Warren’s face turned to stone. ‘Mrs King—’

‘It’s her fault Darren was traumatised. He’s never been the same since. Don’t believe a word she says—she’s mentally ill.’ Without even glancing in my direction, she headed for the door, still clutching Aaron’s arm. But he hung back, ignoring her furious tugs. His remarkable eyes were fixed on me.

‘I remember about the cockroaches,’ he said. ‘How they could live for a week with their heads cut off. I always thought it was cool how tough they were. It made me feel good.’

Then he stumbled out of the room, yielding to Joyce’s pressure.

Warren and I both stared after them for a moment. I was feeling winded; my mouth was dry and my head was in a whirl.

At last Warren turned to me and said, ‘What the fuck was all that about?’

2009

2009

AFTER THE ROONEYS’ angry visit, nothing went right. It was as if they’d put a curse on me.

At school the next morning, Phoebe gave me a note from her mother. Dear Miss Ayres, it said.

This is to inform you that neither myself, Pat Haas nor Dixie Whitaker can help you in the classroom from now on. We don’t approve of your stance on Krystal McCall. Yours sincerely, Kate Canning.

Later, when we were sorting different foods into ‘healthy’ and ‘unhealthy’ piles, Phoebe argued with me about a muesli bar. She also argued about counting backwards, Luke’s crayons, and a reader she wanted to take home. She argued about everything, constantly. Her tone was patronising, impatient, world-weary—a perfect imitation of her mother’s.

Then, just before lunch, Howard appeared in the doorway. He beckoned to me as a chorus of squeaky voices cried, ‘Good morning, Mr Bradshaw!’

‘Good morning, children,’ he said. Next thing I knew, my kids were filing into Deb’s room while Howard escorted me to the school hall, where the police wanted to see me. ‘It’s the only spot I can give you right now,’ he explained. ‘But Amy’s got it booked after lunch, so keep things as brief as you can.’

I was shocked. Furious. By the time I reached the hall, I was ready to explode.

Paul Ries and Rick Waring both greeted me when I arrived. They’d arranged three plastic chairs in the huge, cavernous space but weren’t using them; Ries was pacing up and down like a fenced dog. On seeing me, he pointed at one of the empty chairs. ‘Thanks for this,’ he said, his voice bouncing off the shiny wooden floor and lofty roof beams.

I didn’t move. I didn’t speak.

I waited.

‘We’ve got a couple more questions,’ he went on. I wanted to say, And you couldn’t have asked them elsewhere? But I thought silence would be safer.