Living Free

THE TIME was 0700, and it was April Fool's Day, 1977. I was dressed in civilian clothes, my own clothes, which I hadn't worn for a long time. From the window in the stone building of the reception block at Dartmoor Prison, I looked out at the all-too-familiar scenery of the prison grounds--the neatly arranged little flower beds, the cold, shining tarmac of the driveway leading to the prison gates. The moment had come for my release.