Paddy Hill
What galls him even more than the money is the lack of a public apology. "All they would have to do is say, 'Listen, we got it wrong and we're sorry'. Believe me, they are going to apologise publicly because I'll take them all the way to fucking Europe for it, and they're going to accept liability."
Hill shows me the tattoos on his arms, most of them done in prison with a darning needle. I ask him what they are, and he gives me a giggly guided tour. "That was a little girl kneeling at an altar rail, this was my wife, this one with four names was done when I only had four kids in the 60s." He lifts up his T-shirt to show me an epic tattoo on his chest. "That's part of The Wind In The Willows, the babbling brook and the little rickety bridge and river running under it. I had this half done when the screws kicked the door in and they took all the ink and we couldn't finish them."
I ask Hill if Mojo has given him a sense of purpose, a sense of hope. No, he says, it's just something he has to do. "Psychiatrists have told me I have lived in a state of depression, tension, for so long in prison that it has now become the norm and they don't think I will ever be repaired." Repaired - the perfect word.
It all sounds so bleak. But even he admits there is a future to look forward to. He is talking to a film-maker who plans to make a movie about the Birmingham Six, based on Hill's book, and he is also planning to move to Scotland. Why Scotland, I ask. He smiles shyly. "I met a girl there after Christmas, New Year, and we just hit it off. We get on like a house on fire. This is the first time I've actually wanted to get involved in a relationship... the first time since I've come out."
Maybe that's a sign you are returning to the world, I say. He nods silently, diffidently, hopefully.