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with him. How was he to know it was McNab's bird he and Kenny had burgled?
    Shug’s body relaxed when he saw who was standing in the doorway. "Oh, it’s only you Mr. Thomas."
    For a screw, Thomas was one of the decent ones. A bit of a ball-breaker when it came to rules and regulations, but as straight as they came. There was no chance of him “doing you a wee favor,” but he wasn’t liable to have you dragged off to solitary on some trumped up charge because he didn’t think you showed him enough respect when you said “good morning.”
    "Where’s Ferguson?"
    Shrug thumbed his finger in the direction of the toilet. "He’s in the bog. Been there for a while, making all sorts of noises, Sir. Sounds like his gut’s exploding. Must be that stew Herriot made."
    As if on cue, a sound like a sink being unblocked comes from the toilet, followed by groaning noises.
    "Yes," said Mr. Thomas, distracted. "He’s not noted for his culinary excellence."
    Something about the way Mr. Thomas was hovering there was making Shug nervous. Normally, he’d come in for a wee word and march off to check on some of the other inmates.
    Shug eyed him wearily. "Can I help you with anything, Mr. Thomas?"
    "No, Kerr. I don’t think you can."
    Mr. Thomas stood there stiff as a rod, dithering in the doorway as Shug sat on his bed. The screw’s huge forehead was made bigger by the fact he was bald and had one long caterpillar brow. He was sweating. He used his hand to wipe some of the dampness away.
    He didn’t look well.
    "Are you okay, sir?"
    The guard said nothing for a few minutes then eyed Shug. "You know how sometimes we don’t want to do things, but we’re forced to, son?"
    Fear slithered its way up Shug’s gut. The screw was there to kill him. He’d heard stories of prison guards having their families taken hostage so they’d do whatever folk asked. McNab must have got to Thomas, somehow. For a price anybody would do over anybody.
    When he reached into his inside pocket, Shug lurched to one side expecting a blow or the glint of a blade. Except none came.
    The guard's face relaxed. "Sorry, son. Just waxing lyrically here, that’s all."
    No, Shug didn’t know.
    "Here, this letter came for you through that email a prisoner scheme thing. Handy scheme that."
    The thing in his pocket wasn’t a weapon of some kind - it was just a letter.
    Shug's heart went back to its usual beat. "Thanks Mr. Thomas, I appreciate you bringing it to me personally."
    As Shrug watched the screw bolt out the door and head towards the sound of someone’s head being used as a nail, Shug felt stupid. Imagine thinking Mr. Thomas was going to kill him.
    When Fergie came out of the toilet, his hair was plastered to his forehead as if he’d put it down the bowl a few times and flushed. The stench that wafted out of the bog reminded Shug of a slurry pit he’d once cleaned for a farmer. He'd done it so he could raid the house when the old boy was asleep. Hard work was something Shug usually avoided at all costs.
    Shug pinched his nose with two fingers. "Bloody hell, Fergie, that’s minging."
    Fergie didn’t answer. His face was the color of the putty they put in windows to plug the gaps and he was holding something in his hand.
    It wasn’t until he was inches away that Shug saw the improvised knife and his stomach clenched.
    "I don’t have the skids. I needed time to make this. Away from you."
    His voice was dull.
    "What are you doing with that, man? Don’t do anything silly now. You’re due out in two years." Shug was aware his words were coming out like a strangled cat's, but he’d no control over it. He was backed into a corner. He'd never seen this coming. Not Fergie. They were buddies.
    He forced his lips into a smile as he eyed his pal, holding a knife and being unsure about using it. One second of hesitation and he'd have to make his move; disarm him.
    He held out his hands, palms up as though that’d save him. He needed to offer the man something.