After Mum died I wanted to climb inside that book and live there. I could almost smell her perfume, see the touch of her fingertip where she’d turned the pages the first time we’d looked through the book together. We’d admired the prettiness of the drawings. She’d read to me.

Then she got sick. Then she was gone. I didn’t want to make my own school lunch, wipe my brother’s wee off the toilet seat or spend my nights in a bleak house. I wanted to walk in a meadow of wildflowers, play with button-nosed kittens, and wake to the smell of hairspray, not burned toast and Brut. I wanted my mother to come back. She would’ve known that the box of supersize tampons, asked for in a humiliated quaver, having been left unopened for six months, might’ve indicated some other product was required to address this new and frightening problem. She would’ve noticed when my shorts pulled uncomfortably across my hips. She would have taken me to a hairdresser rather than Mrs Robinson’s down the road when my fringe grew shaggy. She would’ve noticed how I tried to make life normal, how abruptly my childhood came to a stop.

Mark has added porky snorts to his snores, and I can hear Dad clattering about in the kitchen. I get up. It will make my life worse, and possibly destroy the lives of everyone around me, if I tell the truth. Better to hold it in and manage the pain.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Friday 13 December 1974

Charlie

When the doorbell rings I’m thinking about lunch. Mark is at work, Abby is out the back, and Dad is walking with Woof. That dog’s never had it so good. The cricket’s on the radio, and I’m glad I’ve heard enough to have a conversation with Mark about it tonight. I feel good for the first time in a week. I roll off the couch and drop my copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance to the floor.

I open the door to Sergeant Doyle. He’s bigger than I remember. Seeing him here makes my stomach clench.

‘Hey, hello. Didn’t know you were coming. Is Abby expecting you?’ As if she wouldn’t have mentioned that or rushed to the door instead of me.

‘I need to ask you and your sister a few more questions. Mind if I come inside?’

‘Sure, yeah.’ I move so he can come into the house. ‘The living room’s upstairs.’ He waits for me to start up the stairs then follows.

‘Take a seat,’ I say, pointing to the couch. ‘I’ll get her.’ I walk through the kitchen out to the backyard, trying to keep a steady gait, but speeding up the closer I get to Abby.

‘Now? Here?’ she asks. She places the wooden peg she’s holding onto Mark’s shirt, straightens it so it hangs right and, seeming reluctant to do so, turns away from the clothesline.

When we come into the living room Doyle is still standing, examining the framed photograph on top of the television.