‘I still think we should have a word,’ I said.

‘She’ll just make a scene.’ Aaron pushed forward, using the bulk of his rucksack to nudge me aside. ‘Come on. Let’s go. We need to get out of this fucking dump before Blaine hits you up for slab money.’

Aaron had been based in Otford since leaving Finch Island. With Joyce and Scott on remand, the poor kid had needed a new home—and Angela McCall had offered him one. I don’t think Aaron would have moved back in with the Rooneys even if they’d been granted bail. He’d washed his hands of them, and Angela was his next closest relative.

I knew all this because I’d kept in touch. After the incident on the island, I made a point of thanking Aaron for what he’d done. Scott was still in hospital at that point, and Joyce was in a lock-up. Shaun had agreed to house Aaron for a few days while everyone waited for Blaine McCall to drive up from Otford. It was a strange, unnerving time; I was shuttling between Brisbane and the lazaret, answering endless questions and trying to pull myself together. Warren was recuperating at home. Shaun was constantly out and about, visiting people: me, Warren, Tyler, the police.

I met Aaron in a McDonald’s not far from Shaun’s place. I’d already decided to quit my job by then, so I was a little distracted. But when Aaron arrived, looking wary, I bought him an enormous lunch and asked him how he was. He immediately started complaining about Shaun’s family—how they had a lot of ‘stupid rules’ about beds and bathrooms and eating and phones. How they didn’t really want him there, even though Shaun said they did. I listened for a while, wishing he would keep all four of his chair legs planted firmly on the ground. Then I told him I was grateful for what he’d done, and we talked about his mother.

He had some fairly strong memories of Krystal—and of Mitch. I was able to add a few details, though we agreed that his Otford relatives would be a better source of information. We already knew Mitch was dead. ‘I never got a chance to thank him,’ Aaron quavered. He hardly mentioned the Rooneys, though from one or two of his throwaway comments I deduced that life on the fringes of Cooktown had been tough, tense and secretive. ‘Dad’s a fucking alki. And a psycho,’ he said. ‘I hope he gets raped in jail.’