I stand a block away from my home. I look around me and there is no one. It’s still early and no one actually walks the streets in this neighborhood. There is a nip in the autumn air, but I am warm in the butter-soft, brown leather jacket that Noah insisted I wear.

‘I can’t be seen in it,’ I told him.

‘Then ditch it before you get home,’ he replied carelessly.

I stood still while he helped me into it. He lifted my hair out of the collar and zipped me up as if I was a child. Then he stepped away from me and let his hands drop to his sides.

‘So it’s goodbye,’ I said, wanting desperately to prolong those last moments.

He didn’t answer. Just nodded and opened the door, his hand clutching the handle so hard his knuckles shone white. I didn’t want to go, but my legs moved and I walked over the threshold, down the steps, and straight into the cab. I smiled automatically at the man called Sam as he shut the door.

As he got into the driver’s seat I turned my head and looked at Noah. His tall frame filled the doorway, still, dark and mysterious. I lifted my hand and waved, but he did not wave back. Then the cab began to move and I wanted to scream for him to stop, to take me back where I belong.

But I didn’t.

I just sat in the cab, numb and silent, until we were nearly at my house. That’s when my sense of self-preservation kicked in and I leaned forward and told Sam to drop me off a block before my house.

‘Just there, by that post box would be great.’

That’s how I come to be standing a block away from home hugging Noah’s jacket. A cold October wind ruffles my hair as I take the first step towards the place I call home and my legs work. I take another step and another step. With every step my body starts rewiring itself. I did what I wanted to, and it was the most beautiful fantasy I could have dreamed of, but now it was over, and real life had to begin again.

When I am half a block away I take the jacket off, but I cannot bring myself to throw it away. I roll it up into a ball and walk a bit further down the road. My hands are itching to throw it away. If I get caught … there will be hell to pay for not just me, but Noah too, but my heart won’t let me. It is the only thing I will ever have of him.

As I get to my best friend Lina’s house, I pop into her front garden and stuff the jacket in the blue recycling containers left outside. It must be collection day. I know the trucks don’t come until mid-morning. I’ll either come back in a couple of hours and retrieve it, or I’ll just call Lina and ask her to keep it for me until later.

When I get closer to the house I take out my mobile phone and call my grandmother. Although it is five-thirty in the morning, she answers her phone on the first ring and sounds completely alert. My grandma wakes up at four every morning to do her prayers. She prays for hours for my father’s soul.

‘Tasha,’ she says.

‘Baba, can you give me a hand?’

For a moment she is silent. Then she exhales the breath she is holding. ‘Of course.’

I walk to the wall at the back of the house and wait across the road. The gates have CCTV cameras running 24 hours a day, but the walls only have cameras that swivel on a 180% arc. So if you time your journey to or from the wall carefully you will never appear in it. I wait, half hidden by a cherry tree. Five minutes later a rope comes over the wall and I run to it.

I have less than 45 seconds before the camera will return to that spot. I run across the road and climb the ladder nimbly. I have been doing this since I was six years old. I jump onto the springy grass and pull the ladder up behind me. I carry it with me and run to the ancient Yew tree. Less than ten seconds left. I reach into the roots of the tree and pluck the rope out of the metal hook hidden within. I yank it but it gets stuck.

Shit.

Five seconds left.

I get on my haunches, untangle it, it comes off, and I heave it free. Clutching the ladder and rope to my chest, I roll on the ground and get behind the tree. I push myself upright and lean against the back of the tree. My heart is hammering and adrenaline is buzzing through my veins, but I’m smiling. Three Rottweilers are licking my hands and face.

I made it.

I speak softly to them, patting their muscular, well-trained bodies, and fishing little treats from my cardigan top to give to them. ‘Go on. Off with you,’ I tell them, and they trot off to resume their guarding duties.

I stand up and wait for the camera to do its complete sweep before I run back to the house. I throw the rope ladder back into its black bag and dust myself off. Thank god, it is not raining. Although I have made this trip in the rain, I would have made a right mess of myself, rolling on the wet ground. Carrying the bag, I walk coolly into the kitchen.

It is empty, but for Baba. She is sitting at the kitchen table wearing the thick housecoat she wears to bed and a dressing gown over it. Her short, coarse iron-gray hair is uncombed, and her face is pale without her lipstick. There is a pot of tea and two cups and saucers laid out on the table. I walk up to the table and, dropping the bag on the floor, sit in front of her. Silently, she fills the cups with tea.

‘Isn’t the appointment for your wedding dress fitting today?’ she asks in Russian. Baba is the only one who speaks to me in Russian.

‘Yes.’

‘At what time?’

I look down at the steam rising from my tea. ‘Half past eleven.’

She pushes the container of sugar towards me. ‘Where have you been?’

I look into her deep set, dark eyes. They’re similar to Papa’s in coloring, but while his are cold and dangerous, grandma’s are warm and full of concern.

‘I was with a man,’ I confess.