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 -

As if by magick -

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.