Kate handed over her ID. He checked his computer screen, nodded, then gave it back. Chant-like, he said, ‘No hats no sunglasses no revealing clothing no gang colours no offensive language.’

‘No problem,’ she said.

‘Drive through please.’

She did as she was told. The narrow road opened into a wide car park. She sat in the car for a few minutes, engine idling, watching the front door and mentally preparing herself for the gauntlet of security checks she was about to run, and the man waiting for her on the other side. Collecting herself, she walked towards the reception hall. It was stuffy and overheated inside and smelled like mice and man-sweat. The first thing she saw was a noticeboard beside the front desk. Pinned behind plexiglass were brochures and flyers offering legal advice, support groups and helplines. Someone had made a hand-painted sign in big green block letters.

The idea of being with him tomorrow is enough to get me through today

– Old Prison widow saying.

Kate showed her ID to a prison guard behind the front desk, an almost impossibly pale man. He waved her into the next room, where a metal detector waited. After that came a sniffer dog, a personal search by a prison employee – ‘hair back, mouth open’ – and finally she had earned the coveted South Hallston Visitor Pass, displayed in a lanyard around her neck.

Through a heavy glass door, Kate entered the visiting hall, where everything was bolted to the floor – the tables, chairs, even the vending machines. The walls were painted in soft pinks and blues to fool the inmates into believing they were trapped inside a creche and not a prison. She found a free table against the far wall and sat down, listening to the chatter of inmates and their visitors. The nervous excitement reminded her of the day at the airport.

Soon, a man entered the hall and looked around, searching for someone. Kate was the only person sitting alone, and he caught her eye across the room. There was a flicker of something in his face – it might have been recognition, but she couldn’t be sure. She raised her hand in a brief wave and he began to shuffle towards her table. It made her picture an old boat drifting at sea with nobody inside.

He was somewhere in his sixties but looked older than he should have. It wasn’t just his hair that had turned grey, but his skin too. He was clad in heavy denim and wore boots without laces. Deep wrinkles crisscrossed his forehead, and he was either bald or had shaved his head with a razor, or both. He was desperately thin, with coathanger shoulders and saggy jowls that dangled loose beneath his chin. He would be a tall man if he walked upright, Kate thought, but instead he walked with his shoulders slumped forward.

He reached Kate’s table and regarded her with caution.

‘Are you Ray Gilpin?’ she asked.