‘You’re in shock,’ Wiremu says. He’s right. My hands are violently shaking, a cold damp fatigue is smothering the adrenaline now. ‘Just go get warmed up.’

‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘You’re probably right.’

I’m wrapped in a towel by the time Melissa comes through, yawning as though this is a common occurrence for a Friday night. She brings a small first-aid kit to the table and begins cleaning Cain’s wounds. I see now beneath the kitchen lights that Cain’s left eye is almost swollen closed, and a small transparent red trail of fluid leaks from his nose.

‘It was just the one person?’

Cain glances towards me, looks uncertain. ‘Just one,’ he says, a small shake of his head. ‘We didn’t see anyone else.’

‘Any more rounds in the shotgun?’

‘Yeah, a couple,’ Cain says. ‘We only used one.’

We, but what he really means is me. I pulled the trigger. I’ve killed someone. Wiremu looks up, the creases bracketing his mouth deepen, those weary brown eyes are focused. ‘Doors are locked, I’ll call the coppers and an ambulance.’

Wiremu makes the call in another room. The clock tells me it’s only 1 am, but that seems impossible. I think of the cameras in the house, what he showed me. Those strangers talking about the scene. PlatoOf21C saved my life. They suggested lifting the fireplace and it worked. It actually worked. I don’t know who or why these people were watching me, but someone actually helped me out of there.

Wiremu has called an old friend in the Rotorua police directly and he’s still talking when he comes back into the room. ‘Cain reckons the man’s toast, took a round of buckshot to the guts… I’ll keep them here. Thanks.’

•

‘There are cameras in the house,’ I say. The cop was evidently once good-looking. Mid-forties, balding with dark eyes and sharp rockstar cheekbones. He stops marking his notebook and his eyes fix on me.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He showed me his phone, he had set up hidden cameras in our house. It was live.’

‘What do you mean live?’

‘Streaming, I think.’ I pause, my mind is fatigued, I can barely express myself. ‘Umm, to people. They were commenting as it was happening.’

His eyes narrow so they’re almost closed, a look somewhere between scepticism and disgust. He looks down, his breath is audible. ‘Commenting? And these cameras were running?’

I nod.

‘Right,’ he says.

He stands, take out his phone and steps into another room. I can hear the murmur of his voice. He comes back, pockets his phone and sits down again, beside me.