He was grateful she never forced idle chatter, never asked him anything personal. If a word was played and an interesting conversation came out of it then so be it. She told him once that part of the Sistine Chapel had to be repainted because of mould. ‘Chapel’, thirteen points. Often they passed the morning in comfortable silence. Her calm company brought back memories he hadn’t realised he’d missed.

If only she’d stop forcing her cooking attempts down his throat. She’d brought scones today. They weren’t bad, he supposed. She was definitely improving, though why she insisted on using him as her guinea pig was beyond him. Perhaps it was because he wouldn’t be missed if she accidentally poisoned him.

He forged his way through the bush and up the steep mountain path until he reached his spot. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to make the trek, each time now harder than the last.

He lowered himself on to the cold rock and stared at the two small buildings in the distance, the deep blue ocean their solid, still backdrop. For some reason, being so far away helped him feel close. Close to Ivy once more, his guardian angel so long ago taken from him.

He’d found his rock not long after that awful night on the beach. He’d been a scared young man then, sitting among the trees, no noise save the wind blowing through the leaves. The image of her wet, limp body haunting his thoughts, wondering why he’d been the one to find her, where it would lead him.

He’d looked down the valley that day at the tiny town below him dwarfed by the emerald green and sapphire embrace of nature and felt comfort for the first time in a long time.

Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves and cast shadows across the grass in front of him.

He needed that comfort again today.

Of course he’d known travelling to Sydney would be hard, but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. He’d watched from afar, too scared, too ashamed to make himself known. All that trouble to find his son and he couldn’t take the last step. Coward. All his life a coward.

Charlie saw the young man playing a ball game in his front yard with a little boy. His own grandson?

He’d watched for nearly an hour. The little boy, about ten years old Charlie guessed, had stretched his dad’s shirt over his head.

Bile had risen in Charlie’s throat and he’d had to fight to keep it down as he saw the scars covering his son’s torso. So red and vivid, even from where he stood hidden.

Guilt coursed through every fibre of his body as images of that woeful night flashed in his mind.

Seventeen