Perched on the edge of a wooden bench in Blakenhurst Prison laundry, trying to look as busy as the lack of genuine work would allow, I was tapped on the shoulder by the ruddy-cheeked, flaky-skinned instructor.
“Good news for you. Or bad news? I don’t know. You’re on transfer this morning. Due south. Elmley on the Isle of Sheppey in Kent.”
I was glad but I was sad, too. Since George’s happy release, Blakenhurst had grown lonelier. I saw his ghost everywhere, heard his voice ringing along the landing, daydreamed about him constantly and longingly. I had been pressing Allocations…
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