Dermot loved Mary, wild Irish pair they were, so much courage and heroin between them the prison system couldn’t cope. Dermot would smuggle drugs into Holloway when he visited her, God knows how because the officers knew who he was. She escaped once, jumping off the chapel roof and sliding down a wall. Another time they were banged up together in a jail in Jersey; it was awful, he said, no relief from each other and no one to bring them any gear.
Mary is dead now. Dermot doesn’t think he has long himself. He is bitter about that; about what happened 40 years ago in the children’s home in Dublin; about the way the police kicked off his door one night on some fool’s errand and the council still haven’t repaired it and he’s been away in prison for three months in the meantime. He came back and there it was, hanging off its hinges. Luckily he’s got nothing to steal.
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