‘There’s my son, Mark. And I’m meeting a friend later. My old golf buddy.’ He hears the optimism in his voice, realizes how much he is looking forward to seeing Phil.

‘Good, good. And the neighbours – how’re they treating you?’

‘Oh, they had a big party for me. “Welcome Home” banners strung up all the way down the street.’

‘Seriously.’

Mention of the neighbours makes him uneasy. Anton thinks of the steps outside his house, the little packages that have started appearing – small plastic sacks containing dog excrement. The first time it happened, he’d been irritated, thinking it was some random dog-walker passing his gate, too impatient or lazy to find a bin to dump their dog’s leavings. Anton had picked up the little baggie and thrown it into his bin with breezy disgust. But then when he came out of his house the next day and found two more on the same step, his suspicions were aroused. Every time he opens his door now, he finds some. He has begun to dread exiting the house.

‘I’m keeping to myself,’ he answers.

‘That’s natural enough at the start. But no man is an island, Anton. You can’t turn this house into your own private prison. You’ve got to make an effort to integrate with the community.’

Anton stares at him, amazed at his naivety, and despite his gratitude for the man’s company breaking up the solitude of his birthday, a small gust of anger whips up inside him.

‘Pardon me, Jim, but you haven’t a fucking clue,’ he says, then gets to his feet and leaves the room.

In the living room, he takes the newspaper from the arm of the couch, carries it back into the kitchen. Jim watches him warily, as if he might have fetched a gun or some other lethal weapon.

Anton opens it to the middle page, folds the paper neatly and puts it down in front of Jim. The headline screams from the table.

WIFE KILLER RELEASED

Jim Buckley leans forward to read. It’s only one column, along with a picture of Number 14’s exterior, an inset photograph of Anton from twenty years ago, and another of Charlotte – the tragic victim.

‘Now tell me how you think I can integrate with the community,’ Anton says, ‘when I’m dealing with that.’

Nineteen years he’s served. Longer than the Trojan War. His anger simmers beneath the surface.