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?’

‘My father, my mother, the neighbours, work, the lawyers, the police,’ he says. ‘Everyone.’

‘Which police?’ you say. ‘Can you remember their names?’

Michael Myshkin stops patting down his hair and shakes his head.

‘Can you remember what they looked like?’

Head still down, he nods once -

But you stop writing, looking into the uniformed eyes of the man behind Michael Myshkin, another set of uniformed eyes behind you -

You say: ‘Why did they tell you to do that? To say you killed her?’

Michael John Myshkin looks up at you. He is not smiling. He is not blinking. He is not patting down his hair -