‘That little bastard stole my fucking job,’ he said, leaning across the table during one of our increasingly painful visits. ‘And you know how he got the job, don’t you? He’s letting that old bastard fuck him. That’s why I didn’t get the job. I wouldn’t put out for that fucking dirty old queer.’

‘Keep your voice down, Wright.’

‘I’ll fucking kill him when I get out of here.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m only … for Christ’s sake, Michael, I’m not … Oh Jesus.’

There was something about his eyes that I didn’t like, glancing from side to side, catching mine only for moments. It’s at times like this that I realise I hardly know Mervyn Wright at all, and suspicion flickers across my mind. He could have killed Gerald. I can see it all too clearly – an argument, Gerald’s dreadful insinuations and veiled threats, Wright losing his temper, whacking the old man, realising what he’s done and trying to cover it up to look like a robbery … I hate myself at these times, but not wanting to believe something doesn’t make it any less plausible.

‘And what the fuck is buggery?’ he said, smashing his fists on the table.

‘Among other things, it’s a crime.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since about a hundred years ago.’

‘I thought your lot had got all that sorted out. Wolfenden and that.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘So you mean what we’ve been doing all along is … a crime? You should have fucking told me.’

‘Would it have stopped you?’

I knew the answer to this – the law never stopped Wright from doing anything he wanted to do – but I wanted to hear it from his mouth. And I knew I wouldn’t.

‘What the fuck have you got me into? Jesus Christ.’

I couldn’t answer this without making a fool of myself in front of the guards and the other prisoners and visitors, who watch us and talk about us enough as it is. I changed the subject.

‘How’s your lawyer getting on?’

‘He’s a cunt. I sacked him.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘He wants me to go down. He’s one of Templeton’s cronies. Pretends to be helping me but every time he sees me there’s another charge. He’s doing deals with the cops to protect Templeton. I’m the fucking fall guy. They’ve set me up, Mikey. You’ve got to get me out of this.’

This is another of Wright’s refrains: how his current situation is the result of a massive conspiracy between the cops and the queers. His theories get wilder with every visit. The entire British film industry is apparently to blame. He sees himself as a scapegoat for something – but he’s not quite sure what. Locked up, left alone, branded as a queer, he’s lashing out at everyone and everything that put him there. The only person who never gets the blame is Mervyn Wright – the man who loves another man, who used his body to get him and who wasn’t averse to trading it for fame and fortune either.