'Not exactly,' said Joseph.

Although this was a bit like a blind date, he reflected as he sat opposite the starchy woman at the employment agency. He'd finally had enough of being cold, and had paid a visit to a charity shop. Now he was bundled into a long black overcoat and paisley scarf, both with that charity-shop smell.

The starchy woman was fiftyish, greyish and bored. 'Snowing again out there?' she asked absently as they both took seats.

'Thinking about it.'

She was reading through the form he'd just filled in. 'Now, Mr Scott . . .' Her brow furrowed in mild surprise. 'Degree in history, MA in European history, PGCE, secondary school teacher for um, eleven years. Oh.' She blinked. 'You were head of department at Tetlow High? I know people who've moved house to get their children in there. That's impressive.'

'Also irrelevant.'

'I'm sorry, but . . . why are you here? Surely you have better channels? Education sector magazines, websites, specialist agencies-the broadsheets have employment sections. Really, this isn't the right agency for you at all.'

'Keep reading.'

She obeyed, her eyes skimming down the page. 'Then a gap, I see. Three years. No employment at all during that time?'

'Not really.'

'Any reason?'

'Keep going.'

She turned the sheet, hunching over as she read. It was several seconds before she looked up and met his gaze.

'I don't think I'm going to be top candidate for a teaching post, do you?' Joseph's voice was even. 'School boards might run a little shy of people with convictions for manslaughter. Makes the parents jumpy.'

He saw her eyes flicker towards the door, as though measuring how fast she could get to it. Then she seemed to pull herself together, grabbing her computer mouse and squinting at the screen.

'Um . . .' She cleared her throat. 'Yes, I think we can assume that positions involving work with children are definitely closed to you.'

'Forever,' said Joseph.

'Probably. And I don't think you'll get far applying for bartending work, anything involving alcohol or vulnerable people-people at all, in fact. So caring for the elderly is out . . . ditto security . . . Um, let's see what we've got.'

Joseph waited as she clicked, sighed, and clicked again. Eventually she wrote a couple of notes on her pad. 'Your qualifications don't count for much in this economic climate, especially not with that particular blot on your copybook. All I've got at the moment is a window-cleaning firm. They have a high turnover so they might give you a go.'

'Offices?'

'And schools. Including . . .' She checked her screen. 'Oh. Perhaps not, after all.'

'Including Tetlow High.'

She nodded, watching him. She seemed fascinated.

'I really appreciate your help,' said Joseph, pressing both hands on the table as he got to his feet, 'but I think that gazing through the window at my old swivel chair would probably finish me off.'

She saw him to the street door. 'Good luck,' she said as she opened it. 'Really, I mean that. Good luck.'

Joseph paused on the threshold. 'I never thought I'd miss the place.'

'Tetlow High?'

'Armley Jail. Three days ago, I knew who I was. I knew what was going to happen every second of every day. They had me teaching literacy. I was useful. I was even respected. I actually had a positive impact on men's lives.'

A chill seeped into the office, laden with exhaust fumes. The girl on the front desk answered the phone.

Joseph smiled ruefully. 'Not useful out here, am I?'

He bought coffee and found a quiet seat in the window of a proper greasy caff-one of many institutions he'd been surprised to find himself missing over the past three years, with its moulded plastic seats and air permeated by the fug of fat frying. The place was heaving with people in woollen hats and anoraks; a haven from the cheerlessness of the street. Outside, snow had turned to sleet and then to rain. The odds on a white Christmas had just lengthened.

Sitting unnoticed in the crowd, Joseph took off his coat and scarf before pulling a phone from his pocket. It had been held in storage by the prison authorities and looked comically clunky compared to the slim-line gadgets he saw around him. He had a call to make, and he was dreading it.

He tried her mobile number first, but there was no answer. Scrolling through his contacts, he found Marie work. He pressed call and waited, staring through the steamed-up window at the road. Three workmen in shiny wet-weather jackets were lifting a manhole cover.

On the eighth ring, someone answered. It wasn't Marie. Far too gentle.

'Women's refuge?'

'Hi.' Joseph's throat seemed cluttered. He had to clear it. 'Um, is Marie Scott still the manager there?'

A distinct hesitation. Then the soft voice again. 'I'm sorry, but would you mind telling me the nature of your call?'

I'm calling because I've got nobody else. 'I'm her brother,' he said. 'Joseph Scott.'

'You're who?'

He repeated his name patiently. This time there was an even longer pause, with scandalised whispers in the background. Joseph could imagine the effect of his name uttered in a women's refuge. He was, after all, the poster boy for everything they most reviled. He was a man who killed women.

In the end he caught a muffled 'Oh, for God's sake.' This was followed by a thud, as though the phone had been knocked against something; then a stronger voice.

'Joe?'

Joseph's lips curved wistfully. Ah, now. Here was his sister, her speech still rich with the music of Tyneside. She'd always called him Joe, somehow managing to give the name more than one syllable.

