I’m sure it paid for itself in bookings, but the public liability insurance must have been monstrous. There was so much risk involved; even the path up there was challenging. A wide, sandy fire trail left the lazaret at its western end, meandered for about ten minutes through clumps of she-oak and scribbly bark, then arrived at the cemetery. From there the path was just a collection of uneven steps, zigzagging up the hillside until it reached something that looked like a two-storey treehouse.

The treehouse was actually a starting platform, with the tree supporting the cable. I had to inspect this cable regularly, along with the platforms, turnbuckles, stop block, trolleys, ropes and safety harnesses. The ropes and safety harnesses were kept in the boat house, where I stopped briefly before heading up the hill just in time to avoid the lunch stampede.

It felt good to get away, even though the cemetery was my least favourite part of the island. About two hundred people had been buried there, in a scrubby clearing that contained no more than half-a-dozen rusty iron crosses and a handful of wooden headboards. I’d learnt about these graves as part of my job, and there was one in particular that I found deeply sad. It belonged to a woman who’d given birth in the lazaret. Her baby had been taken from her and she’d died a year later. Though she was buried in consecrated ground, I couldn’t help wondering if she’d killed herself.

I mourned that woman every time I walked past. I also mourned the Aboriginal lepers who were buried so far from their country. Most of them lay in unmarked graves; I was probably walking over their bones as I skirted the edge of the clearing and made for the zipline.

But beyond the cemetery, things improved. The trees grew taller. The views grew better. The steep path kept me so preoccupied that I stopped fretting about dead people. When at last I reached the starting platform, I was feeling calmer than I had in days.

For a few minutes I sat on the upper platform, enjoying the view. I thought about Aaron. How much did he remember? I was pretty sure he remembered Otford, but did he remember me? And if he didn’t, why would he have attacked my bed?

Mentioning his real name had touched a nerve, so he must have remembered something. But how much did he really understand? He’d been six years old back then. Whatever he knew now would be highly coloured. Broken up. Filtered through the eyes of an adult.

There was no telling what role I played in his personal mythology.