I found the battered green suitcase that contained my childhood things tucked away at the bottom of an old wooden wardrobe. I pulled it out, sat down on the floor in front of it, then clicked the rusted latches. The camphor smell of mothballs. Nan scattered them around like confetti and the old suitcase hadn’t escaped. Probably just as well, because everything was intact, just a little yellowed and brittle. Using torchlight for extra illumination, I flicked through old school report cards, stories I’d written and paintings I’d done, until I came to the thing I was looking for. It was a class photo taken when I was in year three at Deception Bay Primary School. I stood in the middle row, wild-haired and gap-toothed, next to a dark-haired boy. I knew without checking the names typed below the photo. The boy was Brett Millard.

Bretty M, the naughty boy.

And so, naturally, I’d been drawn to him, because he had the confidence and daring that I’d wished I had at that age.

The memories came flooding back. Every time the teacher turned her back on him, Brett would be up to mischief. If there was a window broken at Deception Bay Primary, Brett would’ve been on the throwing end of the rock. If something went missing or pigtails were pulled, Brett would be there. Back then, his actions were exciting, but thinking back as an adult, I realised he must have been a nightmare for his parents and teachers.

And suddenly, a memory came to me, as clear as a bell.

One afternoon, I had gone around to Brett’s place to play. We were sitting on the floor of his bedroom when his father burst into the room. He was red-faced and angry and screaming. I didn’t understand all of it, but I got the gist—money had been stolen from the school and Brett had been accused of it and the school principal had called Brett’s dad.

I was frozen, mesmerised by the violence of the yelling, when suddenly Brett’s father raised his arm and I saw he had a cane. Brett looked like he was dancing on hot coals as his father swung the cane at his legs. His father’s arm moved in an arc, up and down, back and forth; the cane whistled through the air, followed by a sharp crack as it connected with Brett’s thin white legs over and over. A flap of his dad’s hair—usually oiled flat—came loose and whipped back and forth like a barn door in a storm. My mouth gaped in horror and I couldn’t move.