Jimmy smiles wryly at me as if he shares my fantasy.

‘Back to those kittens. I don’t trust anyone else with them. And anyway, with my track record I’ll be back in here before you’ll even know I’ve gone.’

I wonder if maybe this is it for Jimmy. He’s respected, pretty much runs the joint, and as long as he’s here he’s not in prison.

‘Why don’t you train to be a counsellor, Jimmy? You’d be brilliant.’

This compliment seems to hurt him in some way. He takes a huge bite out of his bun, holds it in his mouth without chewing, stares at something across the room.

‘Will you come see me, see us, on visiting day?’

He wipes his sleeve across his rheumy eyes and pulls himself to his full height. He swallows, with difficulty.

‘Let’s see what’s first. Me relapsing, or visiting day.’ He walks away, shoulders in a straight line, almost level with his ears.

18

The numbing routine continues – they really don’t believe in unstructured time in here, which, I suppose, is the point – AA, rosary, meditation, desserts-for-dinner, chicken-coop cleaning, egg collecting, group therapy, Linda’s snores, full-on insomnia, ferocious headaches, woodwork, over and over, and people, people, people. Day thirty-eight, and it’s time for my first individual counselling session. What’s the point? What’s the point of any of it if I can’t see Tommy, talk to him? Has anyone ever died from the sheer force of missing someone? I might; I really might evaporate from longing.

The room is tiny and overlit, with windows sealed shut. I can’t breathe. I climb on to the table beneath the window and am trying to pull up the handle, which won’t budge, when the door opens.

‘Hi there. Can I help?’

I nearly topple but steady myself by leaning my forehead against the cool glass for a moment, before stepping back on to the chair and the ground.

‘Bit stuffy in here.’

I could be describing the man in front of me, with his shiny loafers, his chinos, his jumper slung around his shoulders in an effort to look casual, though the symmetry is just right: the exact same length of sleeve dangling on either side, tied neatly in the middle. A tickle builds in the back of my throat. Something familiar here: the polished slip-ons, the cheekbones, the voice. What is it about that voice? I need to leave.

‘Ok if I get some water?’

‘Sure. I’ll wait for you here.’

My mind must be playing its tricks. He couldn’t be who I think he is – my memories of that time aren’t exactly reliable. But what if it is him? I’m not in the mood to be lectured or reminded of my former maternal failings. Anger has built a permanent home inside me – I heard one of the men describe it that way, and I like it: it’s poetic and theatrical and it fits. And my anger is justified, of course it is – that father of mine… and as I see his face I feel my creatures start to stir. Starve one and another raises its head immediately: fuck him, fuck them – the moment of calm after Sister Anne left didn’t last long. But at least I felt it, at least I know what shape it could take. This is something else entirely: sharp, cold and deadly, and I feel I could slice Mr Cheekbones with my tongue.