It was hard enough persuading people to book holidays in an old leper colony without that niggling reminder of Indigenous torment. Even our corporate bookings were negligible, probably because the huts didn’t have bathrooms. Two former bathhouses had been nicely refitted with composting toilets and private shower cubicles, but most bankers these days probably want heated towel rails. And though the old matron’s house had its own bathroom—along with three bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room, all for hire—the only other private bathroom on the island was at my place.

I lived in the back of the superintendent’s quarters, behind the office and the ‘museum’: a large room full of photos, chamber pots, medical equipment, ledgers, samplers and cricket bats. There was also a model of the original complex, with every tiny building neatly labelled. The school groups that came to the island were always forced to shuffle past this collection, clutching their pens and project sheets. Biology classes sometimes tramped down to the mangrove swamps, where they made notes and complained about the insects. But there weren’t many school visitors. My busy times were during the holidays, when the whole place was booked out by religious groups.

Otherwise, I did most of my business with Shaun’s company, Vetnet.

Once a month Shaun and his staff would book the island for a six-day boot camp. They would bring over about fifteen teenage boys and give them a dose of tough love. Thanks to Shaun, I’d dealt with a lot of broken doorknobs and urine in unexpected places. But the camps must have been successful, because Shaun kept coming back. And back.

Most of the boys were sent by parents or foster carers. Some were referred by the police as part of a government diversion program. Many were problem kids. Marginal kids. Kids with learning difficulties, behavioural issues, psychological disorders. I don’t know how many of them realised they’d come to an old leper colony—the word ‘leper’ never passed Shaun’s lips. I’m not sure if most of the boys even knew what lepers were. But there was a sign near the office, and another on the door of the museum. Someone always twigged in the end.

‘We’re just another bunch of fucking lepers,’ I heard one camper growl after he’d read the sign. ‘They just want us out of sight in the middle of fucking nowhere.’

He made it sound like a bad thing. But then again, he wasn’t me.

‘Welcome to Finch Island. From now on you’ll call me sir.’