Some of the lepers escaped on fishing boats, but most were caught. The staff went fishing too; one was found washed up among the mangroves. A boating accident, the newspapers said, though I often wondered. Who knows what kind of things went on behind those high fences? There were no police around. No unsupervised visits.

How could anyone have reported anything?

‘Rob?’

I snapped to attention. Warren Doyle was standing nearby, almost lost in the darkness.

‘Haven’t seen Jake, have you?’ he asked.

‘Nope. I just saw Nathan, though. Sent him back to the bathroom.’

‘Bugger.’ Warren must have been tired. I hardly ever heard him swear.

‘Beer?’ I suggested, knowing he wasn’t allowed to indulge.

‘And a spliff too, if you’ve got one.’

‘Sorry. All my mood enhancers are in the safe.’ I wasn’t joking. I always locked up my alcohol when the veterans came because Shaun had asked me to.

Warren snorted. ‘Oh well. Better luck next time. If you see Jake, can you give him an earful?’

‘Will do.’

‘Sorry about this. He snuck off while Flynn was having a meltdown.’

‘D’you reckon they planned it together?’

Warren shrugged. Then he began to move away.

‘Five-minute showers in the morning!’ I called after him.

‘Yep. I know.’

‘Tank water! Remind them!’

He raised his hand. Watching him, I realised that the veterans never drifted. They never wandered. They marched or bustled or forged ahead. But their body language wasn’t aggressive or dominant. Not like a policeman’s.

I thought about the police. I thought about calling the police. I didn’t want to, because I’d had my fill of police. And Shaun definitely wouldn’t approve; this was supposed to be a safe place for troubled kids. There was a duty of care. Of confidentiality. Dobbing on Aaron would be the last thing Shaun wanted.

On the other hand, the law had been broken.

I sipped my beer, pondering. The law had been broken a long time ago. Aaron was sixteen now. At sixteen, kids get to choose where they live. Why revisit the past, when Aaron ought to be looking to the future? Would calling the police help him or hurt him? Would it fix anything?

I decided it would simply cause a big, nasty mess.

That night I dreamed about Scott Rooney yelling at the top of his voice. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ he screamed, over and over again. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

I still don’t know what that dream was really about. Aaron? The police? The veterans?

Perhaps I was just reminding myself not to trust men in uniform.

Shaun would always rouse his campers at 6 a.m. The boys would do ten push-ups, make their beds, polish their boots and get dressed. If the beds weren’t properly made, they would have to be remade—again and again—until the veterans were satisfied.