Mitch McCall’s brick box had completely lost its quirky charm. Most of the garden statuary was either gone or smashed. Empty bottles were piled on the front porch. Weeds flourished. Firewood had been dumped along the fence.

‘There.’ I pointed. ‘Stop.’

Warren pulled over. ‘Shit,’ he said, but left it at that. We already knew Mitch had died. His niece Angela had moved into the old McCall house with her partner Nick, her son Blaine, Blaine’s girlfriend, and Aaron Rooney.

Aaron had told us all about it.

‘Is that him?’ There was someone sitting on the front steps.

‘That’s him.’ Warren killed the engine and climbed out of the car. I followed his example. My back felt stiff, but not from sitting. I was very tense.

Aaron stood up, a cigarette tucked between his fingers. He’d filled out a little and his hair was shaved close to his head, but otherwise he looked the same. He was still restless. Fidgety. Loose-limbed.

He dropped the cigarette and ground it into the earth with the toe of his trainer. Then he shrugged on a bulging rucksack.

‘Well, that’s not happening,’ Warren muttered behind me. I figured he was talking about the cigarette.

Aaron stooped to pick up a plastic milk crate full of bits and pieces. I couldn’t see anything else on the porch that might count as luggage, though there was a lot of junk scattered around: a turntable, a mangy broom, a lamp, a baseball cap, a battered bar fridge.

‘Is that all you’ve got?’ I raised my voice as I fiddled with the front gate.

‘Yup.’ Aaron wedged the milk crate under his arm and headed straight for me. We were about a metre apart when he stopped. His clothes needed washing. There was an angry pimple on his chin.

‘Hi,’ he said. Then his gaze shifted to Warren. ‘Hi.’

Warren held out his hand. ‘Cigarettes.’

Aaron blinked.

‘You’re quitting. Right now. It’s non-negotiable,’ Warren announced.

Aaron’s mouth tightened. But he reached into his cargo pants and pulled out a small box plastered with health warnings. ‘You haven’t changed,’ he said, tossing the packet at Warren.

I disagreed. Warren had changed. He’d lost confidence. Gained insight. Learnt to relax his grip a little.

He’d also grown out his hair, to cover the scar on the back of his head.

‘So where will I stick all this stuff?’ Aaron jiggled his milk crate. ‘In the boot?’

I frowned. ‘What about your aunt?’

‘What about her?’ said Aaron.

‘Is she in there?’

He glanced back at the house. ‘Yeah. She’s in there. Off her tits.’

Warren and I exchanged a look. We’d heard about Angela. According to Aaron she was a thief, a slob, a liar and an addict, emotionally unstable, selfish, deluded and completely untrustworthy. Even if half of what he’d told us was true, she didn’t sound like a responsible adult.