The Solitary Wing – Part 2: Visiting Hour

The first ten minutes were hard. His mind raced. He sat on the narrow bunk with his hands on his knees and his eyes on the grey wall and tried to remember what stillness was. He heard the clock. He heard a car. He heard his own breathing, too loud, too fast.

The hatch slid open.

"Number Four. How are you?"

"Restless, Warden."

"That is normal. Breathe. Look at the wall."

The hatch slid shut. He breathed. By the twentieth minute, something started to ease. The wall was only a wall. The bulb was only a bulb. The silence was only silence, and it was not empty, but full, like warm water.

"Number Four. How are you?"

"Quiet, Warden."

"Good."

At forty minutes she opened the door and stood in the doorway for a long moment, in her grey cardigan, looking at him. She did not speak. She crossed the cell, laid a cool hand on the top of his head, and left it there, and he felt the warmth go down through him like a slow river. Then she withdrew, closed the door, and the click was the most tender sound he had ever heard.

At fifty minutes, from outside: "Number Four. Do you wish to continue?"

"I do, Warden."

"Say it plainly."

"I do. Thank you."

"The Warden does not require thanks."

At the end of the hour she opened the door and held out her hand.

"Visit," said Hester, softly.

It was her word, and it was also the end. She drew him up and into the kitchen and sat him in a chair and wrapped a blanket round his shoulders, and put the kettle on the hob.

"How are you?"

"Emptied," said Benedict, in wonder. "In a good way. I didn't know I could be so still."

"You were magnificent." She stroked his hair. "The easiest prisoner I've ever had."

"May I serve again?"

"Next Thursday." She poured the tea. "I'm thinking of a longer sentence. Ninety minutes. With a book."

"I'll bring my own bookmark," said Benedict.

"You'll bring your number," said Hester, "and you will answer to it."

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