‘We can’t stay long,’ Warren said. ‘It’s a hell of a drive back.’

Aaron grunted. Soon we were bumping through the cemetery gate and pulling into a parking lot beside two other cars. Around us the landscape was dry, rough and scrubby—the kind of place you have to mow with a whipper snipper. Apart from the graves themselves, I could see only concrete paths, a few scattered trees and a toilet block. Here and there a bright floral tribute added a touch of colour.

Aaron was out of the car before I could ask if he wanted company. He headed towards the top of the hill, where raw mounds and gleaming headstones marked some of the more recent burials. Not knowing whether to follow or not, I went for a hesitant kind of stroll, keeping my eye on Aaron without intruding on him. Warren joined me. ‘How long has it been?’ he asked.

I knew what he was talking about. ‘Fourteen months,’ I said. After a massive search, Krystal’s remains had been found in one of the old mine shafts that dotted the hills around Otford. Aaron had described the funeral: the turnout hadn’t been great because Blaine and Angela had burnt so many bridges in the local community. One of Aaron’s high school teachers had made an appearance. So had Prue Wilmott, now retired. Aaron didn’t remember her, but she’d marched straight up and apologised for not doing more to help his mother.

Deb hadn’t come. She’d moved to Wagga after her father died. Last I’d heard, she was an acting deputy principal with a post-graduate degree in early childhood learning.

‘I think he wants you,’ Warren remarked. I’d been distracted by two distant figures—a couple of women tidying a plot—but when I turned my head, I saw Aaron looking at me.

As soon as I reached him, he said, ‘When I get a job, I’m gunna pay for a proper stone.’ He flapped a hand at the wooden cross that marked his mother’s grave. I nodded, then asked if he wanted to clean up the dead flowers.

‘Can I?’

‘Of course you can.’ I began to collect them. ‘Are they yours?’

‘Some. Some are Mrs Wilmott’s.’

‘That doesn’t mean you can’t throw them away.’ I beckoned to Warren, and we all cleared the grave of shrivelled brown sticks. Then Aaron replaced them with a cheap little porcelain statue of a unicorn—the kind of thing you’d buy at a dollar store.

‘Mum loved unicorns,’ he said.

‘Did she?’ I wondered who had told him that.

‘She chose my name too.’ He sounded almost defiant. ‘That’s why I’m Aaron now. Not fucking Darren.’

I nodded. Warren didn’t speak. He was hovering respectfully in the background, though I saw him glance at his watch.