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.