“She’s good to go,” my less-than-friendly prison guard says as she steers me towards a man whom I’ve already named The Gatekeeper. He’s small yet lean, his beige uniform looking stiff. Attached to his belt is a large keyring that must have at least thirty keys jangling from it, the weight of so many condemned men being a hefty one to bear.
The inner door—one of many, I expect—is metal, like that of a bank vault.
Blue Raincoat Guy is beside me, pulling his coat back onto his shoulders while trying to balance his now disrupted pile of papers.
“I guess this is goodbye,” he begins, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Unless we’re here to see the same inmate. Whoareyou here to see?”
The Gatekeeper reaches for his keys, not even looking as he selects the correct one. It’s already in the lock, his fingers on the handle and ready to pull the door open as I glance at Blue Raincoat Guy and reply, “Valdemar Montresor.”
His eyes widen, the colour draining from his face as the name leaves my lips. “Are you… serious?” His glasses start to steam up, but he appears oblivious as the door is pulled open, the squeal of metal hinges grating down my spine.
“I wish I were joking.”
“But how? Why? Are you family?” He glances at my silver hair, possibly wondering what blood relation I could be with such colouring.
“No. I’m a journalist.”
“But he hasn’t spoken to anyone since his arrest. No one. How did you…?”
“He asked for me.”
His shock turns to scepticism. “We are talking abouttheValdemar Montresor—head of the Raven Hands, murderer, madman?”
I find it ironic that “madman” is the one label that stands out in my mind, the newspaper headlines still fresh as I recall the front-page spread:Madman Montresor Murders Man. An eyewitness statement claimed that the notoriously calm Valdemar Montresor had lost his head that night and rained gunfire on an entire casino.
“I swear his eyes were red,” the croupier had told theAmontillado Gazette. “He had two guns, one in each hand, and he just kept firing and firing and firing up in the air until the chandelier collapsed and everyone was screaming.”
“Yes, that Valdemar Montresor,” I tell Blue Raincoat Guy.
The door is now open, and two large men wearing brown uniforms and armed with batons, stun guns, and Tasers await us against the backdrop of an artificially lit corridor.
“I’ll see you on the return ferry,” Blue Raincoat Guy says, eyeing the men.
“This way, please.” The larger of the men beckons me while Blue Raincoat Guy remains.
“Good luck!” he shouts as I’m taken down the corridor.
I glance at all the doors, trying to guess which one contains my criminal. Feeling like Clarice Starling, I wonder when I’m going to get the lecture about not making eye contact, not asking certain questions, and what to do if I need to leave the room, but the guard remains silent, as if there’s nothing he can say to prepare me for this.
When we reach the end of the corridor, we go through a fob-activated door and into a smaller waiting area that isn’t dissimilar to one found in a hospital, although it’s lacking the posters on what to do if you find a lump in your breast or advice on how to quit smoking.
We approach a blue door, which is metal again but painted this time and has a reinforced glass window.
“I’ll remain in the room with you. Just let me know if you want to leave. You have an hour with him.”
The guard opens the door with the same fob, and my stomach drops to my toes.
You can do this.
Just breathe.
Suppressing the urge to turn and run, I follow the guard into the room.
CHAPTER FOUR
I would be lyingif I said I haven’t thought about meeting Valdemar Montresor these past ten years, but it’s always been a vision of bloodshed, of me stabbing him over and over, thrusting a knife into his chest until the blade comes out of his back. After my brother’s death, my dad encouraged me to see a therapist. I attended for a few years, and in the later stages of my sessions, Dr Tarr suggested meeting Valdemar as part of my recovery to come to terms with my loss. However, it was an avenue I was never willing to venture down, my grief too volatile, too unpredictable.
I’ve only ever seen photos of Valdemar in newspapers, and even then, it was ten years ago. Incarceration has meant he’s ceased to be in the limelight.
