8 Saturday 4 August, 1.15pm.
I feel like I know every inch of this cell already. The pattern of the brickwork. The places where the builders used just a bit too much mortar. Which bricks have cracked slightly. Where the whitewash on the walls is just starting to fade.
I’ve never been massively interested in local history, but I know this building is old. It’s been a police station for years. The cells look almost Victorian, and it wouldn’t surprise me if they were. I wonder how many people have been locked up in here over the years. Drunks. Drug addicts. Burglars. Murderers.
Brian told me they can only keep me for twenty-four hours. Just another twenty-two to go, then. It feels like I’ve been here for an age already. Before the twenty-four hours is up they’ll have to either charge me or
