Graham is probably pushing fifty and always wears Fleet Ward’s limited edition and stylish pale-blue pyjamas. He is very tall and very thin; a bit . . . spidery. His face never changes much and he’s not exactly chatty. In fact, that might have been one of the longest conversations I’ve ever had with him.

ILIAS, aka The Grand Master. The chess thing, right? Greek, I think, or maybe Turkish. Ilias is early thirties, I’m guessing . . . dark and squat and properly hairy. I know that, because he’s fond of walking about with his shirt off, and sometimes his pants, no matter how often the staff tell him it’s not really appropriate. He can lose his temper at the slightest thing and when that happens it’s like he really hates you, but ten minutes later he’s crying and hugging you and, frankly, that can wind you up a bit. I’m talking about massive mood-swings, when you don’t know whether you’re coming or going. I’m no expert, but my guess is that he’s a proper schizo; I mean like bipolar to the max. He certainly comes out with the weirdest shit of anyone here, just out of nowhere. Stuff that can make you fall about one minute, then something else that makes you feel like you need to stand under a hot shower for a while. I say that, but basically he’s a big, stupid puppy most of the time and, if anyone was to ask, I’d still tell them Ilias was my mate and that I think he’s probably harmless. Obviously, nobody in here is completely harmless, I mean tell that to Kevin, but you know what I’m saying, right?

He’s harmless enough.