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I carry the letter upstairs, between my fingertips, put it on the kitchen table and sit in a chair facing it. Perhaps someone else should do it—Mum, maybe. Someone else should know what’s inside before I do. Once it’s open, things will change; I’ll have to decide how I feel, what I do…who I tell. There’ll be other decisions, too: whether to see Rhiannon, or drink, or go to the cupboard. Decisions make me feel stressed. And when I feel stressed, I spiral. It’s enough now that I’m not running screaming into the street. I can sit with this. I can breathe. A voice inside me says I should call Nick—that this is what he’s for—but I can’t. Then he might be the one who ends up running screaming into the street.

I stare at that name, so clear in black print, as if that old part of me is living here today, despite everything. I should have told the prison registrar about the name change, should have known this would happen, one day.

Eventually, I bring the letter to my lap. It isn’t heavy, it doesn’t tick. The postmark on the envelope is dated two weeks ago, but the post is always slow from Perth. There is a symbolstamped in one corner; I could engrave it into my skin without looking—the crest for the Western Australian Department of Corrective Services, the department now considering your release.

I know what this letter will say. It’s almost a relief.

Almost.

I’m shaking so hard I shut my eyes and grasp the arms of the chair. This could be a new kind of sentence. I rest the letter against the cyclamen on the table and try to breathe deeply; it’s what Rhiannon would advise. Then I lurch from the table, stumble to the window, pull the curtains, open the latch.Breathe.The air is so cold it makes my teeth sting.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I clench my fingers into a fist and imagine pushing a knife. Your blood on my skin, sticky and hot.

You falling

down

before me.

I exhale and look out. The hazy glow of Christmas lights. Scrunched newspaper tumbling down slick pavements. A black cab turning its lights off as it speeds by below. For a moment, there’s a sweet-soft numbness in the air, before the roar of the monster city comes back and I am hit by the stench of the drains. I make myself say it:North East London. Barkingside.

Nowhere to you.

One bed, a bathroom, a kitchen and a living room. Above the bakery. Why it’s hot every morning.

It was only a few months ago when I filled in the victim submission form, when I answered those impossible questions about what impact an early release might have, the potential for contact, the conditions I wanted the board to consider. Surely it’s too early for your parole? Maybe you’ve changed, and the letter will tell me about your good behaviour. Maybe you’ve changed more than I have.

I place my forehead against the window. A Christmas tree illuminates a front porch. Sal, my resident fox, slinks behind the bins, and the sickly sun begins to creep above the rooftops. I wipe my breath from the glass and watch Sal’s fire-bright fur appear near the bus stop, her tail twitching in the nettles beside the alleyway. I see you when I move my gaze: you weave down the high street in a trench coat, your hair slicked back. I blink you away. But you slip inside a man dressed in overalls turning down Pinter Street. Then you’re a guy leading a child towards McDonald’s. You are the local chemist, unlocking your shop, sorting out my prescriptions for happy pills and painkillers.

You are everywhere. Still.

I bring my fingers to my neck and press until I cough, which makes me feel a little better, and now the glass is fogged up again, so I can’t see you. I swallow and it hurts and it’s satisfying. Not that I’d tell that to Rhiannon. When I shut the window and brush the crumbling paint on the sill, I feel the dry ridge of your scar against my skin. Even now, I can conjure you into my fingertips; you arrive like a trick.

I try to be logical and contain your presence with numbers. Nine years, nine months since I last saw you, handcuffed, your head down. And longer since my lips brushed yours and I tasted salt. Your sentence was twelve years. More than I thought you’dget at the time. Not enough now. But there’s that thing called parole, good behaviour, and you always were a charmer.

I move away from the window. I need water, so do the ferns. I sprinkle the watering can over them on my way past and check the soil around the chilli plants. I whisper sweet nothings to the mint to help her grow. The holidays are always the worst, and coping strategies are so much harder. But I’d been doing well!

One glass of water, then another, then into the shower. I scrub hard. You’re still inside me, like the grains of sand stuck in my boots—the boots in the cupboard in the living room. If I took them out, could I still smell the desert? I turn the hot tap on harder and blast you away. I gasp water and spit you out, down the drain.Gone!But if I shut my eyes, you could be right with me.

I don’t look at the letter on the table.

I don’t go to the cupboard.

I want to scream.

Instead, I put on the Christmas jumper Mum made me wear yesterday and the day before, and go into the kitchen, where I discover I’ve run out of milk and coffee. There is nothing apart from cat biscuits and the leftovers Mum packaged up for me. I tip some of both into a bowl for Sal.

Out the kitchen window, her glinting amber eyes stare back from under the bakery’s old storage shed. She watches me as I step down the fire-escape stairs and crouch a couple of metres from her.

‘No milk today,’ I say.