Although the warehouse was far warmer than the place in Clonard—the building actually served to keep the wind out—the rumbling violence of foul weather meeting corrugated tin brought dreams of Long Kesh. He felt awful for Frankie, not that Frankie would complain. He wouldn’t even speak of the nightmares, let alone ask the cause. The dreams were one of many items from a long list of things that had passed unspoken between them over the years they’d served time together. It was part of what had cemented their friendship, that understanding silence. So it was that Liam prayed the nightmares would leave him for Frankie’s sake. However, Liam knew the only thing that would help was a quick—fix—run. He needed it. Bad. A run would do him good. It would clear his mind, but the storm, the hour, and the fact that he was essentially a prisoner made the idea impossible. A drink would be more probable. Surely, the boys have a bit of something? It was a sure sign of his state that he’d almost make do with the black stuff, if he had to.
