When Penelope turned to leave the room, Margie said, ‘What are you going to do about Vernon?’

‘That man has never needed me for anything. If he starts now he’ll know how to find me.’

Getting ready for bowls, she tried to forget what her son had looked like the day before he had hurt that young woman for the final time. The last time Penelope had seen him. The way he had laughed as though everything had been fine.

NINETEEN

SIDNEY CAHILL

Brendan was out in the shed. Had been most of yesterday, too. Working on something. Sidney could hear his banging from the bathroom. Amy was sitting in the bath splashing happily, looking up at him for reaction, but his thoughts were not with her. The Cahill family had eaten fish for lunch, steamed cod with white sauce, what they always ate on Good Friday, seated in silence around the dining table. Cassie had not re-emerged from her bedroom since Brendan had been beaten, apart from grabbing small amounts of food. His mother sat grim-jawed and hard to read. She spoke once to Brendan, tended him with sympathy, but soon shut up when Ernie rested a hand on her arm, gave her a look. Brendan’s face was swollen, faint notes of purple up his neck.

The only normal one among them while they ate had been their father. He had the same jovial manner he always ate with, as though nothing had happened. His were the only words uttered the whole meal, complimenting his wife on her cooking. It was all in stark contrast to their usually loud family. This disturbed Sidney more than anything.

Amy had pasted most of her fish over her face and after lunch her face had broken out in a rash, which she kept scratching. He’d tried moisturiser on it but she had protested to the point of screaming. Sarah had been no help. Even now she was in the bedroom, ignoring her daughter. The bath had calmed Amy down, though. She wasn’t watching her father now, focusing instead on the bath toys. He splashed some water at her.

Leaning on the bathtub, he could feel the fractured rib in his chest. He could feel, too, the bristles of the stitches rubbing against the fabric of his shirt. He felt pretty stupid, how badly he’d reacted. He’d thought he was dying. Brendan would’ve taken the kicks in stride and kept going, tackled the old man. His arm still hurt. He moved into a better position, sitting cross-legged. Sitting forward, Sidney dabbed at Amy’s face again with the face washer. With his poor arm, the shoulder ached. She cried and waved her hand at his in protest. The rash still lit up her face but it no longer seemed to be spreading. Maybe she had an allergy? ‘Maybe it’s just Grandma’s cooking, hey sweetheart?’ and she offered him a smile.

Mid afternoon, with his daughter washed, dried and asleep, Sidney walked outside. His brother’s project in the shed was still underway, judging by the sounds. The pig carcass swinging on the verandah a grim reminder. It wasn’t that their father hadn’t beaten them before, but there’d always been a reason, and it had always seemed measured. He thought of Amy, of what he’d do were she to become a threat to herself. Would he react the same way? If she were endangering herself, or their family, what lengths would he go to to stop her? Shook his head. Hard to understand or judge that sort of thing until it’s on you. The pig’s skin was slowly losing its pink. They’d bathed it in boiling water to rid it of its hair, the bath still beside the verandah, around the side of the house.