'Hi.' He closed his eyes. 'It's me.'

She sounded impatient. 'So I gather. You're out, then.'

'Yes. I'm out . . . Um, how are you?'

'I'm fine.'

'That's good.'

'What d'you want?'

I want you to forgive. I want you to love me again.

'I don't know,' he said, despising the pleading jocularity in his own voice. 'I just thought I'd get in touch, see how you're doing. Maybe I could come up and visit you?'

'Have you dealt with your anger issues?'

'I don't think I really have a problem with anger.'

'Ha!' He'd forgotten that mirthless bark. 'Have you not? I very much doubt whether Zoe would agree.'

'Come on. You've known me all my life. You, of all people, know who and what I am.'

'No, Joe. I don't know who you are.'

He imagined her in the kitchen of the refuge, perhaps carrying out the bin bags or counselling some downtrodden girl with a miserable baby; he could picture his sister's careworn face and frizzy hair. He longed to reach out to her down the line. 'Please, sis. Nobody hates me more than I do myself.'

'I doubt that.'

'What do you want me to do-crawl away and die?'

Her accent broadened. 'I'm surprised you can joke about death, in view of your history.'

'You know I'm not a monster. Was I a budding psycho as a child? No. Did I fry ants under a magnifying glass, or kick our cat? No. Did I pull girls' pigtails? Never, as far as I recall, though I do remember getting myself beaten up savagely that time Matthew Brown called you a fat slag and I stood up for you even though I was half his size. Now, Matty Brown actually was a bully. And then there was Jared, who-'

'Never mind all that. I'll admit you didn't display any of the classic signs. But you've made up for that royally.'

The trio of workmen were sliding barriers around their open manhole.

'Please,' begged Joseph. 'If you could just take the time to hear my side-'

'Oh, I've heard your side of the story, Joe. I went along to your sentencing, and I sat there open-bloody-mouthed as I listened to what that poor female barrister had to say on your behalf. I hope they paid her lavishly for the public humiliation. I heard what you told your probation officer. I heard an awful lot of snivelling about life with Zoe, I heard shitloads of self-justification and self-pity. It's Zoe's side of the story we never heard! The judge might have been taken in but, believe me, I wasn't. I've come across a thousand men exactly like you, violent men who think their women deserve everything they get. So let me tell you this, Joseph Scott: until you take responsibility and accept it was entirely your fault-not Zoe's, not Hannah's, not Frederick's-until then, you needn't even bother applying for membership of the human race, so far as I'm concerned.'

'Look, Marie-'

'Oh, piss off.' A click, then a continuous tone. As rejections go, this one was pretty unequivocal.

Even the rain spat in his face as he stepped into the street. Passing cars seemed to scream, so that he actually ducked and pressed his hands to his ears. The pavement was coated in de-icing grit. It crunched under his feet.

A bus lumbered around the workmen's barrier. The sign on its broad crimson forehead read york. When it pulled ponderously into a stop and disgorged a mother with a pushchair, Joseph began to sprint down the gritty pavement.

Just a glimpse, he told himself as he found a seat; just one sight of his beautiful daughter. He'd make sure he wasn't spotted this time.

The bus stopped at every village on the way to York and became mired in traffic on the inner ring road. Joseph jumped off and ran the last half-mile, arriving gasping at the school gates with three minutes to spare. He knew it was the right place, because he'd used Akash's computer to search for Scarlet's name and found her among other award winners on a school website. Someone had left a property magazine on the bench outside the gates; he sat down and pretended to be absorbed in a selection of three-bedroomed semis in Tadcaster.

When the school bell rang, it seemed to be hooked up to an electrical circuit that ran right through his body. He jerked to his feet. A door banged, followed by the thunder of five hundred pairs of shoes as girls began to stampede down a path and through the gates. Joseph forced himself to sit down again. Any minute now. He hadn't clapped eyes on Scarlet since she was ten, but he'd know her anywhere: a skinny pixie with long legs and a wild mane of reddish hair. She used to sit on his lap and wrap thin arms around his neck. Lovely Daddy, she used to say, when she wanted to get around him. Dad-ee. She'd smack kisses onto his nose, and pat his cheek with her palm. He'd always given in.

The pupils were a spring tide, hugging and texting and gossiping and promising to phone. Some pushed bicycles, others ran for buses. Traffic was gridlocked as parents in cars tried to inch closer. Gradually, though, the tide slowed to a steady stream, then to a trickle. By three thirty the street was quiet. The Minster bells began to ring.

Joseph leaned forward to stare at the pavement, resting his elbows on his knees and his mouth in his hands. He'd missed her. She must have walked right past. He hadn't even recognised his own daughter-what kind of a father was he? Useless. He was useless, and he needn't bother applying for membership of the human race so far as Marie was concerned. He shut his eyes.

