My Husband's Wife(6)

My breath coming shorter, I did so. The door opened automatically and I found myself in a little room, not that different from the waiting area in a small domestic airport. On one side was a glass partition, which is where I am right now.

‘Sugar, Sellotape, crisps, sharp implements?’ repeats the man. Then he looks at my briefcase. ‘It saves time if you get them out before you’re searched.’

‘I don’t have any … but why would it matter if I had the first three?’

His small beady eyes bore into mine. ‘They can use sugar to make hooch; Sellotape to gag you. And you might be bringing in crisps to bribe them or make yourself popular with the men. It’s happened before, trust me. Satisfied?’

He certainly seems to be. I know his sort. Rather like my boss. The type who relish making you uncomfortable. He’s succeeded, but something inside me – a strength I didn’t know I had – makes me determined not to rise to it.

‘If, by “they”, you’re referring to your inmates, then I’m afraid they’re out of luck,’ I retort. ‘I don’t have anything on your list.’

He mutters something that sounds like ‘bleeding-heart defence lawyers’ before pressing a bell. Another door opens and a female officer comes out. ‘Arms up,’ she instructs.

Again I’m reminded of an airport, except this time nothing bleeps. For a minute I’m back in Rome where my silver bracelet – Ed’s wedding present to me – set off the alarm at security.

‘Open your case, please.’

I do as instructed. There’s a stack of documents, my make-up bag and a packet of Polos.

The woman seizes on the last two as if trophies. ‘Afraid we’ll have to confiscate these until you’re out. Your umbrella too.’

‘My umbrella?’

‘Possible weapon.’ She speaks crisply, but I detect a touch of kindness that was absent in the man behind the glass partition.

‘This way, please.’

She escorts me through another door and, to my surprise, I find myself in a rather pleasant courtyard garden. There are men in Robin-Hood-green jogging bottoms and matching tops, planting wallflowers. My mother is doing the same in Devon: she told me so on the phone last night. It strikes me that different people might be doing exactly the same thing all over the world, but that a united task doesn’t mean they have anything in common.

One of the men glances at the leather belt around the officer’s waist. There’s a bundle of keys attached and a silver whistle. How effective would that be, if these men attacked us?

We’ve crossed the square towards another building. My companion takes the keys from her pouch, selects one and opens up. We’re in another hall. Two more doors are in front. Double doors and also double gates, separated by an inch or so of space. She unlocks them and then locks them again after we’ve gone through. ‘Make sure you don’t trap your fingers.’

‘Do you ever wonder if you’ve done it properly?’ I ask.

She fixes me with a stare. ‘No.’

‘I’m the kind of person who has to go back and double-check our own front door,’ I say. Quite why I admit this, I don’t know. Maybe it’s to introduce a note of humour into this weird world I’ve found myself in.

‘You have to be on top of things here,’ she says reprovingly. ‘This way.’

The corridor stretches out before us. There are more doors on either side with signs next to them: ‘A Wing’, ‘B Wing’, ‘C Wing’.

A group of men is coming towards us in orange tracksuits.

One of them – bald with a shiny scalp – nods at the officer. ‘Morning, miss.’

Then he stares at me. They all do. I blush. Hotly. Deeply.

I wait until they’ve passed. ‘Are they allowed to wander around?’

‘Only when it’s freeflow.’

‘What’s that?’

‘When the men are off the wing and on their way somewhere like gym or chapel or Education. It requires less supervision than a situation where officers escort each prisoner individually.’

I want to ask what kind of situation that might be. But instead, partly from nervousness, I find a different question coming out of my mouth.

‘Can they choose the colours they wear? Like that bright orange?’

‘It’s to show what wing they’re on. And don’t ask them questions like that or they’ll think you’re interested in them. Some of these men are dangerously smart. They’ll try to condition you if you’re not careful. Make friends with you to get you onside or make you less vigilant. The next thing, they’re getting information out of you without you realizing it, or making you do things you shouldn’t.’

That’s ridiculous! What kind of idiot would fall for something like that? We’ve stopped now. D Wing. Another set of double doors and gates. I step through as the officer closes both behind us. A wide gangway stretches out before us, with rooms on both sides. Three men are waiting, as if loitering on a street. They all stare. A fourth man is busy cleaning out a goldfish tank, his back to us. It strikes me as being incongruous – murderers looking after goldfish? – but before I can ask anything, I’m being taken into an office on the left.

Two young men are sitting at a desk. They don’t look very different from those in the corridor – short hair and inquisitive eyes – except they’re in uniform. I’m aware that my skirt band is cutting into my waist, and once again I wish I’d been more disciplined in Italy. Is comfort-eating normal on a honeymoon?