Chapter 46
Scanlon sat in his cell.
He knew he was meat.
Pound his head against bars, beat himself bloody on the back brick wall, try to take the coward's way out? Didn't matter now.
He knew well as knowing you needed to piss: he'd fallen. He was just bad meat. Unsanctified meat. Soul chased out. Low meat. Gone meat. Done meat. The thing Father had warned against: "Never be just meat, Jimmy." Scanlon could only see himself that way now. Might as well have arrived sealed in a can. He had no control. He had no more will. He had nothing except a beating heart keeping the whole worthless apparatus alive. His brain counted for nothing he could see.
He needed his soul back.
Even a small replica of same.
So Scanlon sat in his cell, sticking to his tune: "the legendary Explosive 808, the green stuff that smelled of almonds," he whispered to himself. "Got me a trunkful. Being shipped to another base on a certain day, at a certain time."
That was his story. His tune.
Said it over and over until he could sing it to the IRA, if he ever saw those pricks again. That was the best he could do. Jimmy Scanlon could try to sell one more easy hijacking. One more, out of a lingering last-gasp loyalty to Father Mike, who thinks you people walk on water. 'Course he's never seen your real work. After that, fuck-ups? Then I head off to fight the Huns. Good riddance to you all: your little island and your little fights.