The library racks were metal, pre-drilled along the edge for any sort of adjustment or construction, to fit the room in which they were erected. They had a lip, about half an inch deep and by selecting small sized books he was able to create a secure hiding place for his bottle beneath them while at the same time maintaining the height to match that of the volumes on either side.

The rumour that the Russian spy currently on trial would be committed to Wormwood Scrubs spread throughout the prison, increasing the pressure on Charlie. On the way back from the sluices one morning he was nudged – he never discovered by whom – at the landing stairway and if he hadn’t been tensed against something happening and grabbed a guard rail he would have plunged down at least one set of metal stairs, towards the level below. There was never a seat for him in the recreation room, where there were fixed times to watch television and if he stood other prisoners grouped in a mob in such a way that he couldn’t see the set. Once, sufficiently alert again, he just managed to get his hand out of the way of the release of scalding steam from the tea urn and on two occasions he found a fly and a spider in his food.

Hargrave didn’t sit with him any more. Charlie didn’t blame the man. Their only contact was in the library and even then surreptitious because there was a screw on duty.

‘Seen it happen before,’ said Hargrave. They were shelf stocking and Hargrave was in the line beyond, blocked from view by the intervening books so Charlie could only hear his whispered voice.

‘How long does it last?’

‘No telling.’

‘I’m pissed off with it.’

‘You’re supposed to be.’

‘What can I do?’