Cameron lay on the floor of his brother’s room and stared at the model planes dangling from the ceiling. They hung completely still, their wings held aloft by a funky teenage mix of sweat and sneakers and spray deodorant. But Cameron didn’t open a window. Didn’t want a single molecule of his brother to escape before he’d had a chance to properly say goodbye.
He took a deep breath, as though he could absorb the last few years of Lincoln’s life by breathing in stale air. The walls were covered in Blu-tacked pictures of a teenager he didn’t quite recognise: the same toothy grin, but taller, thinner. More confident. Lincoln had been a shy and overweight twelve when Cameron left. ‘But I had no choice,’ Cameron angrily told the room. He couldn’t stay here, watching Pete get on with his life like nothing had happened, watching him go off every day to work at the same place as her, knowing what he knew.
Through the thin wall, Cameron could hear Pete banging around in his own bedroom, becoming familiar with the newly dark space. He didn’t get up to help. Just watched the planes shudder slightly with the reverberation. Had Lincoln really loved the idea of flying that much, or had Pete pushed him into it? Wanted his real son to share his passion? ‘I’m your dad too,’ Pete had insisted, when Cameron started calling him by his first name, but that was bull. Pete was Lincoln’s father and Cameron’s stepfather, and there was a world of difference. Pete had never bothered to take Cameron flying.
There was a painful-sounding thump next door, but Cameron stayed put. He had a real dad, in Sydney, the first place he’d run to, but he’d been just as useless. Hadn’t wanted much to do with him. Cameron had spent a week on his old man’s couch then taken off again, working odd labouring shifts until he lucked out and got a job crewing on a super yacht. Went wherever they sent him. Travelling was a bloody good way to deal with pain.
But in turning his back on Pete, he’d also turned his back on Lincoln. Cameron stood up and fingered a yellow Tiger Moth. Kid probably thought he didn’t care. He yanked on the plane, feeling a satisfying pop as the string gave up its grip on the plaster. And when he finally did return, it was too late. He pulled down another plane, then another, and another. Cameron wasn’t one for apologies. But he could make a promise. He went to chuck the planes in the bin, then realised it was probably Lincoln who’d painstakingly glued them together. ‘I’ll make sure no one gets away with anything,’ he whispered, stacking the models carefully in a desk drawer instead. ‘I’ll find out what happened, and I’ll make sure people pay.’ First his mum, now his brother. Cameron felt a wave of emotion so overwhelming he had to drop onto Lincoln’s narrow single bed. ‘I promise,’ he said again, trying to stay angry. Anger was easier to deal with than grief; his grief might just bury him. Justice, Cameron told himself, as he clutched Lincoln’s pillow to his chest. Retaliation. Payback. It was the only thing that had kept him sane last time. He shoved his face in the pillow so Pete wouldn’t have the satisfaction of hearing him fall apart.