Secrets - The Threatening Notes

Anyway, Macarthur's free after sixteen years, and I receive another of those notes done on a portable typewriter with fading black ink. You know, the old-fashioned sort of typewriter that makes a clackety-clack-clack din and predates the electronic typewriter. The note comes through my door shortly before dawn.
        
Liar. You'll get your commupance in the end, you watch. 

He's misspelt comeuppance, but I know it's him from the rhythm of the words and the northern dialect. The words sort of leap off the slip of paper, each one stamped with his smell. Remember the smell? Stale cigarette smoke clinging to his dusty overalls whenever he turned up at school. Unforgettable. I can almost hear his wheezy laugh in the background, sifting through the walls of the London flat.

I'm alone when I find the envelope pushed halfway through the letterbox, about to prepare breakfast. Toast and jam and tea – just like when we were kids. A couple of days earlier, my girlfriend Lana flew to the States to visit her folks. She'll be gone a fortnight. I'm considering what to do next when the letterbox opens and shuts.
           
Another envelope, folded in two.

I'll get your girlfriend, see how she likes it. 
 
***
An hour later, I hurry to my car and head north. I can almost imagine you shaking your head and saying, no, don't do it. Any sensible person would drive to the nearest police station and report him for breaching parole. But not me.

I have other plans.
           
A contact.
           
A bloke who believes Macarthur needs teaching a lesson.
           
Sorry, Craig, the rest has to remain a secret.  

For the contact's sake.