‘When do they let us out?’

‘Assuming they’re not short-staffed, we can use the showers some time between eight and eight thirty. That’s if you’ve booked it with an officer. You’ve got to run to get there first, though.’

Macdonald sat up. His neck ached from the wafer-thin pillow. He rubbed his face with his hands and felt the stubble on his chin and cheeks. ‘What happens then?’

‘Labour. That’s what they call work in here. Dinner at twelve. More labour. Tea at five. Association, gym and stuff at six. Back in the cells at eight. That’s the routine during the week. Varies at weekends. Proper breakfast, for a start.’

There was a rattle of a key chain outside the cell. Lee pulled a face and continued to eat his cornflakes.

First Macdonald caught a glimpse of a male prison officer, then a big man in a blue sweatshirt and baggy linen trousers appeared, a plastic bag in one hand. He was in his fifties with receding hair that he’d grown long and tied back in a ponytail. ‘All right if I come in, lads?’ he asked.

‘Aye,’ said Lee. ‘You’re here to see the new boy, yeah?’

The man stuck out his hand for Macdonald to shake. ‘Ed Harris, I’m one of the wing’s Listeners.’

Macdonald took the hand. Harris had a strong grip and he looked into Macdonald’s eyes with a measured gaze. Macdonald knew he was being assessed. Harris handed him the carrier-bag. ‘They said you needed a wash pack,’ he said. ‘Courtesy of the management.’

Macdonald looked inside it. There was a yellow Bic razor, a bar of shaving soap, a shaving brush, a toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I could do with a towel.’

‘I’ll get you one,’ promised Harris. He gestured at Macdonald’s forensic suit. ‘Is that all the clothes you’ve got?’

‘Lloyd-Davies said she’d get me something else today.’

‘I’ll remind her,’ said Harris. He leaned against the wall by the door and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Did they tell you about the Listeners?’

‘Like the Samaritans, they said.’

Harris nodded. ‘We’re trained by them, but we’re not just for people who want to top themselves. We’re here if you need someone to talk to. There’s four of us on the wing, and you can always find us because we’ve got orange cards on our cell doors. You need to talk to us any time, day or night, just ask one of the officers.’ He gave Macdonald a sheet of paper on which were printed several paragraphs under the heading The Listeners – Who Are They? How Do I Contact Them? How Do I Know I Can Trust Them? ‘This explains what we do.’

‘Thanks,’ said Macdonald, though he doubted that he’d ever want to confide his innermost thoughts to a balding man with a ponytail.

‘I’m told you’re not saying who you are.’

Macdonald didn’t respond.