February 12th
The day. The release.
No reporters, only a few cars in the prison car park. I blink, check the date on my phone. The pounding in my chest moves into my throat. Things will be different, I remind myself. Seeing you will be a release for me too. Everything will be better after this.
But it’s 11.32, and still no sign of movement at the door. Perhaps you’re not coming. It’s possible that you committed some misconduct in the past few days and they’re keeping you longer. Or that the police know I’m here and they’re protecting you from me, waiting until I leave before they sneak you out. Glancing at the cameras, and at the lone police car parked near the entrance, I don’t get the feeling of being watched. But then I didn’t get that feeling before, when you were watching me.
If you’re alone, I’ll pull up as you start to walk away. I’ll invite you into the car and you’ll come, won’t you? You owe me that much, at least. It’s hot, even with the windows down, and I need the toilet. But what if I go looking for one and that’s when you appear. I can’t miss you after all this.
Then the side door to the left of the main entrance opens. The same prison guard comes out again, and, like the last time,he’s carrying a bundle. I stay very still as he turns back to the door, holds it open for someone else. The released! I lean forward, holding my breath. A man appears. Tall and thin. Blond hair.
It’s you.
Only it’s not you.
You are taller than this. You are blond as the sun and blue-eyed as the sea. You are proud. You are younger.
This guy is pale, hunched, smaller. His hair is long and thin, in a ponytail, scraggly. This guy has a scruffy beard, and his muscles are wasted. His stomach is firm, but not rock, beneath your T-shirt.
YourT-shirt.
The T-shirt you wore that last day in the desert. What’s it doing here? The words on the front sayTelder Station.I used to think those words might be a clue of where we were, a clue I’d need when I escaped.
Your T-shirt on this guy.
But this isn’t Ty. This isn’t you. I won’t let it be.
Only it is, isn’t it?
You’ve split in two,
like me.
You are who you were, and you are also this.
But I am not scared of you like this. I feel almost…sorry… for you.
The prison guard hands over the bundle in the same careless movement he made with the other man, then goes back through the side door, slams it. And you are left alone. Nobody comes to meet you. There is no reporter taking a picture or thrusting a microphone into your face. It is only you. The whole world has shifted, and only I know.
I should be making my move.
You don’t look around, not up to see the birds, or across the forecourt to watch the old man gum trees, or even up to me. You just stuff the bundle into a plastic bag you take from your pocket and walk away. Only me and the birds see. As you go, slowly and quietly, it’s me I want to cut into now, to punish myself for believing a fantasy.
This isn’t fair; it’s not what I deserve.
Is this my last view of you, my kidnapper? The end of it—of you, of us? I want to grab you and shout,No!This isn’t what I need.
But this is a release, if I let it be.
Could I let it be?
I bite the steering wheel in a silent scream, and watch you disappear, walking down the long, eucalyptus-lined driveway, until I can’t even see your shadow on the concrete. I am hollow. I can’t move. I will be stuck in this car park forever, until Mum comes to fetch me, and I will sob like a child.
You didn’t even look at me.
I dig my fingernails so hard into the steering wheel they break open a seam. I pick it open further, then lean my head down and cry.
I don’t follow you. I can’t.