‘Over there.’

Another forceful prod in the back. The guard was directing Mansour towards the second gate to his right.

Wing Three.

Mansour complied without a word. Within seconds he was at the gate, watching the guard as he went through the same security routine. This time it was quicker. Ninety seconds at the most, before the same heavy clang and piercing buzz. Seconds more and they were inside, the gate closed and locked behind them.

For some reason Mansour had expected Wing Three to be full. A hive of activity, with inmates mixing in the common areas and moving in and out of each others’ cells. He had no idea why. Perhaps something he had seen on TV.

The reality could not have been more different. The long, corridor-like common area through which Mansour and the guard were now walking was empty.

Empty, but not silent.

The noise coming from behind each of the closed cell doors was intense. Incessant banging of what sounded like steel on steel. Shouting voices, only some of which Mansour could understand. Loud, almost animal screams came from some of the rooms.

It was designed to unnerve him, Mansour realised. An intimidating welcome from the other HSU Wing Three inmates.

It sounded like hell on Earth.

‘Up there.’

No prod this time. Mansour took the order and climbed the long, single flight of stairs that led to the upper floor of Wing Three.

The first floor was much the same as the ground, aside from the large, empty space in the centre that led directly down. Two rows of cells, three each on either side of the wing, each accessible by a metal walkway that passed every door.

Mansour focused on the metal barriers that ran alongside the walkways, there to prevent inmates from falling over the side, all the way back to the ground floor.

Falling. The thought was almost comical.

The noise did not lessen as Mansour turned left and then right at the top of the stairs. He still couldn’t make out what was being said. Only the occasional swearword rose above the din. They added an extra hint of violence to the already aggressive atmosphere.

‘Last one,’ the guard instructed, unnecessarily pushing Mansour forward. Towards the final cell on the left-hand wall. ‘Cell Twelve.’

The cell was open and unoccupied. Mansour was surprised. He had been warned at court that Belmarsh – like all prisons in Britain – was overcrowded, and that he would most likely have to share a cell with at least one other inmate. Possibly two. He was relieved, then, that he seemed to have a cell to himself.

He stepped inside and turned to face the guard.

‘No one else?’

‘No. Not in here,’ the guard replied. ‘You lot get your own luxury space.’

The guard smiled as he spoke, ironically indicating Mansour’s minuscule surroundings. Barely ten feet long and no more than six feet wide, the cell was furnished with a small, dank bed next to the door, a plastic desk in one far corner and a metal toilet in the other. A small, old-fashioned portable television was fixed to the wall, and a tiny, wire-meshed window offered the view of an exterior whitewashed wall.