Joe went for the first-aid kit. Warren had to raise his voice. In the end Flynn didn’t need a Band-aid because the peeler hadn’t drawn blood. But what with his over-the-top performance, and Sam’s attempt to hide Matt’s peeler, and Tyler’s bitter denunciation of Sam’s ‘fucking stupid practical jokes’, I was relieved to finally walk out of that kitchen. An hour of unrelieved teenage sniping was as much as I could take.

It astonished me that Warren could put up with all the noise and drama. But I suppose he’d endured much worse. ‘When you’ve been shot at,’ he’d once told me, ‘teenage boys are no big deal.’

I ate dinner by myself, at home, as the sky darkened. Then I trudged back out to monitor the campfire, keeping a close eye on every trip to the toilet. Matt went, and Flynn, and Connor and Dean, but none of them interfered with the plumbing. While the boys went to brush their teeth, I cleaned the kitchen. While they put on their pyjamas, I doused the smoking campfire.

Most of them were in bed by the time I headed back to my house. I passed Rhys on the way, shepherding Marcus Stubbs into the men’s bathroom. When I wished them both goodnight, Marcus surprised me by saluting.

‘Good one, mate,’ said Rhys. ‘Nicely done.’

It was nine o’clock. Half an hour later I was tucked between clean sheets. The doors were locked and bolted. The windows were shut. The curtains were drawn. The veranda light was on.

But the mattress from the matron’s house was full of lumps. I found myself rolling around in the dark, wide awake, trying to find a comfortable spot. An hour passed. Then another. I knew I needed sleep; I had to get up early.

It was close to midnight when I heard something outside—a scuffling sound, followed by a hiss and a muffled squawk.

I sat up, then leaped out of bed and padded to the front door, where I hesitated for a moment. A rifle was locked in a gun safe behind the office desk. But I’d been told not to touch firearms if there were visitors on the island, so I darted into the museum and grabbed a pre-war cricket bat before stepping onto the veranda.

There was movement over by the dining hall. A pale T-shirt was just visible in the darkness, clinging to a large, muscular torso. Warren’s?

No, Shaun’s. Even with his back turned, I recognised his strutting gait.

He was hustling someone away from my house—someone in a dark tank top and droopy sweat pants. Someone with wide shoulders and flapping limbs.

Aaron Rooney.

2009

2009

AARON WAS SUSPENDED for two days after his Wednesday-morning meltdown.