He sat in the passenger seat of Dad’s newish Audi TT coupe, heading for Hawthorn. It was an escape, at least from Mum. Today, she was even worse than usual. He had to get away even if it was to a house with Ivy in it. Earlier, he’d tried escaping to his old sanctuary down at Damper Creek. Mum had spied on him from the kitchen window. Deluded. (She had appalling judgement – e.g. loving him.) Caleb regularly hid in the scrub, far from watchers at their rear windows. There was nothing to fear in the creek anymore. He wasn’t even scared of snakes. How could they harm him now?

‘You’ll be right, Caleb,’ Dad said, insincerely, as the lights of Brunton faded in the rear-vision mirror. Dad grew up in Brunton. When Caleb was small, home had been with his friends in Hawthorn, where he was going now. Then, going to Gran’s place had been like visiting another world. He remembered discovering that sheet of corrugated iron resting against rocks near the creek. Mum said, ‘Watch out for rust and tetanus!’ and, more intriguingly, ‘It’s the roof of a shack belonging to a Gold Rush miner.’

Young Caleb hadn’t been allowed there and went, all the time. So what about tetanus? Until a year ago, he’d been immortal. He’d stuffed broken pencils into his pockets and discovered things to draw, mostly things the miner left behind. He’d identified colours in nature and the connections between them. An old pan was ambergris, the colour of eucalypt, camouflaged and evading detection. In those days, Caleb’s voice had been higher, unbroken in more ways than one. He’d never hurt anyone or imagined he could. Words had poured from his mouth in clear sentences, unburned as water.

‘The creek is a home for bunyips,’ Mum had said, before, describing the mysterious water beast. ‘He has long, sharp claws and long, strong arms and a looong pointed beak.’

Caleb had loved that house as a holiday destination where Gran grew vegetables in neat plots and fruit on trees. Gran had made scones, and tidied Caleb’s room for him when Mum wasn’t watching. Caleb’s room hadn’t been disgusting, then, like it was now. Mum should think he was disgusting too. He’d respect her more, at least her intelligence. Her emotions always showed on her face. Mum should have tried white make-up, a goth look herself, if she really wanted to hide her feelings.