The foreman looked over at the men in the dock with barely concealed disdain. ‘Guilty,’ he said.

Wozza raised his fist and pointed it at me. ‘Fist bump.’

I grinned and bumped my fist against his.

‘Ow,’ he said.

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

THERAPY JOURNAL. PRIVATE PROPERTY OF DAWN DENHOLM.

Wednesday 24 September

My uni counsellor suggested narrative therapy. Of course, she only knows half the truth, so I imagine she will only be able to half-help me. She suggested writing in second person. She had to explain what that was. I remembered first person—I—and third person—they—from school. Second person, she said, was ‘you’. It puts the reader in your shoes, she said, so they can feel what you feel. This resonated with me because that’s all I’ve ever wanted—for the world to know how I feel. So, here’s today’s writing challenge.

Imagine a glow coming from an old bakelite lampshade. It is the same yellow as a smoker’s fingers. You prefer dimness to light. It matches your mood. Normally, you play soft music or put something mindless on the television, but tonight you’re agitated. Your nightly vigils are taking a toll. Whenever you can slip away, you watch them. In dark corners at the pub, in car parks, on the cliffs, and tonight from the shadows at the town meeting. It makes your breathing ragged to hear Mr Fucking Big Man Mayor talk about how much men matter—translation: how much you don’t, how much none of you do. The only voice of reason was the police detective who spoke. But one voice among so many isn’t enough.

You sip hot coffee, warming your hands against the mug as you sit at your kitchen table, equipment at the ready. First, you take your penicillin capsule and swallow it with coffee.

Your bitter pill.

You knew what it was before the symptoms really flared up. An out-of-town doctor and a genital swab confirmed your fears. Syphilis. When you call for your results, you barely have time to hang up the phone before you vomit, violently, where you stand, in the middle of your kitchen. The lowest point in your entire life is the ten minutes afterwards, on your hands and knees, scrubbing the mess into a bucket of greasy water, the acid fumes adding to your snot and tears of humiliation.

They had come for you twice.