She’s still in the infirmary. Rose, I can’t get her name out of my head. Cost me a quarter of a pound to get her medical records from that filthy cutthroat doctor. I just can’t forget her lying on the steps of the great gallery two nights ago, covered in blood. Her long brown hair hung over the iron steps, the blood wrestled over her tender pale cheeks and in her hand a small glass bottle. This fucking bottle! Why did I keep it, idiot? If anyone finds out,I’m screwed. They’ll throw me out! But how does an inmate like Rose even get a bottle like that? And more importantly, how does she get its contents – gin?

Stealing is impossible, none of the other wardens in this hole have such a good London Dry. I can hardly afford some cheap gin and the other drunken idiots are just intoxicated with the broth they are given. Smuggling is also out of the question, since it is done by the same drinkers. They would rather drink the stuff themselves than pass it on. The only logical explanation for gin within these walls would be that it also is manufactured within them. But it can’t be. I have often heard rumours of a possible secret of the inmates, but until today I have always thought it to be pure old wives’ tales of bitter old men. Hell, I’m not so sure anymore.