When we read, it is sometimes easy to imagine the words have simply materialized on the page. We can lose sight of the author, and if we do catch a glimpse of him or her, we may consider them a dispassionate chronicler of events. This is far from true, and among the handful of authors I know well, there are few who aren’t as moved by their work as any reader. Tears are shed, anger boils and laughter erupts even on the tenth reading.

As I look back on my earlier work with wiser eyes and see my words in the context of what my life was, I can’t help but shake with the sadness of it all, but most of all I see echoes of what happened to my son. I had laid out his suffering without ever consciously intending to do so. But you’re not here for my sorrow.

You want to know about my son.

The child I left behind.

Dear Elliot,

I’m sorry there was no other way. Lord knows I’ve tried to live a different life, but this is the one I’m fated. I hope Mrs Hughes gives you this, and even if she doesn’t, I know there will come a day when you’ll sit down and read it, and all the other letters I shall write you. I intend to send you a letter every week I’m in prison. I want to continue your education. It’s essential, and even though I know you’re angry with me for leaving you, there will come a time when you will turn to my words for guidance, so it is important I set them down. One day you will understand and remember me fondly.

These letters are almost as important for me as they are for you. I have eleven long years stretching ahead of me, time that will pass slowly and painfully without a useful outlet. My words are essential for both of us. Remember that.

I spent two weeks in Stafford Prison after the trial, before being transferred to Long Lartin. It is a bleak place in the middle of green fields of nowhere. They say it is the second most secure prison in Britain, after Belmarsh. There are patrol dogs and high wire fences everywhere, and I am incarcerated with rapists and murderers. I’m afraid of what my future holds here. I know there is cruelty and suffering in store, but I mustn’t dwell on that. I know I will get through it, and while eleven years might seem an eternity, all things pass. All pain fades and sadness wanes. Brighter days will come. I cling to the notion that one day we will see each other again.

And then there’s her.

She came to visit me on my first day. She still doesn’t believe it, but we are connected. A prison officer, a young woman called Anya, took me to the visitors’ room, which is in a satellite building off the main administration block, and I found her waiting for me. Despite everything that’s happened, I still love her, and I hope one day the love I knew she had for me will be rekindled. I long for her to look at me the way she did when we first met, I long for another kiss, but for now she greets me with the suspicion one would reserve for a murderer. There wasn’t any small talk.