“I’ve got to run a few errands. Go to the hardware shop. Then drop this to Belmarsh Prison,” he says, tapping the letter. “Right,” I say, filling my water bottle up from the tap. “You know someone in there?” “Yes and no, shall we say,” he says. There is a long pause as he looks at me without blinking. “If you don’t want to tell me who, that’s fine,” I say. “It’s Julian Assange.”
