25
The guards came, interviewed me briefly. They at least had the grace to look ashamed as we went through the ritual. My song veered between “I don’t know” and “Don’t remember.” They chorused with “We’ll continue with our inquiries.”
I received get-well cards from Mrs Bailey, Janet, Cathy. The day before my release, I was in the alcove and sucking on a cigarette, looked up and there was Tim Coffey. I felt a shudder but he put out his hand. I asked,
“Where’s your hurley?”
He gave a knowing grin, said,
“I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones. What do you say, shake?”
My mouth had gone dry else I’d have spat on his outstretched hand.
He glanced at my leg, went,
“I hear you’ll have a limp. Jack the gimp, the kids will shout after you; little fuckers, they can be so cruel.”
In as leve
