I tell myself it’s fine. I’ve done this before with the other subjects. It’s fine. I take a shaky breath and lift the receiver to my ear, to my mouth.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is that Erin Locke?” The voice is female, curt, mid-forties. Not what I was expecting. Clearly not Eddie Bishop.
“Yes, this is Erin Locke.”
“This is Diane Ford, from Pentonville Prison. I have a call from a Mr. Eddie Bishop for you. Can I connect you, Ms. Locke?” Diane Ford sounds bored. She doesn’t care who I am, or who he is. To her, this is just another call.
“Er, yes, thank you, Diane. Thanks.” And she’s gone. The faint click of a disconnect and a hold tone.
Eddie’s never given an interview. He’s never said a word to anyone about any of it. Ever. I don’t for a second believe I’ll be the one to crack the case wide open. And I’m not sure I’d want to. Eddie has been a professional criminal longer than I’ve been alive. I don’t know why on earth he’s agreed to be part of my documentary, but here we are. He strikes me as the kind of man who does things for a reason, so I guess I’ll figure out what that reason is soon enough.
I take another shaky breath.
Then the line connects.
“This is Eddie.” The voice is deep, warm. A rich cockney glottal stop of a voice. Strange to finally hear it.
“Hello, Mr. Bishop. It’s nice to finally speak to you. This is Erin Locke. How are you doing today?” A goodstart. Very professional. I hear him shuffle at the other end of the line, settling in.
“Hello, sweetheart. Nice to hear from you. Locke, is it? Not a Roberts yet then? When’s the big day?” He asks it cheerily, off the cuff.
I can hear a smile in his voice. It would be a nice thing to ask someone under any other circumstances and I almost smile back into the phone, but something makes me stop. Because there is no way Eddie could possibly know about my approaching wedding, or name change, or Mark, unless he’s been looking into me. And he’s in prison, which means he must havehadme looked into. And looking into me is a more involved process than a quick online search. I’m not on social media. I don’tdoFacebook. All good documentarians know what you can do with a healthy dose of social media information, so we keep off it. So, in one simple sentence, Eddie Bishop has just told me he’s been having me professionally looked into. He’s had me vetted. He is in charge and he knows all about me. And Mark. And our life.
I take a moment before answering. He’s testing me. I don’t want to make a misstep so early in the game.
“I gather we’ve both done our research, Mr. Bishop. Did you find out anything interesting?”
There’s nothing too controversial in my past, no dancing skeletons in my closet. I know this, of course, but still I feel exposed, under threat. This is his show of power, a verbal line in the sand. Eddie may have been behind bars for seven years, but he wants me to know he’s still got his hands on all the ropes. If he wasn’t being so up front about it, right now I’d be terrified.
“Very reassuring, I’d say. Put my mind to rest, sweetheart. You can never be too careful,” he says. Eddie’s decided I’m safe, but he wants me to know he’s watching.
I move on, stand and try to unravel the phone cord, slipping into work spiel. “Thank you for agreeing to take part in this. I really appreciate you agreeing and I want you to know I’m going to handle the interviews in as unbiased and straightforward a way as I can. I’m not in the business of creating straw dogs; I’m just going to tell your story. Or rather, I’m going to let you tell your story. The way you want.” I hope he knows that I mean that. I’m sure he’s had plenty of people try to sell him snake oil in the past.
“I know, sweetheart. Why do you think I said yes to you? You’re a rarity. Just don’t let me down, aye?” He lets that sink in for a second before shaking off the intensity, lightening the tone. “Anyway, when’s all this kick off then?” His tone is bright, industrious.
“Well, our face-to-face interview is scheduled for September 24, which is about two and a half months away. And then your release is sometime in early December. So we can arrange nearer the time when we’ll do your post-release filming. Would you be happy with us shadowing you on release day itself?” I ask. I’m in my element now; this is where all my planning is coming into its own. If we can film Eddie’s actual release fly-on-the-wall style, that would really be something.
His voice comes back, warm but clear. “I’ll be honest, love, it’s not ideal for me. I’ll have a bit on that day, if you know what I mean. Maybe give me a day or two, aye? That work for you?” We’re negotiating. He wants to give me something—that’s definitely a good sign.
“Of course. We’ll iron it out as we go along. You have my number, so we’ll just keep in touch on those dates. Not a problem.” I watch the cat outside creep back along the fence, its back hunched, its head low.
Eddie clears his throat.
“Is there anything else about the interviews or schedule you’d like to ask about at this stage, Mr. Bishop?” I ask.
He laughs. “No, I think we’re done for today, sweetheart, apart from you calling me Eddie. Nice to talk to you finally though, Erin, after hearing so much about you.”
“You too, Eddie. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Oh and give my regards to Mark, won’t you, darling? Seems like a nice fella.” It’s a throwaway remark but my breath catches in my chest. He’s been looking into Mark too. My Mark. I don’t know what to say. The little pause I’ve left grows into a silence on the line. He fills it.
“So how did you two meet then?” He leaves the question hanging in the air. Shit. This isn’t and shouldn’t be about me.
“That’s none of your business, Eddie, now is it?” I say it with a forced smile in my voice. The words come out smooth and confident and, weirdly, with a hint of sexuality. Entirely inappropriate but somehow perfectly appropriate.
“Ha! No. Quite right, sweetheart. None of my business at all.” Eddie roars with laughter. I hear it echo along the prison hallway at the other end of the line. “Very good, love, very good.”
