‘Mmm. Well. One step at a time.’ Howard’s attention had returned to his papers. ‘First I’ll draw up an official letter. I’ll give that to the parents on Monday. Then I’ll need a full rundown on the domestic side of things. I’ll get that on Monday too.’ His shoulders sagged at the prospect.

‘Have fun,’ said Prue. Howard ignored her, so she turned to me. ‘Word of advice—take lots of diary notes. Lots. Because the solicitors are bound to come calling.’

I was quick to defend myself. ‘My diary notes are always thorough.’

Prue smiled crookedly. Howard picked up his pen.

‘Right.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Let’s start with the risk assessment and rating table. Duration and frequency of behaviour?’

I called my dad that night. I told him about Aaron, Joyce and Howard. Then I asked him what I should do with my back door.

‘It’s sticking,’ I said. ‘On the bottom.’

My new rental was a 1930s weatherboard, not in great shape. I’d already cleared two sink traps, repaired the sash on a double-hung window and replaced six tap washers. The sliding wardrobe door in the second bedroom was giving me trouble because it was a hollow-core piece of rubbish and slightly bowed.

Dad had promised to tackle it the next time he paid me a visit. I knew it was pointless asking the landlord for help; I’d been trying for weeks to get him to install a new hot-water system. I was pretty sure the tank was leaking—and once the tank starts to leak, that’s it. Game over.

‘Have you tightened the hinge screws?’ asked Dad.

‘Of course.’ It was the first thing I’d done. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the way it’s hanging. To be honest, I think it’s the doorstep. That’s wood too.’

Dad grunted. He was a semi-retired builder who still did odd jobs around Kempsey—and since there was nothing he liked better than fixing things, I think he was quite pleased I’d moved into a renovator’s delight. It was something for us to talk about, apart from the weather and how my divorce was going.

Being an old-fashioned country bloke, Dad didn’t really know what to say about my ex, except that he was a two-timing bastard who deserved to be shot. Dad wasn’t good at expressing himself. But he’d shown his support by helping me move from Sydney to Otford, where he’d stayed in my spare bedroom for a couple of days, unpacking boxes and fitting a new bathroom extractor fan.

‘Try planing it,’ he advised me. ‘If that doesn’t work, I’ll replace the sill when I’m there next month.’

‘Okay. Thanks.’

‘No sign of a new hot-water system?’

‘Nup.’

‘You might have to go to the tribunal.’

‘We’ll see.’