1102 11.02 PETE

11.02 PETE

Hanley is doing that now watch and learn son thing, kneeling all his tools around him, the job spread, ordered on the floor, the circuit diagram in his head. A head he’s going to have to start shaving soon, there’s a patch just bigger than a forefinger-thumb circle that his hair is getting too thin to camouflage.

‘Now then, where are we? Watch and learn Peter, watch and learn.’

One of the prisoners sniggers, nothing more, looks at Pete from across the metal prep tables. About fifty, with piercing blue eyes, sleeves neatly rolled up, lips like a fish kiss, hair scraped across his head.

Pete thinks, I must stop this hair thing.

Hanley braces himself on his thighs, pivoting gently side to side, beckons Pete in with his pliers and says just so Pete can hear, ‘I hate this fucking place, give me Armley anytime, least you know they’re proper criminals in there, not all fucking priests and vicars, teachers, ah-fucking-kelas and this time next year it’ll all be DJs and pop stars.’ Then raising his voice. ‘Pete. Peter. Do I have your full attention lad?’

‘Yeh. Sure.’

But Pete is thinking himself away from how the prisoner’s lips make him awkward hot by remembering Lyn crouched above him. Good shivers.