Piggott?’
You stand up.
‘This way.’
You follow him to another door and another lock, another alarm and a ringing bell, through the door and up an overheated and overlit grey corridor.
At another set of double doors, he pauses and says: ‘Know the drill?’
You nod.
‘Keep seated, no physical contact, no passing of goods, ciggies, whatever,’ he says anyway.
You nod again.
‘I’ll tell you when your time’s up,’ he says. ‘If you’ve had enough, just say so.’
‘Thank you.’
The guard then punches a code into a panel on the wall.
An alarm sounds and he pulls open the door: ‘Ladies first.’
You step into a small room with a grey carpet and grey walls, two plastic tables each with two plastic chairs.
There are no windows, just one other door opposite -
No tea and biscuits here.
‘Sit down,’ says the guard.
You sit down in the grey plastic chair with your back to the grey door through which you’ve just come. You lean forward, arms on the marked plastic surface of the grey plastic table, eyes on the door opposite.
The guard takes a chair from the other table and sits down behind you.
You turn to ask him: ‘What’s he like then, Myshkin?’
The man looks over at the door then back at you and winks: ‘Pervert, same as rest of them.’
‘He violent, is he?’
‘Only with his right hand,’ he mimes.
You laugh and turn back round and there he is, right on cue -
In a pair of grey overalls and grey shirt, enormous with a head twice as large:
Michael John Myshkin, murderer of children.
You’ve stopped laughing.
Michael Myshkin in the doorway, spittle on his chin.
‘Hello,’ you say.
‘Hello,’ Myshkin smiles, blinking.
His guard pushes him forwards into the grey plastic chair opposite you, then closes the door and takes the last chair to sit behind Myshkin.
Michael Myshkin looks up at you.
You stop staring.
Myshkin looks back down at the grey plastic table.
‘My name is John Piggott,’ you say. ‘I used to live in Fitzwilliam, near you. I’m a solicitor now and your mother asked me to come and talk to you about an appeal.’
You pause.
Michael Myshkin is patting down his dirty yellow hair with his fat right hand, the hair thin and black with oil.
‘An appeal is a very lengthy and costly procedure, involving a lot of time and different people,’ you continue. ‘So before any firm embarks upon such a course on behalf of a client, we have to be very sure that there are sufficient grounds for an appeal and that there is a great likelihood of success. And even this costs a lot of money.’
You pause again.
Myshkin looks up at you.
You ask him: ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
He wipes his right hand on his overalls and smiles at you, his pale blue eyes blinking in the warm grey room.
‘You do understand what I’m saying?’
Michael Myshkin nods once, still smiling, still blinking.
You turn to the guard sat behind you: ‘Is it OK if I take some notes?’
He shrugs and you take a spiral notebook and biro from out of your carrier bag.
You flick open the pad and ask Myshkin: ‘How old are you, Michael?’
He glances round at the guard sat behind him then back at you and whispers: ‘Twenty-two.’
‘Really?’
He blinks, smiles, and nods again.
‘Your mother told me you were thirty.’
‘Outside,’ he whispers, the index finger of his left hand to his wet lips.
‘How about inside?’ you ask him. ‘How long have you been in here?’
Michael Myshkin looks at you, not smiling, not blinking, and very slowly says: ‘Seven years, four months, and twenty-six days.’
You sit back in your plastic chair, tapping your plastic pen on the plastic table.
You look across at him.
Myshkin is patting down his hair again.
‘Michael,’ you say.
He looks up at you.
‘You know why you’re in here?’ you ask. ‘In this place?’
He nods.
‘Tell me,’ you say. ‘Tell me why you’re in here?’
‘Because of Clare,’ he says.
‘Clare who?’
‘Clare Kemplay.’
‘What about her?’
‘They say I killed her.’
‘And is that right?’ you say, quietly. ‘Did you kill her?’
Michael John Myshkin shakes his head: ‘No.’
‘No what?’ you say, writing down his words verbatim.
‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘But you said you did.’
‘They said I did.’
‘Who did?’
‘The police, the papers, the judge, the jury,’ he says. ‘Everyone.’
‘And you,’ you tell him. ‘You said so too.’
‘But I didn’t,’ says Michael Myshkin.
‘You didn’t say it or you didn’t do it?’
‘I didn’t do it.’
‘So why did you say you did if you didn’t?’
Myshkin is patting down his hair again.
‘Michael,’ you say. ‘This is very, very important.’
He looks up.
You say again: ‘Why did you say you killed her?’
‘They said I had to.’
‘Who?’
‘Everyone.’
‘Who’s everyone?’
