I give Betsy a call, but she's not in. Now, I could go round there if I want, cause I've got a key. I'm more or less living there until I get settled. Instead, I'm thinking, well it's a Saturday night isn't it? Let's do the town, just like the old days, me and my shadow working the clubs and playing the chances. I have a pretty good time, meet up with some of the old guys, get drunk. Someone says, can't remember who, that he sees I'm back with Betsy. And I say, well kind of, just messing around you know. And he says, well it looked serious to me. What did? I ask. Holding hands and everything, he says. Of course this gets a laugh from the boys, the thought of me holding hands with anything, never mind a woman. When was this? I ask. And he says, Thursday I think. Yeah, Thursday. In the park. I was walking the dog. Yeah, holding hands and everything.

I left after that, laughing with the rest of them. I took a cab over to Betsy's flat. More than anything, it was an insane surge of jealousy that drove me there. Strange this, considering our relationship, which was always loose and easy. Maybe it was the fact that she was taking up with someone else, so soon after I'd got out of Strangeways. And the fact that the guy looked like me, that was the killer. OK, maybe it showed her love; I'd been away for four years, and so enamoured was she, the only person who could keep her company was a lookalike. These thoughts didn't help me any. And when I got to the flat, and I rang the bell to no answer, and when I tried the key, and it didn't work…

So I bust the door down. Straight away, I could see that the nasties had been done recently, and with some vigour, because the bed was in a mess, and the smell, and the stains… Jesus! Who was this guy? And the cheek of Betsy - right under my nose. I didn't know what to do for the best, except just to wait there, perched on the bed, slowly getting angrier. My only problem was who to hit first, the man or the woman. I must have dozed off at some point, because the next thing I know it's gone one o'clock and all the lights are off. I wake up wondering where I am, and then who I am. I shake myself out of the feeling. Then I hear noises down below at the door. Well, here it comes. Betsy will see the door is smashed, she'll know. Maybe they won't come up. No, here they come, two sets of footsteps. I can hear them moving through the living room. I sit up, get myself in a relaxed position. The bedroom door opens. Two men come in.

It was the cops. Inspector This, Deputy Inspector That. The bastards only arrest me, don't they. I'm screaming at them, what have I done wrong now? They inform, kindly, that a robbery took place Friday night, and that, according to my location on their tagging equipment, I was in the exact vicinity, the exact time. I protest at this, but what can I say, no, I was in London, I'm innocent? Eventually, when we get to the cop station, I'm more or less pleading with them to believe me, I was in London! London! Does no good, and I get my one call. I think about a lawyer, then about Betsy, then about the only person who can really get me out of this mess. I call the number that YoYo gave me.

It was a dead line.

The bookshop on Deansgate Boulevard in Manchester is filled with many words, most of them for sale, only a few of which manage to find their way into customers' bags. Most of the staff take their lunch at the Bluefinch Cafe, on John Dalton Street. Donna Clarke, who worked in the shop, was walking towards this place of refreshment one lunchtime, her head filled as usual with strange ideas of becoming a writer herself one day, when she happened to notice a man walking towards her carrying a wooden box.

The box was not too large, but the man seemed to be struggling with it. Perhaps it contained something heavy. Strangely enough, the next day he was there again, same time, same place, still struggling with the weight of the thing. And the rest of that week, whenever she went to lunch, the man was always there, walking towards Donna and then past her, a pained expression on his face.

Donna was curious. Why did he keep carrying the box around with him? If it was the same box every time, that is. Maybe the man had a number of these boxes to deliver, but then why not send them all at once and by delivery van? And if it was the same box, where was he taking it and, more importantly, what was inside it?

One day, Donna had to take an early lunch due to a staff mix-up. When she got to the cafe, the man was there. He was eating his meal, with the box on the table beside him. Donna slid into the empty seat opposite to him, ordered her usual, and then tried to start a conversation. The man answered her statement about the weather with a simple, 'Yes, isn't it?' and then carried on eating. The box, Donna could now see, was rather ornate and antique looking, decorated with flowers and songbirds. It appeared to have been carved from a single piece of wood, with no lid to it, no obvious way to open it up.

The man was silent until he had finished his simple meal (eggs, chips, beans) and then ordered his cup of tea. Only when this arrived, did he look directly into Donna's eyes. 'I suppose you're wondering what's inside?' he said.

Donna stopped eating, her fork poised halfway to her lips.

'It's a letter,' the man said.

'A letter?' asked Donna.

'Yes. Today's letter.'

'It's a large box to carry a single letter in, isn't it?'

'I have to use this box. It's in the contract.'

'I see,' said Donna, not seeing at all. 'To whom is it addressed?'

'Addressed?'

'Yes. The envelope. Are you a postman?'

The man laughed, gently, and then pressed upon the box in certain places. Until, with a whirring sound, the flowers and the songbirds parted company, making a small aperture. 'I shouldn't be doing this, really,' the man whispered. 'Just a tiny peek now.' Feeling somewhat foolish, but curious nonetheless, Donna put her eye to the opening and peered inside.

It was a world of febrile darkness, in which something barely breathed, gleaming in silver. Almost liquid it seemed, like mercury is almost liquid.

'Do you see it?' the man asked.

'Yes,' answered Donna. 'It's the letter W.'

'What!?' The man was suddenly agitated. 'Let me see that!' He pulled the box away from her, and quickly placed his own eye against the opening. 'Oh, I see what has happened.' He breathed a sigh of relief. 'The little bugger was upside-down. There, take another look.'

Donna did so, and saw now quite clearly that a small letter M was moving around inside the box, moving as if alive.

The man gently performed the secret operation, and the box closed shut. 'It's my job to deliver the letters,' he announced proudly; 'one for each day, according to the contract.'

'The contract?' Donna asked.

'The signed contract between myself and the writer.'

'Which writer?'

'Oh, he's very famous, miss, and does not like to be named.'

'He only writes a single letter a day? He must be a very slow writer.'

'Each morning he sends word of which letter he next needs. I pick it up from the suppliers, and then carry it across town to the writer's house. For one moment there I thought I'd picked up a W by mistake. That would have been disastrous.'

'Can he not have it delivered, by van for instance, or through the postal service?'

'It is in the contract that I must carry the letter personally, and contained within this box.' The man stood up. 'But now I must be going. I am already late, and the writer must have urgent need of the letter M. He gets very angry, miss, if I do not deliver on time.'

The man picked up the box.

'Wait!' cried Donna. 'You haven't told me what he writes about.'

But the man had gone already.