After lunch I went to chat to one of the guys that I’ve been hanging out with a bit since I arrived at the jail – the one who drank the floor polish a few days ago. During the course of the morning, he had appeared from his room with red marks around his neck, and now that I stood close to him I could see that he had attempted to slash the skin of his throat, right round his neck from ear to ear. The cut was a few millimetres deep, enough to expose the pale inner layers of skin beneath the surface.

I looked into his drooping, bloodshot eyes, and the sadness and desperation that I saw there brought tears to my own. I told him to “Hang in there,” and listened to him as he expressed some of the anger and rejection he was feeling.

“I’m going to slash myself to fuck,” he said. I tried to remember the feelings that I had when I was at the same stage as him in his journey through the criminal justice system, waiting interminably for the court process to run its course.

“You’re in the hardest part just now. Please hang in there. Things will get better once you get past all this uncertainty… And remember that there are lots of people here who are looking out for you.”

He shook his head slowly. “No-one here is on my side… They’re all wanes… guilty wanes. Guilty fucking bastards.”

As he walked off, I thought of all the people that I had noticed him narrowly avoiding fights with over the last few days. I looked around the room and wondered who would be the first to inflict harm on him.

I wondered who he should fear the most – his is own hand or the anger of our fellow in-mates? The disinterest of the wardens, or the lack of concern shown by the prison system?