Opaque leaded windows, no larger than household bibles, ensured that little light penetrated the depths within. A group of women were holding a protest with placards at the gates when the Inspector and I pulled up. They had travelled from evening Mass to shout out the names of loved ones beneath the greasy railings. As we passed, they made the sign of the cross. ‘Be gone, ye unbaptised heathens,’ roared Grimes. He led me through a series of iron doors which slammed behind us with a heavy clang. We passed a row of cell doors that must have opened into spaces no larger than coffins. The place reminded me of a dingy public bathhouse. A poster on the walls illustrated the difference between a dozen different types of human parasite. A fire hose lay coiled in the corner, and water gleamed in the cracks of the stone floor. I tried to affect the attitude of a welfare committee member inspecting the prison conditions. ‘It must be difficult running a prison during a time of great unrest,’ I said, in a foolish attempt to fill the cold void of the corridor.
