‘Number forty-five!’
You look down at the piece of paper in your hand.
‘Number forty-five!’
You stand up.
At the desk, you say: ‘John Piggott to see Michael Myshkin.’
The woman in the grey, damp uniform runs her wet, bitten finger down the biro list. She sniffs and says: ‘You’re not on the list.’
You say: ‘I’m his solicitor.’
‘Neither of you are,’ she spits.
‘There must be some mistake…’
She hands you back your visitor’s pass: ‘Return to your seat and a member of staff will be down to explain the situation to you.’
Fifty minutes and two paper swans later, a plump man in a doctor’s coat says: ‘John Winston Piggott?’
You stand up.
‘This way.’
You follow him to a different door and a different lock, a different alarm and a different bell, through another door up another overheated and overlit grey corridor.
At a set of double doors, he pauses. He says: ‘I’m afraid Mr Myshkin is in the hospital wing of our facility.’
‘Oh,’ you say. ‘I had no -’
‘His family didn’t contact you then?’
You shake your head. ‘I’ve been away.’
‘Mr Myshkin has been refusing food for just over a week now. He had also taken to smearing his excrement on the walls of his room. He refused to wear the regulation clothing provided to him. Both the staff and his family felt that he might possibly attempt to take his own life. As a result, Mr Myshkin was hospitalised late Saturday night.’
You shake your head again. ‘I had no idea.’
‘It is possible for you to still see Mr Myshkin,’ he says. ‘However, I’m afraid that it can be only for a very, very short period.’
‘I understand,’ you say. ‘Thank you.’
‘Certainly no longer than ten minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ you say again.
The doctor punches a code into a panel on the wall.
An alarm sounds. He pulls open the door: ‘After you.’
You go through into another corridor of grey floors and grey walls.
There are no windows, just doors off to your left.
‘Follow me,’ says the doctor.
You walk down the corridor. You stop before the third door on the left.
The doctor punches another code into another panel on the wall.
Another alarm sounds. He pulls open another door: ‘After you.’
You step inside a large grey room with no windows and four beds.
The beds are all empty but one.
You follow the doctor across the room to the bed in the far-left corner.
‘Michael,’ says the doctor. ‘You have a visitor.’
You step forward. You say: ‘Hello, Michael.’
Michael Myshkin is lying strapped to the bed in a pair of grey pyjamas, staring at the ceiling -
His hair shaved. His mouth covered with sores. His eyes inflamed -
Michael John Myshkin, the convicted murderer of a child.
He turns from the ceiling to you -
There is spittle on his chin.
He looks at you. He doesn’t speak.
You stop staring at him. You look at your feet.
The doctor pulls a set of screens around you both. He says: ‘I’ll be outside.’
‘Thank you,’ you say.
He nods. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ you say again.
The doctor leaves you stood beside the bed -
Michael Myshkin looking up at you from beneath the straps.
‘I didn’t know,’ you say. ‘Nobody told me.’
He looks away, his face to the wall.
‘I’m sorry,’ you say.
He doesn’t turn his head back.
It is hot in here. It is bright. It smells of shit. Of disinfectant. Of lies.
‘Michael,’ you say. ‘I want you to tell me about Jeanette Garland.’
He doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t speak.
‘Michael,’ you say. ‘Please…’
He is lying on his back with his face to the wall.
‘Michael,’ you say. ‘I’ve tried to help you. I still want to help you, but -’
He turns his face from the wall to the ceiling. He whispers: ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
He looks at you. ‘Why do you want to help me?’
You swallow. You say: ‘Because I don’t think you should be here. Because I don’t think you killed Clare Kemplay. Because I don’t think you’re guilty.’
He shakes his head.
‘What?’ you say. ‘What?’
He stares at you. He smiles. ‘So why do you want to know about Jeanette?’
‘Because you knew her, didn’t you?’
He is still staring at you -
‘I went to see Tessa. You remember Tessa?’
He sighs. He blinks.
‘She said you had Jeanette’s photo. That you carried it everywhere. That you talked to it.’
He is crying now.
‘She said you got it from work. Is that right?’
He nods.
‘How? Why?’
‘We went to her school,’ he says. ‘Jeanette’s school.’
‘Who?’
‘Me and Mr Jenkins. It was my first week.’
‘To take school photos?’
‘I didn’t know what to do. Mr Jenkins was shouting at me. The children were all laughing at me. But not Jeanette.’
‘So you kept her photo?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘That was later.’
‘So you never saw her again?’
He looks away.
‘What?’ you say. ‘Tell me -’
‘I used to see her on the High Street sometimes with her dad or her uncle.’
‘Johnny Kelly? In Castleford?’
He turns back. He nods. ‘She always smiled and waved but…’
Strapped to the bed in a pair of grey pyjamas -
