Scott bit his lip, then answered, “When you’d sing.”
Thomas stiffened.
It was true, though. Scott missed Thomas’s singing. He wasn’t a mediocre karaoke singer; Thomas had a strong operatic voice that had stunned the whole wing. In the three years they’d been inside the prison together, he’d only sung five times, and the last time it had been Christmas. Thomas had sung carols from the top landing.
There wasn’t a single inmate who wasn’t moved by his performance.
“You were amazing,” Scott whispered. “World class.”
“I remember you used to draw,” Thomas said, surprising Scott. “Not world class by anyone’s standards, but still pretty good.”
“I’ll take pretty good from you,” Scott said, smiling. “Have you kept the sketches I did?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Thomas snorted. “They went straight in the bin the same day I left.”
Scott forced down the flare of hurt and pulled off a dazzling smile.
Thomas eyed him. “You went straight back tothis?”
“It’s a job,” Scott said. “And I’m good at it, so it seemed the obvious choice.”
“Did you make up with your sister?”
Scott kept calm – kept his expression beautifully blank. “We’re working on it.”
“Good… Maybe she can talk some sense into you over…this.” He gestured to Scott.
“Maybe,” Scott replied nonchalantly.
Thomas opened his mouth, about to say something else, but abruptly shut it when two men strode into view. The harsh lines on Thomas’s forehead relaxed as he stared longingly at one of the men. Scott took note. Never once during all their years in Brixton Prison had Thomas looked at another man like that, like he wanted to eat them up. The man in question was skinny, mid-twenties at a guess. He had piercings in his cheeks and nose, a green mullet haircut, and a leather jacket Scott could still smell after he’d passed them.
In one hand, he held a cigarette and in the other, a champagne flute.
The man glanced at Thomas, and his lips kicked up into a smug smile, then his gaze slid to Scott, and there was a questioning eyebrow lift.
“Who’s that?” Scott murmured once the man turned away.
Thomas’s snake tongue got wrapped up in the name. “Russell Cyril.”
He sounded like he was drooling.
Russell threw his empty champagne flute against the fountain, smirking as it broke before dropping into the pond beneath, then he launched his still burning cigarette at one of the hedges.
“What a dick…” Scott muttered.
“Hey,” Thomas warned. “Keep your snide comments to yourself.”
“For all you know, I was paying him a compliment.”
Thomas got up and went to find the cigarette. On his hands and knees, he took it into his mouth, taking a deep drag before stubbing it out.
“He’s such a delectable little brat.”
Scott rubbed his chin in thought. “I’d swap the word little for skinny, delectable for horrible, and brat for dick. Such a horrible skinny dick.”
“I bet you’re used to men saying that whenever you get undressed.”
Scott wrapped his arms around himself as he laughed. He laughed hard, and Thomas looked over at him, tilting his head. “Your laugh is worse than nails on a chalkboard,” he mumbled. “But it’s still the best thing about you.”
