The landing was dark. He stood for a moment while his eyes adjusted to it. The walls were drab and damp. He stared at the dingy paintwork on the door， trying hard to swallow the saliva collecting in the well of his mouth. Fingers trembled slightly as he fumbled deep into his trouser pockets for the key. He paused before placing the key in the lock， afraid to enter the flat. She wouldn’t be there. On the last visit she’d told him so. But then she’d said exactly the same before his last release. He leaned against the dark paneling and listened. Afraid to hear only silence—which was precisely all he did hear.
　　 The key turned easily and the door opened a few feet. It was dark inside. He took a well-aimed flick at the familiar switch and the sudden glare stung his eyes. There was nothing to see—no picture， no furniture， no Maisie.
　　 He walked through the flat as though expecting someone to leap out and wrap him in warm， welcoming arms， like the last time—Maisie’s warm， welcoming arms. But he was dreaming. Back in hallway there was an old kitchen stool， forlorn and forgotten， leaning against the wall. He sat down shakily and looked around.
　　 Why hadn’t she believed him？ He’d mean every word when he’d said that this was the last time. God！ He’d had two years to stew on it—hadn’t he？ She’d looked back at him through hurt eyes. Eyes etched with concern and worry. Her words came back to him clearly. “Why should I believe you， Tom？ It’s all been said before. How much waiting do you think I can take？ I’d like a bit of security for a change， but more than that—I’d like to have a husband.”
　　 On the top of the small square table separating them， he had gripped her hands， hard. Pleaded with her. Tears had begun to trickle down her face. She’d grabbed her bag and backed away from him. Tom had started after her， only to be restrained by one of the guards. “C’mon Tom，” the guard urged. “No sense in losing remission. She’ll be waiting. She’s a good’n—I can tell. You see boy， there are women and women…”
　　 But she was right. He had said it all before. Why should she believe him now？ He’d been inside for two years this time and things change after two years. People change.
　　 He reached inside his pocket for cigarettes. The packet was empty. He crushed it between both hands and watched it drop to the floor.
　　 “Want a fag， mister？” Tom jerked round. A young， mucky-faced boy was staring at him from the door， curiously. “Why， you got some？” Tom asked. The boy removed a crumpled packet from his jacket and offered one. Tom accepted eagerly. 　　“You been inside， haven’t you？” Tom stared at his visitor in amazement. “You cheeky young…”
　　Before he could think of an answer the boy disappeared with a hasty： “Wait’ere a minute—I wanna show you something.”
　　 Tom wandered back into what had been the living room. He saw the faded wallpaper with familiar marks in the shape of ornaments that once were his possessions—his and Maisie’s. The mirror， the brass clock that never did work for more than half a day at a time. The chipped tile on the fire-surround—he’d always meant to replace it. Suddenly he heard a sound behind him. His visitor was back.
　　 “For a minute I thought you’d gone.” The boy resumed his crouching position and continued the previous conversation as though it had never been interrupted.  “What’s it like inside？”
　　Tom was feeling a bit browned off by the topic. “What’s it to you？”
　　“I got my reasons.”
　　Tom wagged a finger at him. “Ummh， well maybe I’ve got mine for keeping quiet. What do you think of that？”
　　The boy put his head on one side and squinted. “Not a lot—considerin’ you’re smoking my fag.”
　　 Tom laughed for the first time in a week. “All right then—I suppose for a fag you deserve some kind of answer.” Elbows on knees and face in hands the boy concentrated.
　　Tom thought for a minute， then said： “It’s lonely. Prison is the loneliest place on earth—that’s the thing that really hurts.”
　　“Gosh—that’s awful.” The boy looked very sad and disappeared into his own thoughts. Tom interrupted. “Why are you so interested in the subject—are you in trouble？”
　　 The boy ignored him and carried on staring into space. Tom asked： “Anyway， how come you know all about me？”
　　The boy stood up. “Well you’re Tom Jarvis， aren’t you？ Used to live here—didn’t you？”
　　“That’s right. How do you know？”
　　“Cos I live over the road and you went to prison same day as my dad.” Not quite the recognition Tom had wanted—but it answered a lot of questions.
　　 “He’s got another two years， my dad，” the boy added. Then he whipped out a well-creased photograph and thrust it at Tom.
　　“That’s him—that’s my dad.” Tom realized that he was highly privileged.
　　“What did he do get himself nicked？”
　　“Pinched a van.”
　　Tom frowned. “Sentence seems a bit strong for nicking a van.”
　　The boy looked up at him and smiled. “Yeah—well it had a bank guard and a month’s wages in it at the time， didn’t it？”