‘Oh! There you are.’ Joyce reached out to grab his elbow. ‘I was just telling Miss Ayres—it’s still “miss”, right?’

The question was aimed at me. I said nothing.

‘Yeah. Thought so.’ Her contemptuous tone lit a spark in my gut. I stopped feeling scared and started feeling angry.

‘I was just telling Miss Ayres how we changed our names to make sure Krystal couldn’t find us,’ Joyce went on. ‘And now we’re used to them. You’ve grown up as Darren. That’s who you are.’

Aaron didn’t speak. His mouth was full of biscuit.

‘He doesn’t want Krystal tracking him down. He’s got enough on his plate,’ said Joyce. ‘But I suppose you’re going to tell her, are you? I bet you’ve been in touch with her all this time.’ Leaning forward, her colour mounting, Joyce started to harangue me in her old, caustic way. ‘You can tell her from me, Darren hates her guts. He’ll shop her as soon as look at her. Won’t you? Eh?’ She shook his arm but didn’t wait for an answer. ‘That bitch is still a fugitive. She’d better not stick her head out, or we’ll chop it off. You tell her that, if you talk to her. Just keep it in mind. Because if you know where she is, you’ve broken the law too.’

‘Ms Ayres?’

It was Warren. He’d suddenly appeared in the doorway, all dramatic scars and broad shoulders. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked—and I realised he’d come to my rescue. He must have glanced into the kitchen and read Joyce’s body language.

‘I don’t think everything is all right.’ Joyce rounded on him like a pit bull. ‘I’m surprised you let her near these kids. Do you know about her background? Do you know what she did?’

‘It’s Mrs King, isn’t it?’ Warren stuck out his hand. ‘I recognise your voice. We spoke on the phone. I’m Warren Doyle. I used to be a sapper in the 2nd Combat Engineer Regiment, 3rd Battalion.’

Something about the way he said this silenced Joyce for a moment. She shook his hand, her face working.

Aaron stood beside her, stuffing another Tim Tam into his mouth. I remembered how many times I’d seen him with Joyce in my classroom, gnawing at his hand or hanging off hers, his face shuttered, his feet twitching.

This time was different, though. I could sense something inside him: an edge. A fizz. A lit fuse. I didn’t know exactly what it was, but it alarmed me.

‘I hope you’re proud of your son,’ Warren continued, releasing Joyce’s hand. ‘Darren’s done really well. We had a few hiccups at the beginning, but the last few days he’s been stepping up with a vengeance. He got a leadership badge—did he tell you?’