They left the office with a referral to see a psychologist. The doctor had offered them both valium to calm their nerves and help them sleep. Shaun refused, but his mum took the script with thanks. They’d both taken the tablets when his father died. It had helped them sleep, but Shaun could remember waking up feeling heavier, his mouth dry. And it didn’t change the fact that his father was still dead, and his mum still devastated. No pill could change that.

The psychologist was booked out for ages. The tentative booking that Shaun’s mum had made was a long way off. She looked at the doctor. ‘What am I supposed to do with him until then?’ she said. ‘Should I take him to the coast to see someone?’

The doctor printed off a list of a dozen names. ‘This is a list of the psychiatrists and psychologists in a three-hour radius,’ he said. ‘Any of them will accept this referral. See how soon you can get him in.’

There was no way to sneak down the hallway to Simms. Even if there was, what could Shaun ask?

He imagined himself at the foot of Simms’s bed. ‘Did you kill Tyson Grant?’

Simms shrinking in fear, nodding and being forced to sign a confession. ‘I hereby confess that I killed Tyson Grant,’ it would say, ‘and Shaun isn’t crazy. He saw the body and I panicked and hid it.’

Shaun would run to the police station, hand in the confession and Simms would be arrested. And Peter would be set free. And Megan would love him. And Will would forgive him. And his mum would shine with pride and stop crying.

He replayed the movie in his mind several times as they walked to the car.

‘Have you got much on at school at the moment?’ his mum asked as she drove out of the car park.

‘The usual. There’s a debating thing coming up.’

He imagined being in a plane with Will on one side and Megan on the other, both hating him.

‘We should call your teachers and get what you need. I don’t think you should go to school for a bit.’

He resisted the urge to yell. ‘Mum, that’s not fair. I’m fine. Honestly. I don’t understand why you can’t believe me.’

‘Sweetie, it’s not up to you. Okay? It’s my decision.’

‘But. I’M. FINE.’

Their discussion was broken by the sound of shattering glass. It was only a couple of minutes’ drive from the hospital to their place, and they were almost home. They were a few houses away when they first heard the noise. THUD, THUD, THUD, like someone bashing something metallic. It was coming from their front yard.

As they pulled up, his mum gasped. There was Peter Grant, huge and red, with a cricket bat. One of their front windows was broken, and now he was knocking the hell out of their letterbox. His ute was parked in the driveway, driver door open and engine running. He looked up, scowled and barrelled straight for them.

They locked the doors. Staring straight at Shaun, Peter lunged at the hood of the car.

His left eye was blue and swollen, just like Simms’s. He was still wearing the same clothes that Shaun had seen him in the night before.

‘Stay away from my family!’ he yelled. ‘You’re a liar!’

He turned away, slamming the bat once more into the letterbox, which gave way and crumpled, tearing off its frame and skittering along the front path. Shaun and his mother sat frozen, not daring to speak. Peter threw the bat into the back of the ute, jumped in and sped away.

Shaun went to inspect the damage. His mother stepped out behind him.

‘Jesus,’ she said quietly.

‘Mum,’ he muttered, feeling hollow and weak. ‘I’m sorry. This is my fault.’

He didn’t know what to do, or what to think. So he ran.

He didn’t leave consciously; his body just started moving. If his mother called to him he didn’t hear. The road was dusty and scorching, as always. His shirt clung to him. Occasionally, images flicked through his mind, daring him to run faster.

Peter Grant staring at him with his purple eye across the hood of their car.

His mother’s vacant face while she inspected the damage.

Megan folding in half at the pool and sobbing when he told her.

Will’s heavy sigh. The sound of the phone hanging up.

And his father. He thought of his father, looking down on him from a heaven Shaun wasn’t sure he believed in, and looking away in shame. His son had let him down.

At this, Shaun crumpled at the knees and fell to the ground, his face in the dirt.

He pushed the images away. He didn’t want to cry. He was so sick of being a pathetic loser.

He looked up.

Silence. Except for a few twittering insects. And the sound of gently lapping water.

He had run to the lake.

Exactly where he’d found Tyson. His body had taken him there without thinking.

He sat for a long time just looking at it, waiting for Tyson to walk out of the water.

Was it all some horrible nightmare? Was it all because he was still grieving for his dad?

He’d liked his dad. But he’d never felt that he knew him. Not like his mum. She had always been there. In the kitchen packing his lunch box. Smiling from the back row at his debates. On the couch beside him, watching crappy TV.

He mostly remembered his father working. His hands were always dirty. He was always sleeping. Or having a beer. They played video games together, a few times. He liked that. But most of the time he had to turn the TV down because his dad was sleeping. Or he had to go outside and play.

He’d been there when Shaun graduated from primary school. There’s a photo of them from the day: Shaun is beaming at the camera, holding out a certificate, and his dad is copying him. It was a joke. His dad was goofy like that sometimes.

Now Shaun couldn’t remember where they’d put the photo.

The sun was setting. The temperature had dropped a bit.

Then he had an idea. There was one small thing he could do to start to set matters right. But he’d have to move quickly.

He got up and started to run again.