Did the Dick ever think about killing them all? Sometimes when he was angry he’d yell in a way that made Lena imagine a cartoon fist about to burst from his mouth. But the worst that ever happened was a spittle shower. He was a dick, but not the physically violent kind. Though maybe people weren’t until they were.

Neither Mum nor Dad ever laid an angry hand on them growing up. Not even a smack on the bum. Mum definitely wanted to sometimes. Many times she’d walked away from Lena or Will or both of them, naughty—screaming, fighting kids. Kids who’d drawn on the walls or made mud soup in the only good saucepan or broken each other’s Christmas toys. Mum would speak calmly even as her face turned pink then red. They’d laugh at her. Oooh, look out, Will, she’s gonna blow. But she never did. She’d go outside, close the door on them. When they were little they measured her fury in how many cigarettes she smoked before she came back in. Once she’d quit they’d watch at the window as she paced. Working off the cheese, they’d call it and laugh. God, they were shits. They didn’t know.

Knowing was what kept Lena awake the night she read about the man in WA. His picture had been in the papers, but three or four hours into the sleepless night Lena noticed that the figure she was imagining stalking through that house with a shotgun had her grandpa’s face. She’d only ever seen him in photos, this man who they weren’t allowed to know about until they were teenagers and then, once Mum told them, they weren’t allowed to talk about ever again. They’d googled him, of course, once they knew there was something worth googling. Will tried to be all protective—Lena, trust me, you don’t want to read this—but she’d elbowed him out of the way and read the article herself. It wasn’t even that bad. The article that was. Not graphic, anyway. A friendship gone sour, a fight the other man thought ended when he broke his ex-mate’s nose. Then Lena’s grandpa returned with his nose taped up and a knife in his fist and finished it his way.