‘Jamie,’ she says, with a tut (as if she is in any position to upbraid me!).

I hold her gaze and search for shame, self-reproach, anything real. ‘Why are we doing this, Melia? And don’t give me that crap about victims’ families because I don’t believe it for a second.’

‘I know you don’t.’ She checks her volume, casts a glance towards the guard. We are speaking as quietly as possible without being inaudible, we conspirators of old. ‘I came because I hoped we could . . .’

She can’t say it, it seems, but I see it in her eyes: a plea for forgiveness. And a plea with the faintest eroticism to it, like she is seducing a priest. It’s still a game to her, a game to be won.

Well, I’m not playing. I pluck the first thing that comes into my head: ‘You heard about Clare and Steve, did you?’

A flicker of dismay suggests she had hoped to tell me that news. ‘I heard, yes. They met at our wedding, of course.’ She glances about her then, her eye lingering on the drab furnishings and the locked doors. A faint flinch crosses her face and I sense she is considering the limitations of prison life for the first time. No wine, no sex, no fun. No dancing by the river in the afternoon sun with friends and lovers.

I wonder who she’s sleeping with now. It will be a different sort of worship, a different balance of power, now she has money.

‘Must be upsetting for you,’ she suggests.

‘Not at all, good for them,’ I say. ‘Though I always thought Steve might get together with Gretchen.’

She shrugs, displeased with that suggestion.

‘What? I’m not allowed to mention her? Obviously it came out in court, but did you know at the time that Kit was shagging her? Was that why you did it? It wasn’t just the money, was it? Wasn’t it enough that you were doing the same yourself?’ It has been obvious to me for some time that this has been a more traditional story than I credited it; I simply failed to spot its classic theme in time. Sexual jealousy. The jury bought it as a motive, they just weren’t permitted to see whose jealousy it was.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Jamie.’ Melia speaks with the degree of disappointment that might meet the discovery of a chipped fingernail, but I am as familiar with her body as anyone ever will be and I spot the stretch in the tendons of her neck when she is angry, the thrust of her jaw. Those amber eyes seethe and brighten and I feel a rush of pleasure that I still have an effect on her.

‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about them,’ she says. ‘I want to talk about us.’

I snort. ‘What is there to talk about?’

‘Just that . . .’ She bites her lower lip, touches the end of her pretty little nose with her fingertips, as if to check her assets are still intact. ‘I want you to know that I’ll still be here. Later.’

‘Later?’ I can’t believe I’m hearing her correctly. She’s put me in jail, she’s destroyed my life, and she wants me to still want her: that’s narcissism, that’s Melia. ‘You remember I got a fifteen-year sentence? Fourteen still to go? You want to put a date in the diary for a drink? No, thank you.’ The ‘no’s are flowing freely today. If only I’d said no to her more often before. ‘If you’re running out of buddies out there in the free world, what about Parry and Merchison? Oh, hang on, they’re not their real names. I know it’s Simon Whiting, not Ian Parry, but you’re going to have to help me out on the other one.’

There’s a splash of shock in her eyes and she lifts her chin. I’ve rejected her and now she’ll want to punish me. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand who you’re talking about? Oh, yes, your imaginary friends. Do you know how desperate you sounded when you tried to talk about them in court? People were embarrassed, even your own lawyers.’

‘Bullshit.’ I’ve broken the rules and sworn, but, helpfully, a couple of tables away a prisoner and his visitor have raised their voices in sudden argument and the staff’s attention is diverted from us, including that of our designated guard. I take advantage of the interlude to say the only thing I truly want to say in this meeting: ‘You’re a cunt, Melia. And don’t think Kit didn’t know that too. He probably thought he’d let you do the hard work and then take his half and be on his way. No wonder he was always off his head, staying out all night. He should’ve left you for Gretchen at the first opportunity – she’s worth a thousand of you.’ All of this is said in a gritted, cheerful tone so as not to alert the guard to the presence of anger. Anger pure as rapture. ‘Money is never going to buy you a soul, so don’t think it will.’

Outrage transforms her face, turns it ugly. The tears come slowly, seeming to suspend. A single facial convulsion and they’ll fall. It makes me remember other tears, other convulsions. In bed, the way she screamed and groaned, right from the first time, in the apartment with the planes flying in, the view of the cable cars, twinkling like charms on a chain.

‘I want to go now,’ she says, blinking, resetting her beauty. ‘This was a mistake.’ She signals to the guard, who summons our volunteer. The volunteer reminds me that the visit has been a gesture of forgiveness on the part of the victim’s family, an act of courage.

Shame on you, Jamie.

Melia is on her feet, casting about, trying to remember which door she came in. I’m not sure how many doors there are between here and the outside, it is probably in double figures, but what is certain is that every key will turn in her favour until she gets back to the visitor centre to retrieve her phone, find her car, drive away. Or maybe she’ll walk to the train station with the other sorry visitors, tense with the strain of their day’s errand, the vapours of incarceration rising from their clothes.

Then I hear the volunteer say to her, ‘We’ll just let them know you’re leaving earlier than planned and they’ll arrange for someone to drive you back to the pier.’

The pier? Without thinking, I call out: ‘Melia? Did you get the river bus here?’

She spins, responding instinctually to my urgency. ‘Yes. I was in town and I saw there was one due and I . . .’ As she pauses, the volunteer signals to the guard to wait. A raised finger, one minute. ‘I realized I’d never taken it and I wanted to see what it was like. I wanted to picture you and Kit. Before . . . before everything.’

As we stare at each other, the guard at my side tipping closer, poised to remove me, something honest and sorrowful passes between us, something neither of us could have planned: love. Not for each other, but for you.

For you, Kit.

*

There is an unscheduled spring in my step as I leave the visits hall. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that kind of ending, there’s no plot twist seeded, no comeuppance for the devil yet to be delivered – at least not by my hand. What there is is acceptance.

I accept that just because Melia should be behind bars and isn’t doesn’t mean I’m not right where I deserve to be.

I accept that just because friends of hers lied about their collusion with her doesn’t mean I should be excused mine.

I accept that when I’m released, years from now, there’ll be no one at the gate. I’ll be alone in my future, every step, every misstep, my own.