It was dusk when he raised his head. A small sound had disturbed him. Not five yards away, frozen in mid-stride and staring at him in horrified fascination, stood a ghost.

Six.

Scarlet Oh my God. I honestly thought my heart was going to smash through my ribs and go bouncing along the pavement like a rubber ball.

I was supposed to have violin on Monday, but the lesson got cancelled. Violin bitch was ill. I hoped it was something really serious, like cholera. Music teachers get shirty if you don't turn up for your lesson, but they don't practise what they preach. To add insult to injury, I'd waited nearly twenty minutes before anyone bothered to tell me. I normally walk home with a sixth-former called Rhiannon on Mondays. She lives in Faith Lane, and has judo. So I waved to her through the door of the gym, and set off alone.

Evening was falling already. The streetlights had come on, and the Minster bell ringers were practising when I walked past the tennis courts and out through the school gates. I love the feeling of a winter afternoon, when it's frosty and clear and the sky turns mauve as day slides into night. There's nowhere more Christmassy than York in winter. It's like a postcard come alive: lights in the old shops, and narrow streets, and the smell of roasting chestnuts from the man with his cart. The air felt like icy glass, as though it might shatter.

There were the usual lost tourists wandering around, talking in French or German or Cantonese. A party of choristers from the Minster school passed in a crocodile, on their way to Evensong. I knew some of the older ones because our two schools do stuff together. They're great singers but, believe me, they're not as angelic as they look. Especially Zac. He's hot and he knows it: tall and blond. He wolf-whistled quietly. I put up a finger, but I couldn't help smiling.

The pavement's very wide just there. Once the boys had gone I began to play hopscotch along the paving stones. Not so that anyone would notice; I was playing it in my head. Suddenly I got this feeling that there was something absolutely crucial nearby, something I had to see. So I stopped counting stones and looked around.

There's a bench beside the pavement, where the lost tourists stop to peer at their maps. A man was sitting on this bench. He didn't look like a tourist. He was wearing a black overcoat that fell almost to his ankles, and a satiny scarf, and he had a lot of dark hair falling across his face. His mouth was pressed into his hands and his eyes were closed. I couldn't stop staring. It wasn't that I recognised him; it was just that this person seemed really, really important.

Then his eyes opened. He looked straight at me, and I was as scared as I've ever been since the day Mum died. In fact, it was as though Mum was dying all over again. I couldn't scream. I couldn't even breathe. It seemed as though I was going to catch on fire, the way he was staring with those crazy eyes.

Then he whispered something: Zoe.

That did it. I was running even before I'd told my legs to run. I rocketed down a snickelway that I often use as a shortcut, and I was sure I could hear his footsteps thudding along behind me. I didn't stop running until I was in the middle of town, among shops and bright lights. I was gasping for breath as I dodged between the Christmas market stalls and shot down Coppergate. I looked back to see if he'd followed, and I'm sure I glimpsed that long coat in the crowd. I bumped into lots of people on the narrow pavement across the bridge, and kept having to say sorry. A really ugly woman wagged her finger and told me to watch where I was going, but I didn't even answer. I just needed to be home.

The scariest part was Faith Lane. It was very dark there, under the city wall. I was afraid he might have overtaken me somehow and be lying in wait. I knew it was stupid, but I started thinking perhaps he planned to kidnap me and smuggle me away. I'd just disappear. Children do disappear. I mean, what was he doing waiting outside my school?

It wasn't until I opened our front door, called out and heard Gramps reply, that I felt even half safe. I started to sniffle with fright, so I charged straight upstairs to my room. Flotsam and Jetsam were curled on my rug in a snowy heap of softness. Two pairs of doll-blue eyes looked up at me as I rushed in. Flotsam yawned, and Jetsam squeaked a contented 'hello'. Mum's cats. I didn't stop to stroke them, though. I pushed a wedge against my bedroom door, rolled into bed and pulled the duvet over my head.

The music was playing in my head; the music that means death is coming. It has surround sound and built-in fear, and it always makes me want to scream. The man with a very deep voice was singing, though I can never quite make out the words or even the tune. Instead of words or a tune, his singing brings me terror.

Everything had gone terribly wrong. The air was about to explode. Mum was laughing too much, and Theo ran to hide behind the sofa. Dad was shouting: Jesus Christ, Zoe, I can't go on.

I didn't know why he hit her. I didn't know why. I didn't know why. I screamed and he hit her again and she just went down, really fast and really hard. There was a horrible clunking sound. That was the sound of my mum dying. And the man kept on singing.

Later, once the ambulance had come, a policewoman took us children around to a neighbour's house. The neighbour told us they'd taken Dad away and he'd never trouble us again. Those were her exact words, as she squinted out from behind her lace curtains at the police cars in the road: Don't you worry. He'll never trouble you again.

'But he'll be coming to collect us soon, won't he?' I asked her.

She dropped the lace and went to make the policewoman a cup of tea.