For his part, there had been, since she mentioned Brendan’s return with his cricket bat, a slow fury building in his stomach, beneath the bruises, that he didn’t want to snuff out. He knew he should. But he wouldn’t. He stoked it with thoughts of Brendan, of Caleb, of his wife, the injustice of it. Margie’s sallow face. He pictured the man’s eyes–– how empty they’d been––and beheld in them pure evil. What William Kelly had spoken about.

At home, Penelope put her bag and keys down on the kitchen bench and said, ‘So what’re you going to do?’

‘How come you never tell me what you’re thinking?’

Penelope shrugged, looking grim. ‘Tell me what you’re going to do.’

‘How did it feel to be assaulted by that bastard? How did it feel to watch him hit our son, Pen? Did you feel anything?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘Well?’ He held up his hands. ‘You don’t talk about it.’

‘What’s there to say?’

‘I don’t know.’

She shrugged again and crossed her arms. ‘I don’t know, Vernie. It was horrible, wasn’t it. I don’t know. I can’t talk about it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t want to cry.’

In his wife was some hardness, the depth of which he could not comprehend. He felt he was somehow responsible for it. She had not been like this at the start of their relationship. She used to share her feelings with him.

He put a hand on hers. ‘You can cry now if you want.’

She laughed horribly. ‘You want to know why I don’t cry?’

He didn’t know how to respond to this.

‘I don’t cry because I can’t anymore, Vern. I can’t. I’m too old. You, you . . .’ she stammered.

Vernon stood there watching his wife. Asking more of her than she could offer.

‘You blame me for what he did, don’t you?’ he said. ‘You said so the other night. Said it might as well have been my hands round her throat.’

She nodded.

‘Come off it, Pen.’

‘I do. You did it.’

‘I never hit you.’

‘I know—’

‘I never struck you. Barely raised my damn voice.’

‘Yeah, but you didn’t care enough about him to show him what a good man is, did you? You never struck me. That’s some high moral benchmark you’ve set.’

He said nothing to this. She’d only confirmed the thoughts he’d already had, outside Kelly’s church. Absence of violence was not enough. And finally he knew—he simply had not been enough for them. His family. They’d needed direction. They’d needed his sacrifice.

Now she was shaking. ‘You don’t understand what it means to do something good, do you, Vern? You can’t. And you gave that to Caleb. You gave him that . . . lack. And I hate you for it.’

She went to the sink and filled the kettle, switched it on. He looked to his cosy chair outside. Wanted his teacup, his chair. What she said was true. He’d never led the boy astray, but he’d never led him anywhere. And in that lack the violence had been born. In his lack.