The memorial service was short and exquisitely painful, the minister struggling to find meaning in what had happened. ‘God gave us fire for a purpose,’ he attempted. Throughout the congregation, harsh breaths rattled. But the minister could have gone further. The wrath of God shall burn the wicked as fire devours the chaff and the people shall be as fuel to the fire, he could have said. It was a religious quote I’d read tossed around online in certain attacks on Caleb. At least he avoided that.

We gathered in the churchyard afterwards. Caleb was as silent as the penultimate moment in a horror movie. Scars on his hands marked him, like Cain, for punishment or retribution. I touched his arm.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ A strange, angry voice was an assault.

At first I felt outraged. Someone was swearing, aggressively, near a church. I spun on the ball of my foot, best primary school principal’s face on, ready to confront the delinquent.

Remember where you are. The words formed at the back of my mouth.

But it wasn’t one of my students. A middle-aged man was poking Caleb in the chest. His top lip was raised into a snarl that exposed yellow teeth. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know me. I’ve seen you around Brunton often enough.’

‘Don’t do this, Uncle Mike,’ I heard Penelope say. ‘It’s a mistake. I’ve told you!’

Other mourners approached. Two men Mike’s age stood with him.

I watched, horrified, as the muscles in Caleb’s right hand, hanging by his side, twitched. Would he fight? The atmosphere thickened further.

‘Stephen?’ I said. ‘Stephen?’

Stephen stepped towards our son. Then one of Mike’s friends put an arm around his shoulder. ‘This isn’t the place, mate.’

Mike covered his face with his hands. His friend turned to Caleb. ‘You should go home.’

They walked off. Other mourners continued to stare. Caleb watched his feet, like they might do something unexpected. Whispers swirled like embers.

‘What’s he here for…?’

‘Why isn’t he in jail…?’

‘Stephen, you have to do something,’ I said. ‘People can’t talk like this.’

‘You need to take him home. I’ll talk to you tonight.’

I took Caleb’s elbow. Beneath his hair curtain, he grunted a reply. But he followed me to the car and opened the back door. When I checked in the rear-vision mirror, white cords again sprouted from his ears. He beat a rhythm with his fingers.

‘Do you want to talk?’ I asked.

A moment later the beat of his hands was matched by an audible bassline, leaking from his earbuds. He had turned the volume up, drowning me out. I existed in the same space as him but, also, he was on his own.

At home, Caleb stomped into his room. I poured wine and checked my emails.