‘Whatever. It won’t be me, anyway. It’ll be Zitface, here.’ Connor jerked his chin at Marcus, who scowled. ‘Or Gothboy, maybe. He’s so slow, I reckon he’s drug-fucked.’

He was talking about Aaron, but Aaron didn’t raise his head. Then Jake turned to address Marcus.

‘C’mon, man,’ Jake said. ‘We can beat this dude. Let’s do it.’ He attacked his potato with dangerous enthusiasm, flicking bits of peel everywhere. Marcus grinned and copied him. As I wondered why Jake was being nice to Marcus, Connor started scraping away so competitively that his pumping elbow hit Aaron in the eye.

It might have been an accident. Aaron didn’t think so. He turned and rammed his potato straight into Connor’s face.

Suddenly the pair of them were rolling around on the floor.

‘Hey! Hey! Get off!’ I yelled, using my mop to separate them. Jake was laughing. Ali shrank back, terrified.

I was in despair. It was happening again. Whenever Aaron showed up, the shit hit the fan. None of the measures I’d taken all those years ago had worked—not a single one.

And here I was, still picking up the pieces.

2009

2009

‘AARON WAS TRYING to make me angry,’ said Aima. ‘I’ve seen that before when a child can only get attention from parents who are cross with them. They relax when they’ve managed to provoke an anger response.’

We were sitting in Howard Bradshaw’s office, which was full of pastel blue chairs and anodyne photos. There were no quirky ornaments. No children’s art projects. No evidence of hobbies or passions or family holidays.

Sitting behind his desk, Howard could have been a Centrelink functionary.

‘Mmm. Well, we’ll have to incorporate that into our risk assessment and management plan,’ he said, shuffling papers.

‘But we need to make a report. It’s mandatory, isn’t it?’ I’d parked myself opposite him, between Prue Wilmott and Aima Singh.

It was still the first day of school, the kindergarten kids had all gone home, and we were discussing what to do with Aaron Rooney. ‘His mum says his dad hits him. That falls under the Care Act.’

‘I’ll be contacting the DHS,’ said Howard.

Prue rolled her eyes.

‘Why not, Prue?’ asked Aima. ‘There’s a case to be made here.’

‘Yeah, but it’s been made before.’ Prue’s mouth twisted. ‘This is a custody dispute, remember? A nasty one. The accusations keep flying.’

Aima blinked. ‘And nothing’s happened?’

‘It’s complicated.’ Prue sighed when I stared at her. ‘The father’s a copper, the grandmother’s a steamroller and the mother’s an unreliable witness.’

That didn’t seem right to me. ‘The mother seemed scared. Genuinely scared.’