‘I didn’t nick it, remember, I borrowed it,’ Zane said. ‘But listen, you’ve been good to me. A mate’s fallen on hard times, we help each other out. I dunno what you need the cash for, but if you’re asking me for help, you must be fucken desperate. Tell you what. You use this bat—it’ll get you a game for sure—and when you’re done we’ll get four hundred for it, no worries! Two hunjee for you, two hunjee for me!’

Zane clapped him on the shoulder, friendly but too hard. Ben was rubbing the pain out when they turned into Fishman Avenue, the long flat stretch that led to the beach past the derelict fire station and Bluebird Surf Life Saving Club.

They paused at a strange sight. Daniel, who lived on Fishman, was standing on the footpath in front of his house, with his cricket kit at his feet, by the side of Mr Stoyle’s Toyota Celica Sports. They were in agitated conversation with Daniel’s father, Principal Oxenford and Ben’s mother. None of the adults looked happy. Ben gave his cricket bag a shake, to shuffle the stolen bat deeper under the pads.

‘Outta here.’ Zane, who had no desire for adult contact, jogged up Pelican Street. He was a real athlete, Ben thought, watching him vault over a low brick fence. If I had Zane’s body, I’d play for Australia for sure.

To dodge the adults might attract their attention, so Ben continued down Fishman. The stolen bat burnt in his bag, and when Ms Oxenford and Mr Stoyle turned their eyes on him, he felt like he was going through an airport X-ray. His arms and legs fizzed. He dropped his face. Their discussion fell into a tense silence.

‘Ben, how are you?’ Mrs Oxenford asked.

Ben stopped and looked at her flat-heeled shoes. ‘Good thanks, miss.’

‘Coming home from cricket?’

He looked up at her. The question seemed strangely loaded. Of course he was coming home from cricket. Coming home from cricket was what Mr Stoyle and Daniel were doing.

‘Wait, what?’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Daniel’s father corrected him.

‘Yes, miss,’ Ben said, dropping his eyes again. He heard Mr Stoyle clear his throat impatiently.

‘How’s your dad?’ Ms Oxenford seemed determined to hold him there.

‘What?’

‘How’s your—’

‘Yeah, good,’ Ben said, looking at his mother. Kelly was staring at her golf shoes, which she carried in her hand. She was wearing golf clothes, but looked as guilty as if she’d been caught in her underwear.

‘Please give him my regards,’ Ms Oxenford said. Ben could hear her smile shaping her words. ‘And I’m glad you’re enjoying your cricket.’