‘Oh, all in longhand. You don’t exactly get to have your own personal laptop in jug, you know! There were computers in the education block, but not for use in free time. You can usually get hold of adequate writing materials though there are a few restrictions – no spiral backed notebooks, and no staples, for instance, in case you might be tempted to use them for some sinister purpose, and you can’t have pens brought in to you from outside in case they’re used for smuggling something. You can get felt-tip pens and pencils and paper in the shop, but paper can disappear at an alarming rate. Popular for lighting spliffs and fags – and there’s the sabotage factor, of course.’

‘Sabotage?’

‘Oh, just petty spite, but a bit frustrating until I learned to play the system. I lost the first few chapters several times.’ He shrugged. ‘Nicked or just vandalised; sometimes it disappeared completely, sometimes it got torn up – or what I’d written was made unreadable by having some pretty colourful additions scrawled all over it. Once I got wise to the hazards, I used to give it to the chaplain for safekeeping, a chapter at a time. He was very helpful.’

‘How awful.’ She looked at him with respect, thinking how un-self-pitying he was. ‘Your background must have been against you,’ she suggested. ‘Were you picked on because of it?’

‘You can be picked on for absolutely anything – but contrary to what you might think I was much better equipped to cope than some.’ He laughed and said lightly, ‘The English private boarding school system is quite good training for prison, you know. If you’ve been away to prep school aged eight and then on to a public school – not to mention a short-service commission in the army when I came down from university – you learn how to look after yourself. How to keep your head down at certain times and especially not to rise if you’re baited – how to laugh it off or give as good as you get without provoking. Of course I was called Mr La-di-da from the first moment I opened my mouth, but in the end it became a not unfriendly nickname.’ He grinned at her. ‘Being over six foot certainly helped a bit too,’ he said.

‘Were you ever really scared?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ he said soberly. ‘There’s a good deal to be scared about – and not always from the people you’d necessarily suspect. Very unpleasant things can happen. I was lucky. Anyone who’s been to prison and says they were never scared is almost certainly lying.’

She wanted to ask more, but something in his expression made her feel it would be better to change the subject. ‘What are you going to do about your book now?’ she asked. She hoped he might offer to let her read it, but didn’t like to suggest it.