You know, I never told anyone exactly what happened on our last night, about where we were. Not even Jodie. That pool is ours. The time we spent there is for us alone. I will never tell anyone.
I never spoke about the cave at the bottom of the pool, either. If the prosecution knew about it, they would search it. And I don’t want anyone to go searching there, ever. Some secrets are just for us. Just for me.
‘Here we go then.’ The guard holds open my cell door.
‘Thank you.’
Back in my cell, the usual stash of mail is waiting for me. Letters of support mostly. Some love letters too. And some hate letters. You must have got a whole heap, I realise now; apparently men in prison get more than women. What is it with people and their obsession with prisoners? Don’t people outside have lives of their own?
I flip through the envelopes and pause at a postcard—nothing written on it apart from my address here in the prison. The postmark is from Derby, up past Broome, far north. It can’t be you, it’s not your writing.
I study the picture of the beach on the front. Sand, creamy as churned butter, fire-red rocks and a turbulent sea. Probably from some nutter, having a laugh. You’d be surprised, the kinds of letters I get. Or maybe you wouldn’t be.
I keep the card, pin it up beside my bed. It could be useful if the verdict doesn’t go my way.