It has taken several days for me to get over my first meeting with armed robber. The armed robber is George Clooney’s twin!  He is very political, very liberal, except when it comes to anti social behaviour, drugs and people trafficking, and he has very strong views about the environment. 

I need to wind back a few days.  I should start with the bus trip to Pentonville Prison, which is conveniently located on the Pentonville Road.   It was one of those bright sunny autumn days.  From the top of the bus I could see into the forecourt and the white low built “entrance” which might have served a Victorian Hospital.   But behind the white building, I could see huge red bricked walls topped by rolls of barbed wire, and beyond the wire, window upon window.  What must it be like, looking out of those windows, on a bright sunny day to a road where there are cheerful red buses, and not so cheerful cars?  Where people come and go as they please?  And then I remind myself that I am going to see an armed robber.

I go to a blue door called the Visitors Centre.  I have to show my visiting order, and my passport to a prison officer behind a glass window.  I then have to put all my belongings, most definitely including the pencil and pad, into a locker.  I am allowed to keep 20p for refreshments!  Not much profit to be made here then! 

I am “patted down”.  I notice that even children are “patted down”.   There seems to be a play area for kids, and kindly folk from a prisoner’s charity are on hand for advice.  I didn’t need advice.    I’ve watched Emmerdale and Corrie.  I’ve even seen Porridge!   I know what prisons are like!   What I didn’t know about was the smell, antiseptic and rancid at the same time.  I am wondering if it is okay for visitors to make a bolt for freedom when the prisoners file in.   I look into their faces, I see fear, acquiescence, anger, and on some, a sort of calm acceptance that is, somehow, much more disconcerting.

I am so busy looking around that I don’t see anyone approaching my table.   “Madelaine, Madelaine Greene?” Startled, I look up and find myself staring into the face of George Clooney.  

I blink.  “George” sits down on the other side of the table “Unnerving, isn’t it?  Coming into this place?  It was built by a Major Webb in the early 19th century.”

“Was it?  Oh. How do you do,” I say.  How stupid is that?    But I am in pieces; I am looking at George Clooney and he is an armed robber in Pentonville Prison!

“The wedding cake, it was beautiful.  Thank you.   You are clearly very talented.”

“Thanks.”  Gosh, am I blushing?

“When Pierre told me you were really a writer, I took a look at some of your pieces. “

“You mean Affordable Art for Home Makeovers”

“George” laughs.  “No, the earlier stuff?  The profile on Bobbie Sands?”

“That was years ago, before I had my daughter, when I believed… “

“….Believed what you wrote mattered?”

 “Yes.”

“I like the fact that you don’t spare the truth, and you don’t judge”.

Who are any of us to judge?

“Tell me about you, you now”

To my shame, I did.  After months of keeping the shame of debt bottled up, I’ve spilled all to another (admittedly) close girl friend, but now I am telling an armed robber who looks like George Clooney.  I am losing the plot. 

“You’ll need the commencement money sooner rather than later.”

Images of Barry’s dark warnings come flooding back.  Suddenly I am aware of the smell of prison again.  “No…no… I couldn’t possibly take….”

“You’ll be hearing from my editor”.  And then he mentions a name, a very reputable name, working at a very reputable publishing house.  

Visiting is over.   We schedule another meeting, a work meeting, “after you’ve had a chance to read the cuttings, letters and whatever…”

The following morning I report all to Barry.   He is still worrying.  “I don’t want to wake up to you on the news, with a black eye and bandages.  I’d never forgive myself”   Barry?   Getting soft?   Never!