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I stared at my name and address on the front of the envelope as it flapped wildly between my fingers, trying to get free. I could feel the edges of the Polaroid picture inside.

What do you think this is?

You’re right that this is a hook. What in God’s name makes you think it’s a good idea to bite?

I reached inside my coat on the other side, and pulled out a second envelope. This one was addressed to Andrew – my reply, already written, stamped and ready to post.

You shouldn’t respond to this. If you’re asking for my advice, then that’s the advice I have for you. Do not respond to this.

The wind sent a breaker of leaves roaring past me, skittering and crashing away towards the old church with the post box outside. Stuffing both hands – and both letters – into my coat pockets, I put my head down and made my way after them.

o

I stood in front of the post box, for two, three, four minutes.

Just put it into the slot. It’s just a letter.

My hand didn’t move.

‘Fucking hell.’

I didn’t want to stand there like an idiot for another five minutes, so I crossed the road, climbed over the old fence and sat myself on the steps of the boarded-up church, Black’s letter in one hand, my reply in the other.