I take his hand in mine. I don’t think we’ve met before. “Erin Roberts,” I say.
Patrick beams back at me, a firm grip, my warm hand in his cold one. “Yes, yes. Miss Roberts. Of course,” he says, catching his breath. He gestures back to the prison building.
“Did I forget something?” I prompt.
“Sorry—yes. I’m just wondering what exactly you’re doing here today, Miss Roberts. I saw your name in the register but I think there’s been some confusion in administration and for some reason I think I’ve been cut out of the loop.” He looks embarrassed.
“Oh God, sorry. Yes, I was visiting the warden, Alison Butler, about the Eddie Bishop interview tomorrow.”
His eyes flare with understanding. “Right, yes, of course! The interview. And you’re a reporter, aren’t you?” He looks at me suspiciously.
Oh great. The last thing I need right now is for them to revoke the filming permission. People warned me Pentonville would be a pain in the arse. And it has been plain sailing up until now.
“No, no. It’s for the documentary. The prisoner documentary. We got the permissions late last year? Should I maybe email the info to you, Patrick? Alison has it all already. I’m pretty sure.” I can hear a hint of disbelief at the situation in my own voice. I mean, I don’t want to piss him off, but they should be on top of this. I mean, it’s a prison, for God’s sake, they should bloody well know who’s coming and going. Seriously. I think of Holli and suddenly her breaking parole doesn’t seem quite so implausible.
He catches my tone but doesn’t seem offended. If anything, he’s apologetic. “Ah, I see. Right, that’ll be it. My office has been having some issues with visitor log-ins, but that’s by the by. I’m so sorry, Miss Roberts. I’ll make sure we’re all on the same page for next week. What day did you say it was?” He squints at me in the cold September light.
“It’s tomorrow. Not next week. Saturday, the twenty-fourth. Eddie Bishop.” I say it slowly and clearly.
Patrick smiles and nods. “Perfect. I guess we’ll see you then. Sorry about the confusion, Erin.” He shakes my hand again and heads back toward the prison.
I turn and start to walk away. Should I send a confirmation email to him once I get home? Just in case. That way I’m definitely covered, right? There’ll be a paper trail. And then I realize I don’t know his surname. I turn to catch him but he’s no longer there, disappeared back into the bowels of Pentonville. Damn.
Patrick what? I run the conversation through in my mind. He didn’t mention his surname, did he?
And then a doubt suddenly flickers across my mind. I remember how cold his hand was in mine. His cold hand in my hot one. He didn’t come out of the prison, did he? If he had, then his hands would have been warm like mine.
But why would he pretend to be coming out of the prison? And then it hits me. He knows my name and what I do and where I’ll be tomorrow. Who the hell was he?
I head back to the prison gates and buzz in. A voice comes loud over the intercom.
“Hello.”
“Hi there. Did Patrick just come back in?”
“Who?”
“Patrick?”
“Patrick who?”
“Er, I don’t know, Patrick…er…I don’t know his last name,” I stammer. Better to be honest.
“Um, right. Sorry, who is this?”
“It’s Erin Roberts. I was just here?” I try not tosound too desperate but I’m keenly aware I sound fully deranged about now.
“Oh yeah, you just signed out. Sorry. What’s the problem?” The guard sounds cheerier now. He remembers me and I didn’t look crazy a minute ago.
“Um, no, no, there’s no problem. It’s just…Has anyone come through since I left?”
There’s a second’s silence. I suppose he’s weighing up whether I am crazy after all. Either that or he’s thinking about lying? “No, ma’am, just you. Should I get someone to come out to help you?” he asks tentatively. He’s popped out a “ma’am” now, shit. I’m being handled. I need to go before this escalates.
“No, no, I’m fine. Thank you.” I leave it at that.
Patrick doesn’t work for the prison. And if Patrick doesn’t work for the prison, who the hell does Patrick work for? He wanted my name and he wanted to find out why I was here. A cold nasty thought forms in my head: does Patrick want his bag back?
—
