What he wouldn’t do to take it back. His hands around her throat. Some part of him stopping before he killed her. But he could have. Could have wrenched her spirit from her body.

There’d been no intention in what he’d done. In the midst of it there had been that other part of him, screaming at him. Watching his actions from behind a barrier. Like his body was fuelled by something else, another soul, just for that moment. And he’d watched her eyes bulge, watched her anger turn to fear, turn to terror. He was bigger than her, much bigger. In that moment he’d stolen something from her. The noise she’d made. This was after he’d scarred her face, smashed her nose. He grimaced now remembering it, still watching the fight breaking up, the boys resuming their game. The dust rising up behind the football. He’d never forget that noise.

Thank God he’d stopped. She’d been right to press charges and get them to stick that final time. Right to divorce him.

The prisoner sitting beside him was too close for Caleb’s liking. He moved over to allow the man more room.

‘You ever wanna run?’ the bloke said. He turned to look at Caleb, squinting in the sun. He nodded towards the tree line beyond the field.

‘Every second,’ Caleb said. ‘Every bloody second.’

‘Hard not to,’ he said. ‘It’s right there.’

‘They’d catch you. Then extend your sentence another twelve months, send you someplace else.’

‘I know. They gave us the lecture.’

Caleb sighed. ‘You new, then?’

‘What you think? You seen me before?’

‘Alright. Bloody hell.’

The man looked apologetic. ‘Got here two days ago. They said ’cause I been good they were sending me here for the last six months. I don’t know. I don’t know how good I been.’

Caleb willed the man to leave. The sun was setting slowly, bleeding out over the clouds. The men and their game would soon be cleared.

‘You going to play?’ the man asked.

‘No,’ Caleb said.

‘Why not?’

‘Don’t deserve to.’

The man laughed, the sound cruel. ‘You a poof?’

The man’s laughter died when he saw Caleb would not respond and he stood and walked into the game, shouting about not getting a touch, pointing back at Caleb on the bench, the word faggot piercing the air.

As he watched the bloke expertly claim the ball, Caleb thought of his father. He’d taught Caleb how to kick. He’d been patient and able. Hold both hands on top, mate, that’s it. Look where you want the ball to go and make sure both hands are out straight, like that. Lean forward, over it. The gruff determination. Caleb felt the sun go down. Soon he was rounded up, sent back to his room. Lying on his bunk again.

The next day Caleb was at breakfast with the others when the governor stood up in front of them. He was a weak-looking man, pudgy around his arms. A weak-looking man unable to stand up to the Cahills. Hard to blame him, really. Still, hard not to hate him either.