She wondered what he meant. Heather had dressed down, in jeans, a black turtleneck jumper and sneakers. It was astonishing to her that he could think she looked fancy. Maybe it was just his trademark way of insulting her without actually insulting her.

‘Look at you,’ she replied neutrally, sitting down.

She hadn’t contacted her father since the night he killed her mother. She’d been living in Melbourne for a few years by then, and hadn’t seen either of them for months. In fact, the last time she’d seen her mum, she’d been drinking on the floor of the bathroom. Not wine anymore; she’d moved on to gin. Her dad had been the same. Heather (and her mother, clearly) had given up hoping that things would ever be different. ‘It’s just your father,’ she would say, when Heather asked her about it. ‘He just gets funny sometimes.’ So when Heather received the 3 am phone call to tell her that her mother had died by strangulation, she didn’t feel shock. Why should she? Her father had been promising he’d do it for years.

For a while, she thought she might have to go to court to give evidence, but in the end she didn’t have to. So, she hadn’t gone to court, she hadn’t gone to the prison, hadn’t even picked up the phone. As far as she was concerned, it was convenient that her father was locked up – she wanted to leave that part of her life behind. If only that had been possible.

‘I was surprised to hear you were visiting,’ he said.

‘Not as surprised as me.’

He laughed at this heartily, even as Heather remained stony-faced.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ he asked, extending his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankle. He sounded chipper, upbeat. As if, by visiting, she’d finally cracked, just as he’d always known she would.

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ she said, since they didn’t have time to waste. They had twelve minutes from start to finish; the guards had been very specific about that. No time for getting reacquainted.

That was fine by Heather. Fine by her dad too, it seemed. ‘Shoot.’

‘Why did you beat Mum?’

‘Ah.’ He smiled. ‘So it’s one of those visits.’

Heather felt the first tingles of impending rage.

‘I didn’t know you were such a cliché, Heather. I thought you were more interesting than that. Been to see a therapist, have you? They said you needed to confront me? I think that’s wise. I was telling your mother for years you needed therapy.’

Heather snorted. ‘Yes. Because of you!’

‘Yes, well, maybe you’re right,’ he agreed, spitting on the floor.

Heather stared at him. ‘Were you always this vile?’

He grinned, catching the eye of another inmate and offering him an eyeroll. Heather wondered what she was doing here. Then she remembered.

‘I am writing an article about abusive relationships,’ she said, as she’d planned. She knew her dad would like that; he enjoyed notoriety. ‘You won’t be surprised to hear that you feature quite heavily.’