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I'M back home now, amid the usual clutter of airing sleeping bag, dishes to wash, coffee to store. E-mails to answer, envelopes to open, grass to cut.

And in the post, a letter from death row. With it, a sketch that my penfriend made of his cell. He's in there for 23 hours a day for the rest of his life. He took to sketching to pass the time, to occupy his mind, to feel he was creating something. He bought drawing materials by mail order and looked forward to their arriving.

For a short while, all went well. Then, he said, the prison stopped him. No more painting, no more sketching. Just back to the mind-numbing tedium of his cell.

Until the day the poisoner arrives.