The rest of the week drags. Mum’s worried about me. I keep seeing it in the way she looks across at me when we’re at the dinner table; then I hear her whispering to Dad when I make my way up the stairs to bed. I’ve no idea what she thinks is going on with me. There’s no way she could’ve guessed about the prison visit; I’ve only told Callum and he wouldn’t have said anything. Not yet. I’m sure, if he’d told his parents, they would’ve been straight on the phone to mine. There’s no way he’d go behind my back like that; I think back to all the times I’ve covered for him. His warning comes back to me about how he said he’ll have to tell my parents if he feels something is wrong, if I don’t get in contact with him. I’ve told him I’ll text him when I get to the prison, when the visit is finished, and when I’m home.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. There are no new messages. Jeremiah texted me last night telling me he’d pick me up at ten thirty. That’s fifteen minutes away; it’ll take me ten minutes to walk up to the top of the road. I’ve barely slept, in the end I ended up getting out of bed at 3 a.m. and went downstairs to make myself a hot milk; something Mum used to always make me whenever I got anxious, and anxiety really plagued me when I was a kid.

What am I going to say to Harvey? It’s been a conversation I’ve imagined inside my head for years, but there were times when I was certain I would never get the chance to speak to him. I bite down hard on my lower lip, so hard that within a few seconds the sharp metallic taste of blood pools in my mouth. The thought I’m actually going to be seeing him today, fills me with dread. What’s he going to be like? How is he going to respond to my questions?

Breezing into the hallway, I snatch up my house keys from the hallway table, and leave. It’s warm today, the forecast’s actually been predicting that temperatures will rise above twenty degrees this weekend. I can’t believe it’s nearly been a week since my party and since I first met Jeremiah.

The pub comes into view as I jog up the street. A couple of cyclists are taking a breather outside; a roar of laughter from one of them reaches my ears, I look away from them, hoping they won’t spot me heading towards them. I don’t think they’re locals. Jeremiah’s here. I stop. I recognise the car from the other day. Jeremiah’s spotted me. Should I be doing this? I push the thought out of my head and make my way further up the road. I can’t start letting doubts creep into my mind now. Jeremiah gets out. I frown, he’s wearing the same clothes I saw him in the other day. I brush a branch snaking down from a tree to my right out of my way.

‘I was starting to think you might choose not to come,’ he says, smiling at me.

‘I would’ve texted you if I’d thought that.’

I open the passenger door and slide in; a blast of cool air hits me from the air conditioning. There’s no music playing in the car; Jeremiah climbs back into the driver’s seat and switches the car on. He buckles in his seat belt and pulls the car out on the road. I glance back up the street, thinking of Mum and Dad blissfully unaware of what’s going on. They have no idea where I’m going. I rub my sweaty palms together. If this does go wrong, or if I’ve made some terrible mistake, this could be the last view I get of my home. I want to believe that Jeremiah’s a decent man, that he’s doing this to help me, but a tiny nugget of doubt, planted by Callum, builds in my mind.

‘Are you OK?’ Jeremiah asks.

I switch my gaze back to him, and do my best to smile. ‘Yes, fine. Just feeling a bit nervous. Have you . . . have you ever seen my brother in prison?’

He nods, flicking on the indicator as we get to the junction. A white Mercedes speeds past us, Dad always moans everyone travels far too fast down this road. ‘Yes, a few times. I pop round to see him every now and again to see how he’s doing.’  

If he’s seen other people, why has he refused to see me?

‘How's he doing?’ I ask, frowning. God what sort of a question is that, how’s he doing? In my head I picture him a broken man, guilt ridden by what he did to our family, and for making my life a living hell.

‘He’s been OK, as well as you can expect, he’s looking forward to seeing you.’

I glance out of the window. ‘I should hate him for what he did to my family. He took something from me I’ll never be able to get back, but . . .’

‘But part of you mustn’t.’

I shake my head. ‘You have no idea what it’s been like for me. Have you got any brothers or sisters?’

Jeremiah keeps his focus on the road ahead. ‘No, I don’t,’ Jeremiah says. I frown; there was something very final in the way he said that, like it’s something he couldn’t care less about. ‘But I’m part of a much larger family now, that’s what matters.’

‘Well, how can you imagine what this must feel like then?’ I say, biting down hard on my teeth. ‘God, I have no idea what I’m even going to say to Harvey, or how I’ll even react when I do see him.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I felt exactly the same way when I first saw him after it . . . it happened. You’ll know what to say in the end,’ Jeremiah says. Was there a slight hint of nervousness in his voice?

‘When was the first time you visited my brother?’ I ask, relaxing a little more into my seat.

‘A short while after he did it. That was when he was back in a young offender’s institution. He moved to Belmarsh when he was eighteen, as I’m sure you know. You do know he’s refused parole a couple of times already, don’t you?’

I stare at him. ‘Has he? Why?’

‘Perhaps Harvey will tell you why.’

We sit for the rest of the journey in silence. I must’ve dozed off because when I’m at last, jerked awake, we’re pulling into the prison car park. I gaze out at the ordinary, red brick building. My brother is inside there now. Goosebumps erupt on my skin. I pull out my phone as Jerimiah parks up, and text Callum to say we’ve arrived, I shove it back into my pocket. I don’t know what Jeremiah would say if he knew I was texting him. He told me not to tell my parents about the visit, but he didn’t say anything about not telling Callum, and of course he knows about Callum, he met him at the pub. Surely it would’ve crossed his mind that I might speak to Callum about it.

We climb out of the car. A warm breeze whips through my hair.

‘You ready?’ Jeremiah asks.

We enter the building and immediately I want something to fan myself. Some of the guards have sweat patches under their arms, a fan on full blast is sitting on someone’s desk and I will for it to turn round and face me. God, it must be unbearable having to work in here. I pass my phone over to be scanned through the machine, and pass through the bleepers, as I’ve always called them. The guards look me up and down, as if they’re trying to work out who I am. I’ve always felt conscious going through airport security, like I might be guilty of something, even though I’m not.  Do they know who I am? Do they know who I’m here to see? I keep my head down, and follow Jeremiah. He’s been here before, he knows what to do.

We enter a wide room with sets of tables and chairs. The back of my neck prickles. This is the moment I’ve been waiting years for. It doesn’t feel real. Guards patrol the perimeter of the room, I keep my focus on the floor as we move closer to a table and sit down. My knees are jittering. It would be better if they could have a window open in here. Now I want to get out, I want to go.

There’s a buzzing sound and a stream of people stroll through into the room. God, which one is my brother? The only photo I’ve ever seen of him was from when he was fourteen. It’s hard to believe he’s in his early thirties now, it makes me think on all the time together we’ve missed: birthdays, family holidays, Christmases. Because of his age, it meant his name wasn’t released by the police, although that didn’t stop the press from finding out. It didn’t take them long; within weeks there were big double page spreads about him. The police wouldn’t confirm if it was him, but they didn’t deny it either.