A woman prison officer walked them across the lawn to a square, three-story building with a small plaque by the door reading. “Female wing. Hospital Wing.” As soon as they entered the building they felt enclosed, almost claustrophobic, in spite of the bright colors of the paintwork and the occasional plant on the windowsills. They were shown into a room that smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke. A listless man in his forties with a tired-looking teddy-boy haircut glanced at them without interest as they sat down at the opposite end of a long wooden bench. They sat in silence for more than ten minutes. Then another officer entered the room at the far end.

“Lindsay Gordon, Cordelia Brown,” she said. They stood up. The officer indicated the door she had come in by and the three of them trooped through. Lindsay noticed that the door was locked behind them. The officer took the clothes, cigarettes, books, and food that they’d brought for Paddy and showed them to a table. They faced a glass screen with strips of wire mesh at each side. At every corner of the room there were more prison officers. Even Lindsay, whose job had taken her to most extreme circumstances, found the atmosphere oppressive and alienating. She could barely guess at the effect all this would have on someone like Paddy.

After a few minutes, a door at the opposite end of the room opened, and the officer returned with Paddy. Already life behind bars had left its mark on her. Her skin had an unhealthy sallowness. There were dark bags beneath her eyes. But what was most striking was that she seemed to have lost all her self-confidence. Fewer than three days of living behind bars had cut her down to less than life-size. She looked uncertainly across the room. When she saw Lindsay and Cordelia, relief flooded her face. But even the eagerness with which she approached them seemed tempered with uncertainty. It was as if she expected them to have changed as much as she had and couldn’t quite believe that they were still completely normal.

Cordelia spoke first. “My God, Paddy, this is dreadful. How are you managing to cope?”

Paddy shrugged and said, “You just have to, Cordelia. Most of the time, I try to switch off and project myself back home. It’s not easy. It’s routine that’s the killer. Up at half-past seven, wash, breakfast in the dining-room with Radio 1 blasting out, then cleaning and sewing till lunch, then back to the workshops, unless Gillian’s managed to get here. Then it’s tea, then it’s telly, and then it’s bed. It’s so debilitating. All you hear is Radio 1 and the sound of keys. You’re not expected to think for yourself at any time; it’s amazing how quickly you lose the habit.”