He hoped it would fool the graphologists once he started spreading a little bit of terror, getting even with those who had put him away. What he had to do now was to make it second nature, so that every time he picked up a pen he picked it up in his right hand. That would take a bit longer to perfect. But after all, time was something that a prisoner has plenty of. He recalled, years ago, before he went permanently into Wakefield’s segregation wing, spending eight months working on a blade to defend himself. It had originally been a DVD from the prison library, and once bent in half and snapped it had a vicious edge. But to make the most of that edge it needed honing, and a strong and reliable handle. That was where the work came in, cutting and then filing a slot in a toothbrush to hold it, chewing jelly sweets to make a glue that would harden when dried. He had been particularly proud of the home-made sandpaper. Sand collected from the edges of the exercise yard, glued to a paperback book cover.

Neil Wright. After penning it twenty times, until he was satisfied the style was consistent, he ripped up the thin page of the notebook on which he was practising. He stuffed it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. It tasted of nothing. He didn’t want to leave even a shred of his writing practice in the wastepaper bin. No one must know what he was doing.

He looked around him. The room was comfortable, like a budget hotel bedroom, except with more space. A glorified Portakabin in construction, it had a TV, a washbasin and a private toilet, a single bed with sheets and blankets and a small wardrobe. For the first time in decades he was not in a segregation wing. And unlike most of the other prisoners, he had a room to himself.

Spring Hill was small, with just 335 inmates, most there for a short time. It was a perfect place to be anonymous. It looked less like a prison than a static caravan park, the buildings arranged neatly among gardens and vegetable patches. He loved the fact that there were no bars on the windows and that the door was generally unlocked. To step outside whenever he wanted, for the first time in decades, was a wonderful feeling. On his first evening he had stood outside in a downpour for half an hour. He listened to the pattering of rain on the leaves of the bushes, inhaled the aroma of wet grass, and delighted in the icy rivulets that ran off his scalp and down his neck and trickled down inside his shirt. Being out in the elements thrilled him. Only when he was chilled to the core and shivering did he retreat to his room for warmth and shelter.