Minutes or hours pass – in a room without windows, it is impossible to tell. It is deliberate, it seems to me, this sensory deprivation. There’s only hardness in here, and smoothness. Concrete floors and walls and this concrete bench for a bed. Steel lavatory. Iron door. Me. The feeling it creates is one of separation from reality. Nothing in nature, out there in the world, is so hard to the touch and so devoid of texture.

It is disorientating to be in a room alone. Since I left home in favour of solitude and freedom, I haven’t had walls. Whatever safety they once provided is a memory. There’s no safety here, there’s only the rationing of space.

I hear a rattling at the door and I jump to my feet. Two officers enter the cell, carrying bags and a roll of paper. One sets the paper on the ground as the other begins to open a plastic bag with the word ‘EVIDENCE’ written in blue across it.

‘We are seizing your clothes as evidence.’

I watch as the officer with the bags holds one open.

‘Coat,’ says the other and mumbles a number which he writes into a record book.

I stare at him in disbelief but he is not putting up with any nonsense. He just shakes the bag at me impatiently until I take my coat off and roll it into the open sack. Before long all of my clothes are arranged in plastic sacks on the floor. I stare at my arms. I’m not used to seeing my uncovered flesh. It’s bright in patches and then suddenly dark with dirt. The smell drifting off my skin is so strong that one of the men covers his mouth with his hand.

‘What am I supposed to wear?’ I say.

The one with the bags hands me a pair of grey jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt along with a pair of black plimsolls.

‘Am I supposed to go out into the world like this? Without a coat?’

They say nothing. They simply gather up my clothes and give me a sheet of paper explaining the circumstances in which I might get them back. They leave.

I sit staring and willing the door to open. I have to leave here soon, the pressure is building. Then minutes pass and an officer’s voice leans in to ask me about a meal and a hot drink. More time drifts by until another officer comes by to advise me about my rights to a solicitor.

‘Have you had a chance to read that leaflet? Do you want to take up the offer of free legal advice?’

‘Yes,’ I say to him.

‘Anyone in particular?’ he says, plunging his meaty arms into his pockets.

‘No.’

‘Then I’ll get the duty,’ he says and leaves on soft-soled shoes.