I look up and see Eddie Bishop, sixty-nine, handsome, through the archway as he heads down the squeaky linoleum corridor, led by another guard.
Although Eddie’s wearing the same gray marl tracksuit that all the inmates wear, it doesn’t quite hang the same on Eddie. He might as well be wearing one of the three-piece suits I’ve seen him wear in countless research photos. He’s got gravitas. But perhaps I think that because I know his crimes, his history.
He looks like a cockney Cary Grant; God knows how he stays so tanned in prison.
He sees me, gives me a smile. Why are bad boys always so attractive?
I suppose, at the end of the day, if you’re not good-looking you don’t get away with being a bad boy. You just get called a thug.
He pulls out his chair and sits. Here we finally are. Me and Eddie Bishop.
There’re smiles all around. Then T. J. Hooker pipes up.
“You all right, Eddie? Need anything? Water?” His tone is friendly, pally. We’re all friends here.
Eddie turns back, slow, smooth.
“Nah, Jimmy. All good here. Thanks very much.” His voice is cheery. Today’s a good day.
“No problem. Just give us a shout if you need anything.” Jimmy looks to the other guard now, the one who brought Eddie in, and gives him a nod. Both wander through the archway and out into the corridor. “We’ll be down the hall in the break room.” Jimmy’s talking to Eddie, not me. And with that they both disappear from view, their shoes squeaking away, leaving me staring wide-eyed after them.
Why are they leaving? I haven’t even turned on the camera yet! This is definitely not normal. No one mentioned this to me in the briefing yesterday. They’ve left me alone in a room with Eddie Bishop.
I wonder if I should be scared. I think of the answerphone messages. Eddie’s killed a lot of people, or had a lot of people killed. There are stories—books full of stories—of torture, kidnap, assault, and everything else that happened in the Richardson Gang and Eddie’s forty years at large. Urban myths. Nothing provable, of course, no solid evidence, no witnesses.
I suppose I should be scared but I’m not. And suddenly it dawns on me: I never could figure out why Eddie had agreed to do the documentary with me. He must have had a million offers to tell his story but he’s never said yes. He has no need to, and no inclination, from what I can work out. But now, sitting across from him, unguarded, the camera beside me still not turned on, I realize I missed something important. There must be something in this meeting for him. Eddie needs something. And I suppose I need something too, don’t I? My heart skips a beat. There it is. Fear.
I turn on the camera. He smiles.
“Lights, camera, action, aye?” He extends a hand across the table, slow. He’s being careful not to spook me. He must know the effect he has on people. His singular brand of magic.
“Nice to finally meet you, Erin, sweetheart.” Sweetheart. I’m a millennial woman, I’ve read my Adichie, my Greer, my Wollstonecraft, but him calling me “sweetheart” is, somehow, fine. It seems strangely innocent coming from him, of another time.
“Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Bishop,” I answer. I take his hand across the Formica tabletop; he rotates my hand to the top, his thumb over the back of my hand—it’s a squeeze, not a shake, a delicate squeeze. I’m a lady and he’s a man and he’s letting me know.
“Call me Eddie.” The whole display is so old school it’s laughable, but it works.
I smile in spite of myself. I blush.
“Nice to meet you, Eddie,” I say, almost giggling. Excellent, I’m an idiot. I take back my hand.
Focus, Erin. Down to business now. I sort out my tone. Reset my professional face.
“I suppose we should get this out of the way first, shouldn’t we? Thank you for the champagne. Much appreciated.” I meet his gaze; I want him to know I’m not intimidated.
He gives me a sly smile. He nods. You’re welcome. After a pause he replies, for the camera, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart. If they don’t sell it in the prison tuckshop, it ain’t from me. It sounds like a nice little present, though. What’s the occasion?” He raises his eyebrows innocently.
I understand. The camera is rolling, so we’re playing it like this. We won’t be mentioning the answerphone messages either then? Very good. I give him a nod. I understand.
I get back on script. “Is there anything you want to ask before we get going?” I’m eager to move on now; we don’t have as much time as I’d like.
He straightens up in his seat, readies himself, rolls up his sleeves.
“No questions. Ready when you are, sweetheart.”
“Okay, then. If you could give us your name, conviction, and sentence please, Eddie.”
“Eddie Bishop. Convicted for money laundering. Seven years. Release is coming up before Christmas. Which’ll be nice. My favorite time of year.” And we’re off. He looks relaxed, at ease.
He raises his brows, What next?
“What do you think about your trial, Eddie? The sentencing?” He’s not going to incriminate himself on film, I know that, but he’ll give as much as he can; he likes playing chicken with authority—I’ve read his court transcripts.
“What do I think of the sentence? Well, Erin, interesting that you should ask that.” The smile is sardonic now. He’s amused, playful. “I’ll be honest with you: not much. Don’t think much of the sentence. They’d been trying to get me on something for thirty years, tried all sorts and I’ve been acquitted of all sorts over the years, as I’m sure you know. It seems to me they’ve got a problem with a Lambeth lad making good, making an honest living. It’s not supposed to go that way, is it? They couldn’t make any of it stick till now; any other man might have got slightly offended, if you know what I mean. Only a matter of time before something stuck. If you want to find something enough, it always turns up in the end. One way or another, if you catch my meaning.” He leaves that floating in the air. I think we all know enough about the sixties and seventies to guess that the police force might have been a little shadier then. He’s suggesting they planted evidence to frame him. I don’t disagree.
“But what can I say? My bookkeeping isn’t what it should be, at the end of the day. Yeah, never was very good with numbers. Dyscalculic. Didn’t pay much attention in school,” he continues, tongue, quite obviously, in cheek.
“Course it wasn’t diagnosed back then, was it? Dyscalculia? They just thought you were messing about, or retarded. And I was a quick kid, you know, in other ways, so they just thought I was pissing about. Winding ’em up. Different story in schools now, though, ain’t it? Got two grandkids. I didn’t stay in school too long, wasn’t suited to it. So in a way I suppose it was only a matter of time before I slipped up on my sums, wasn’t it?” He smiles warm and wide.
I’m pretty sure he’s got an accountant. I’m pretty sure that accountant was at the trial.
It’s astonishing that he can stick his finger right up in everyone’s faces the way he has for the past few decades—bait the system and get away with it. But not only does he get away with it, I want him to get away with it. I’m rooting for him. Everyone is. For his brand of jaunty cockney psychopathy. It’s fun. It doesn’t seem like real modern, raw, bone-and-gristle crime; it seems like the Pearly Kings, and pie and mash, and I’ll-be-mother. Good old-fashioned British crime. Homegrown, Brexit crime. Bob Hoskins, Danny Dyer, Barbara Windsor, The Italian Job, hatchet-in-the-trunk-of-the-car crime.
“Okay.” I lean forward. I want him to know I’ll play his game. “You’re not going to tell me about the Richardsons or any of it, are you, Eddie?” I just need to know what game we’re playing.
“Erin, sweetheart, I will tell you anything you ask, my darling. I’m an open book. I might not know the answers to some of your questions, but I’ll certainly give it a go. So, how ’bout a smile?” He gives me a roguish tilt of the head.