Someone’s knocking on the door. The hammering is woven into my dreams. I see a visitor standing in the dawn light. Though I cannot see her face, I know she’s smiling. When she sees me, her face glows with affection.

My cheek turns to the cold pillow. It must be 5 am.   The banging is urgent. They’ve found the brass knocker in the dark. I hear the metals rattle, the sound of fists on wood. Oh, that they would go away and let me continue with my dream. The faceless woman is beautiful. She moves towards me, and we hug. Her chest pushes into mine. Her hair,  smelling of sweet shampoo, tickles my nose. Her earring presses against my cheek. I feel her voice muffled through her body, like a child in a parent’s arms. She is saying I’m a good man, a kind man, and a generous man, and she draws me even closer.

I blink. A beam of lemon light squeezes past the curtains, revealing a swarm of dust. Darkness lingers in the room’s corners, reluctant to retreat. Knocking, did I hear knocking? There is no knocking now. Only a distant muttering. Perhaps it’s people in the street chatting so early in the day.

A crash. Ugly voices on the staircase, shouts that fill my skull. I jolt up, grip the blanket, and pull it towards my chin. There are three or four of them. They fill the room, bodies bloated by uniforms, belts heavy with radios, batons, tasers, and handcuffs. The woman speaks, holding forth a warrant card. Her voice is firm, professional. It will brook no choice. Her words are scripted, monotonic, spoken without awareness of their meaning. Beneath the shadow of her hat, its band diced like a chequered racing flag, I feel hatred in her eyes, acid contempt that burns into my soul.

They stand silent and tense as I clamber from the bed, naked in my pyjamas. I stare at the floor, at the worn carpet and the half-empty cups washed in tannic acid, but feel my face trapped in their stares.

They do not see a good man, a popular man, a kind man - these glowering arbiters of truth.

For now, I am not that man. That man I dreamt to be.