‘If she doesn’t apologise they won’t let her out.’

‘How’s Davey?’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘You need to forgive him, Juliet.’

She cycled off.

‘And Juliet . . .’

She turned to face him. ‘Darren’s too old for you.’

She gave him the thumbs up for some reason unknown to both of them.

‘Darren hasn’t a fucking hope,’ he shouted as she cycled away. ‘You’re just like your ma!’

Chapter Eighty-Two: Molly

Chapter Eighty-Two

Molly

DURING AN EXCRUCIATING HALF-HOUR, Molly had to get naked and was internally X-rayed. The examination had not been as invasive as childbirth but it was far more traumatising, even though the officer who introduced herself as Fiona was a pleasant young girl from Cork who apologised every time she asked Molly to degrade herself.

‘Strip off for me. Sorry now. And turn around, sorry now, and sit on the Boss, that’s our body orifice scanner, sorry, so sorry, nearly there, sorry.’

Molly wanted to cry but she didn’t; instead she made jokes about auditioning for Sports Illustrated and whether or not Hugh Hefner would be man enough for this bunny. Fiona laughed politely. She wasn’t really amused; it wasn’t an amusing situation – it was a strip search in a prison, not amateur hour at a local comedy club. Sorry.

Following that fresh hell, she was moved to a holding cell in the committal unit. She followed the nice Cork girl down the cream hallway lined with light brown doors. ‘If you’re here with us beyond tomorrow morning you’ll be assessed by the governor, to see where we’ll put you,’ Fiona said.

Molly didn’t speak. She couldn’t find the words. Sorry. Fiona called out before she opened the door and with a rattle of heavy keys the door swung open and Molly was confronted by a bedraggled woman in a mottled velour tracksuit, sitting on a bed with her head in her hands.

‘All right, Sheila?’ the prison officer said.

‘Sick as a pig, nurse.’

‘I’m not a nurse, I’m a prison officer.’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘This is Molly, she’ll be sharing the cell with you tonight before we get you both settled.’

The woman looked up, dazed and confused, and Molly recognised her instantly.

‘Sheila B?’ The girl who was the best Irish dancer on the northside of Dublin, Francie’s first love, a certified lunatic but with a heart of gold. God love ya, Sheila B.

‘Mrs H?’

‘Sheila, what in the name of Jesus are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same thing.’

‘Friends or foes, ladies?’ Fiona asked.

‘Friends – she was always very kind to me, nurse,’ Sheila said.

‘We’ll be just fine,’ Molly said. The door closed behind them and Molly sat on the bed opposite Sheila.

‘What’s happening, Sheila?’