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‘I’h a pillow – rock hard; one pillow case – reen; and one blanket – brown I thank Lester and then take so the bed After all, there’s nothing else to do

When I’ve co to read The Moon’s a Balloon, but es, often stopping to consider the jury’s verdict, and although I feel tired, even exhausted, I can’t begin to think about sleep The promised phone call has not ht that shines above the bed, placecries of the patients from the cells on either side of ain when the fluorescent light is switched back on, the letter box reopens and two different eyes peer in at me – a procedure that is repeated every hour, on the hour – to make sure I haven’t tried to take my own life The suicide watch

I eventually fall asleep again, and when I wake just after 4 aht line, because bothafter hours on the rock-hard pillow I think about the verdict, and the fact that it had never crossed my mind even for a uilty of the sae How could we have conspired if one of us didn’t realize a conspiracy was taking place? They also appeared to accept the word of ie Peppiatt, a wo me and my family for years

Eventually I turn my mind to the future Determined not to waste an hour, I decide to write a daily diary of everything I experience while incarcerated

At 6 ae around inYes, what I need is there, and this time the authorities have not determined that it should be returned to sender Thank God for a son who had the foresight to include, ast other necessities, an A4 pad and six felt-tip pens

Two hours later I have co that has happened to me since I was sent to jail

Day 2

Friday 20 July 2001

800 am

I areeted by the sarin, which turns to a look of surprise when he seesI’ve already been at work for nearly two hours

‘You’ll be able to have a shower in a few minutes,’ he announces I’ve already worked out that in prison a few‘Anything you need?’ he asks politely

‘Would it be possible to have so paper?’

‘Not so I’m often asked for,’ he admits, ‘but I’ll see what I can do’

Lester returns half an hour later and this tirin has turned into a shy smile He slips an A4 pad, not unlike the type I always use, through the little steel trap In return he asks raphs, only one to be personalized – for his daughter Michelle Lester doesn’t offer any explanation for why he needs the other five, all to be penned on separate sheets of paper As no e hands in jail, we return to thirteenth-century England and rely on bartering

I can’t inatures are worth: a packet of cigarettes, perhaps? But I a allowed to write in this hellhole may turn out to be the one salvation that will keep me sane