Fudge spun in the darkness. A child? Crying? Here?
Briefly, the emptiness listened. Then -
"She sings to him, you know."
It had almost been conversational. Fudge turned again. The prisoner's beard and hair were matted stiff with grease, but he was recognisable.
"What do you mean, "sings"?"
"Oh, you know minister, a bit of the old la-la-la jolly knees-up." The speaker flung his arms wide theatrically, but didn't break eye contact. Another silence stretched. "Incidentally, you finished with that?" he suddenly asked. Silently, Fudge nodded and passed his paper through the bars.
In the distance, a little girl giggled.