13

The next morning, I walk into the kitchen and open the fridge door. The roast lamb sits on a tray on the top shelf, surrounded by potatoes, carrots and pumpkin. I grab a potato and put it under the griller. Mum walks in and boils the kettle.

‘There’s a lot of food left,’ I say.

She takes the teapot down from the shelf and tosses in a teabag before pouring boiling water over it.

‘I cancelled.’

‘You cancelled?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

‘Why?’ I ask.

She brings the teapot and cup to the table and sits down. ‘Because of your father,’ she says.

‘What did he do?’

‘I still love the bastard,’ she says. ‘It might take a bit longer …’

‘It’s okay, Mum. Men aren’t worth it.’

She laughs and pours the tea. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

I remove the potato from under the griller. It’s too hot to hold so I drop it on a plate and carry it to the table.

‘Do we have any butter?’ I ask.

‘What do think this place is, a restaurant?’ She smiles.

I take a big mouthful.

‘Bloody delicious.’

‘The roast has to last a few days,’ she says. She takes a sip of tea and reaches out to touch my hand. ‘You’re the only man for me.’

Charlotte isn’t at school. I wander the yard before the bell, knowing she won’t arrive. Blake and Hayley play basketball which involves Blake putting his arms around Hayley and lots of giggling. They don’t notice me as I walk past. I zombie through Science and English. At lunch, I jump the back fence and walk to Charlotte’s house.

At the front gate, I check the mailbox. It’s crammed with letters. I creep up the driveway, stand on the front verandah and stare at the door handle. After a few minutes, I swallow hard and knock.

The sound echoes through the house.

I look through the window. No movement.

I take out my phone and call Charlotte’s number, pressing my ear to the door to hear if it rings from inside.

Silence.

In the garden, a lone ornamental gnome laughs at me. The house keeps its secrets.

After school, I go to the library. Tracey is at the counter.

‘My favourite customer. How can I help?’ she says.

‘I … I want to learn about domestic violence,’ I say.

Tracey frowns and looks to the computers.

‘It’s okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll find it.’

She shakes her head and signals for a man wearing a blue and white shirt to staff the front counter. Then we sit on a lounge and stare at a wind-blown courtyard of lime trees and overflowing rubbish bins.

‘It’s for a friend,’ I say.

She arches an eyebrow as if we’re speaking in code.

‘No, really. I live with my mum,’ I add.

Tracey nods.

‘The woman involved,’ she says, ‘should report it.’

‘The police?’

‘She can take out an order and the man has to stay away.’

‘I don’t think she’ll do that.’

Tracey sighs. She leans back against the lounge. ‘Men can be brutal cowards.’

‘My … my friend wants to …’ I don’t know how to say it, ‘… to … to pay him back,’ I whisper.

Tracey shakes her head. ‘Violence doesn’t work. It makes it worse.’

She pats my knee, stands and walks to a shelf in the corner. She pulls out a pamphlet and brings it back to me.

I attempt a smile. ‘I knew you’d give me a brochure.’

‘She’s lucky to have a friend like you,’ Tracey says.

A grey-haired man hovers near us, wanting to ask a question. She tries to ignore him until I nod and stand.

‘Brutal cowards,’ I repeat.

‘Let me know how it goes,’ she says.

While reading the brochure, I use the library wi-fi to listen to a podcast on my phone where four women discuss domestic violence. A school teacher talks about how she used to love the debates she’d have with her husband on politics and education. She thought their arguments were a sign of the strength of their marriage. But he always had to have the last word and if she kept arguing, he’d get personal. One day he called her ‘a stupid bitch’ and punched the wall beside her head. She couldn’t believe it was the same man she’d married.

Another woman who’d been married for twenty-seven years talks about how she was too scared to leave her husband. She reasoned it was safer taking the verbal abuse than escalating the situation. Her voice cracked when she mentioned her grown children who’d left home and didn’t know what their father was really like. How much she dreaded Christmas and family birthdays.

I switch off the podcast. My hands are sweating.

Thursday morning. A heavy mist smudges the school. Water drips from the pine trees at the front gates where I wait. After two days away, Charlotte walks straight past me. I call her name. She pretends not to hear.

I walk beside her to class, repeating what I’d read in the brochure. Charlotte ignores me. I can tell she’s been crying even if she won’t look at me.

She pushes through the door and sits at her desk, alone against the world. When Ms Childs enters, I go to my chair. All through the period, I don’t take in a word anyone says. Although I’m looking at the whiteboard, I notice every move Charlotte makes.

At lunch, she goes to the library where I can’t talk to her. I’m dismissed, like a bad smell.

At the end of the day, I follow her out of the schoolyard. The mist has turned into rain. Cars slosh down the street with their headlights switched on. I call her name again. She doesn’t turn around. At the corner of her street, I realise that, just like her father, I’m only making it worse.

I shiver with the thought. I watch her walk away before shuffling home, one useless foot after the other.

In my bedroom, I lay back and stare at the ceiling for a long time. The peeling paint doesn’t offer any answers. I fall asleep and stay that way until morning. Mum leaves me alone.