My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

Our righteous indignation caused us to blunder over there together that Sunday afternoon with no plan, no clue of what we were doing. Once we’d walked past the door a few times we realized the place was utterly empty. It was this emptiness that made me suddenly aware of the seriousness of the situation. This threat was faceless. It was something we couldn’t see, let alone fight. We came home in silence. Although I tried to tell him not to, Michael sent the money. I knew he’d no choice, but felt I should be the voice of dissent. He refused to discuss it any further. Some weeks later I found another note in his apartment, and this time the price of silence had doubled. Within two months of that first letter, Michael had killed himself.