The lawyers spend some time mumbling to the judge who mumbles back at them individually. The minutes stretch. My breath catches as my body remembers it needs air. I gasp audibly but nobody reacts.

Finally, the judge turns to me and in a loud voice asks me to stand.

‘You understand that your application for bail is allowed on strict conditions? You will live and sleep each night at the address notified to the court. You will be required to report to the local police station each Monday and Thursday. You are not to apply for travel documents. And you are not to go within five hundred metres of 42B Farm Street. If you breach any of those conditions, or if you fail to turn up to your next hearing, you will be committing a separate offence. Do you understand?’

I nod. The judge rises. And I am so grateful, despite the murder charge that has now crystallised around me, that I want to cry. Until the gaoler stands up and leads me back down into the cells.

‘What’s going on?’ I say. ‘He released me. Didn’t he release me?’

She looks at me as if I have just materialised before her.

‘Okay. Just quiet down for a second,’ she says and leads me back into the cell and locks the door.

Blood wells up in my head and feels as if it is pooling behind my eyes. I don’t know what is happening but I have an urge to scream.

I start pacing the cell until the floor begins to contract.

‘I want to see my solicitor,’ I shout. The words simply rebound back into my face. This room is designed to withstand more than I can give it.

I drop to the floor and begin to rock. There is a tide beginning in my head that I need to contain. He said bail. Did he say it? Have I imagined that? I replay the conversation over and over again and the certainty I had minutes ago is beginning to dilute. He might not have said that. I couldn’t hear everything. I was straining to hear at points. So, what now?

Just as I unleash a scream, the door opens and a golden head looks in. It is a young woman. Pretty. Cheerful.

‘Flippin’ heck, what’s eating you, love?’ she says.

I leap to my feet and put my hands together. ‘He said bail. I’m sure he said bail. Can’t you go up and check?’ I say. ‘Please. I can’t go to prison.’

‘What? No, silly sausage. We’re just processing you. I’ve got your bail form here. See,’ she says, handing me a form that says ‘Bail’ on it. There are boxes ticked and others left blank.

‘What, so, I can go?’ I ask.

‘Yes. Just give us, what, ten minutes and once we’ve done your paperwork, you’ll be released.’