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February 7th

Five days.

I don’t think I’ve slept at all. I go back, of course I do. I can’t keep away, like you couldn’t. I blink and try to force my eyes wide as I drive; I swerve, once, into the other lane. Several times I wonder where I am, what I’m doing. This isn’t real, it can’t be. But I get to the tree-lined driveway.

In the prison car park, the gums with the swirling pale bark, my old gentleman, are still gossiping. I would like to lean against one of their trunks and listen, but I stay in the car, waiting. Can you hear the magpies’ morning song too? Rolling down the window, I hear a child’s voice echo around the car park, a woman shushing her. Then a loudspeaker announcing the beginning of visiting hours. There’s a buzzing noise. But the sounds of the magpies, wattlebirds and mynahs prevail.

As I rest back in my seat, a prison officer carrying a bundle under his arm emerges from a side entrance to the left of the main doors. Behind him comes a skinny, older guy. The officer stoops to say something to him, gesturing towards the car park, and then puts the bundle into the older guy’s hands.

It’s a release.

This is what will happen when you come out.

The officer returns through the side entrance alone, and the released guy looks around at the car park, the trees. Soon, a car pulls up and a woman gets out—younger, larger. His wife? She tries to hug him, but the released guy’s arms stay wrapped around the bundle. They walk away from the prison together, heads bowed, talking, as if what is happening is nothing out of the ordinary.

Will anyone be here to meet you?

More cars arrive for visiting hours. Everyone knows what to do, which path to follow. There are lots of kids, so many babies, far more women than men. It’s louder now, the birds have competition: it’s more like a festival than a prison, all these people moving around the car park in the sunshine. It feels almost happy, hopeful. A smartly dressed woman runs to catch up to the family ahead of her, laughing about her high heels. A bird peels like a tiny bell. And then, once they’re all inside, it’s quiet again. Just me left in the car park. The pounding in my chest is paralysing. I scan the police cars parked to the right of the entrance: have the officers noticed me? The conditions outlined in the victim-notification letter specifyNo less than one hundred metres. But how close couldIcome to you? There is nothing about that. What if I am the one to approach?

But I don’t try to find out, not today. I start the car and head back to the hotel.