I pace around the furlong square that is enclosed by a high red-brick wall, with a closely mown threadbare lawn in the centre. After a couple of rounds, I’m joined by Gordon, the voice who greeted me this morning from the window on the other side of the block. He turns out to be tall and slim, with the build of an athlete. He tells me without any prompting that he has already served eleven years of a fourteen-year sentence for murder. This is the fifth prison they’ve sent him to. Can’t be for good behaviour, is my first reaction.
Gordon is due out in three years’ time and, although dyslexic, has taken an Open University degree in English and is now studying for a law degree. He also claims to have written a book of poetry, which I seem to recall reading something about in the Daily Mail.
‘Don’t talk to me about the press,’ he screeches like a tape recorder you can’t switch off. ‘They always get it wrong. They said I shot my lover’s boyfriend when I found them in bed together, and that he was an Old Etonian.’
‘And he wasn’t an Old Etonian?’ I probe innocently.
‘Yeah, course he was,’ said Gordon. ‘But I didn’t shoot him, did I? I stabbed him seventeen times.’
I feel sick at this matter-of-fact revelation, delivered with neither remorse nor irony. Gordon goes on to tell me that he was twenty at the time, and had run away from home at the age of fourteen, after being sexually abused. I shuddered, despite the sun beaming down on me. I wonder just how long it will be before I’m not sickened by such confessions. How long before I don’t shudder? How long before it becomes matter-of-fact, commonplace?