying flat, his face obscured by a gray jumper. The Express men jumped into the front seats of the car and started the engine as the crowd closed in around their bo
Outraged that the Express men were looking so smug and had damaged a couple of them, the rest of the press didn’t stand by and watch the car roll out onto the main road. They leaped into their own cars and gave chase. Meehan told Paddy that he saw a guy on a Triumph motorbike coming up the side and the Express driver shouted at him to get down, it was a snapper, cover yourself and get down. He was pulling the jumper over his head when he saw the Triumph veer too close to the side of their car, get a fright, overcorrect and swing out, crashing into a ditch. Paddy knew the guy; he’d shattered his ankle, still walked with a limp, and swore that the car had bumped him.
The Express car and its pursuers roared down uneven back roads to a field, and still covered with a jumper, Meehan was made to run blind to a waiting helicopter. God, they had budgets in those days, but not a lot of access to weather forecasts: almost as soon as it took off the chopper was forced down in a field by the heavy mist, and they had to hitch a lift to the hotel they’d booked for the interview. Luckily for them, they didn’t meet anyone on the way and secured their exclusive.
Telling her about it afterwards, Meehan managed to imply strongly that everyone was at fault but himself, that his advance hadn’t been as much as everyone said, and that he somehow had a right to sell his story exclusively to a newspaper. A bloody farce, he said of it, but he was always angry about everything, and the details of the day got lost in the list of his other complaints.
That was how motivated other journalists were and Callum Ogilvy was just as big a story as Meehan. Journalists from all over Britain had contacted Sean and sent letters to Callum, offering money and the chance to tell his story. They suggested he could blame it all on James. Callum told them he didn’t want the money and he didn’t want to talk. They offered more: higher rates and a picture with his eyes blacked out. He didn’t want it. He wrote back to some of them, always saying the same polite thing in a childish scrawl: he wanted to live within a loving family unit and to work in a factory. One of the papers printed the reply under the ba
Paddy did a second tour of the car park. No one was hiding, as far as she could see, but they would only find out for sure when Callum came out of the gate. She made her way back to the News car.
Sean was eating his sandwiches, laboriously peeling back the top slice and extracting a limp lettuce leaf with a pinched thumb and forefinger, holding it up as if it was a dead slug, cursing Elaine under his breath.
Paddy watched as he dropped the leaf out of the car window. “She worries because of your folks.”
“They died young because they’d a hard life.”
She looked out of her own window at the big gray sky. “I think you’ve forfeited the right ever to slag that woman off again, after what she’s doing for you.”
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“She’s got four kids.”
Sean closed his eyes patiently. “They wouldn’t be letting him out if he hadn’t changed.”
Paddy didn’t answer. The prison authorities were letting Callum out because they couldn’t keep him in. A sudden gust of wind buffeted the side of the car, rocking them slightly. Sean reassembled the sandwich and held it up, glaring at it spitefully. “ Turkey ham. What is that anyway?”
Paddy considered the sandwich. “It’s turkey made to taste like ham.”
“Why couldn’t she just get ham?”
“It’s cheaper than ham. It’s better for you.”
“I don’t want stuff that’s better for me.” His brow darkened.
She pulled herself upright. “You want to make your own fucking sarnies then. A guy came to my door last night. Creepy guy who stank of fags and was something to do with the IRA.”
“What did he want?”
“Du
“Maybe that’s his name? Lots of people are called that.”
“No.” She looked out of the window and bit her nail. “I think he was trying to scare me.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Du
The car phone trilled abruptly, making them both start and laugh at how jumpy they were. Sean picked up, straightening the mangled coil of flex.
“Aye? No, I’m at the Makro for my missus. I’ll get Beefy onto it.” He looked at Paddy. “Yeah, I’ll see her later. OK, I’ll pass it on.”
He hung up, holding the flex away as he set the phone carefully back on its cradle. “A lawyer rang the work for you.”
“A lawyer?” She immediately thought of Burns and the child support. “What about?”
“Terry Hewitt. His lawyer. You’ve to ring back.”
She might have to arrange his funeral; maybe being his next of kin gave her the obligation. But the police wouldn’t be releasing the body until they got someone for it so it couldn’t be that. Terry might have left her a note. She hoped to fuck he hadn’t. It would mean she was his last thought and she found that unbearably intimate, definitive, as if he was carving himself into her life forever. She could refuse to read it. She could refuse to arrange his funeral, but the rest of the press would think she was a skank if she did that.
“Can I call the office from your phone?”
“No, they’ll know we’re together. The car phone makes a weird crackle when they pick it up.”
A red Vauxhall was cruising slowly towards them, checking carefully through the cars, looking for a space. Paddy and Sean slid down in their seats as it approached, checking out the driver. It was no one they knew. Finding a space near the compound fence, he parked, gathered his things, and when he stepped out they saw that he was wearing a prison officer’s uniform. He strolled past them, checking his wallet for something.
“Nah,” Paddy whispered at the dashboard. “A hack wouldn’t be here on his own.”
“The photographer might be in the car,” said Sean. “I’ll go and have a look.”
He waited until the prison officer was skirting the wall and climbed out of the warm car, blanching and staggering at the unexpected wind. Walking casually over to the Vauxhall, he glanced in at the cabin, shaking his head to himself when he found nothing there.
She saw a man carrying a plastic bag of shopping at the far end of the long gray wall, heading towards them. Shift change maybe.
Sean came back to the car but stopped outside, looking away from the prison, taking the air and stretching his legs, his hair flattened to his head by the wind.