It was almost bedtime when the phone rang. His mum answered before Chandler could get to it. It wasn’t Teri this time, but the station. The call to return.

‘Tell them I’m having a shower or something,’ said Chandler as she covered the mouthpiece. He was in no mood to leave his family, not while it was dark and Gabriel was still out there.

As he put the kids to bed, the phone rang again. Tanya this time. Chandler nodded that the same excuse should be used. Still in the bathroom.

He had finished Jasper’s bedtime story when the next call came. This time the order came from the very top. Mitch wasn’t accepting Chandler’s well-worn excuse.

‘He won’t get off the phone,’ said his mum. The frown she now wore changed her welcoming and open face into a haggard one. ‘Go in,’ she said. ‘The kids won’t get any sleep with the phone ringing every minute. Plus, eventually he’ll come out here and drag you back.’

‘I can’t go in,’ said Chandler, forcing the gulp down.

‘Why, son?’ Even his dad’s concentration had been torn from the TV over his son’s reluctance to leave.

‘He knows where I live.’

‘Who does?’ asked his mum.

‘The one we’re looking for. The killer.’

‘How does he know that?’ asked his mum, her expression one of shock.

Chandler took a deep breath and explained his mistake. Both were silent for a second before his mum spoke up. ‘There’s nothing to say he’s coming back, son. Why would he?’

‘He did before. We think he will again.’

There was a moment’s pause before his dad rose from his armchair with intent. Taking a key from a chain around his neck, he entered the kitchen and unlocked the cabinet affixed horizontally on top of the cupboards. From it he pulled out the old shotgun, the wood chipped and worn but, as far as Chandler knew, still in perfect working order.

‘I’ll keep watch,’ he announced, clicking the barrel open and slipping two red shells inside.

‘Dad, you don’t need that thing,’ said Chandler, even if he did feel a little more secure in its presence.

‘Can you even use that still, Peter?’ warned his mum.

‘Of course I can, Caroline. My fists might be brittle and my wits might be gone, but I can still pull a bloody trigger.’

He gripped the gun, hunched as he had been the last few years. His stubby fingers eased over the butt, the fingernails as cracked and chipped as the paint on the old Ford Mustang that lay in the back of the garage.

‘I only want you to point it, not use it,’ said Chandler.

‘What’s the use in that?’

‘Take out the shells, Dad,’ said Chandler, his hand out.