He felt like belling the security desk – he always belled on the last night inside – so he went over to the metal plate with the intercom and pressed the red Call button long and hard.

Fucking screw took his time.

The red lamp went on and the central security desk replied.

‘What’s up, Lang?’

Jochum bent forwards to speak close up into the pathetic microphone.

‘I want a shower. Get this fucking smell off.’

‘Forget it. You’re still locked up in here. Like the rest.’

Jochum hated the lot of them. He had done his time, but these little shits had to show who was on top to the bitter end.

He went back to the bed, sat down and looked around the cell. He would give them ten minutes and then try again. They usually gave in after the third or fourth try, came along to open up and stood aside just enough for him to push past. With only one night left, he obviously wouldn’t want to do anything out of order, but once outside they might meet him anywhere in town, and sometimes it was wise not to have too much shared history with inmates.

He got up, walked about. A couple of paces to the window, a few more back to the metal door.

He packed as slowly as he could, cramming two years and four months into a plastic carrier bag. Two books, four packets of fags, soap and toothbrush. Radio and the pile of letters. An unopened packet of tobacco. He put the bag on the table.

He belled again. The fucker still took his time. Irritated, he put his mouth close to the microphone and growled. His breath misted the metal surround.

‘I want my clothes.’

‘Seven o’clock, mate.’

‘I’ll wake the whole fucking wing.’

‘Whatever.’

Jochum banged on the door. Someone banged in response on a door on the other side of the corridor. Then another. Quite a noise. The screw was faster this time.