I recognised him at once. He was ten years older and three times bigger, but his eyes were the same—wideset and ice-green, with thick, dark lashes. He was still skinny. Still scabby. Still at odds with the world.
I took one look at him and it all came flooding back.
Otford. Joyce. The lies. The police.
I’d fled to a deserted island, but I couldn’t seem to escape Aaron Rooney.
He arrived on a Sunday with twelve other boys. Their ferry was late. I’d been waiting on the jetty for a good twenty minutes when MV Kooringal chugged to a halt in front of me, nudging the piles and churning up water. From the bow I was thrown a mooring line, which I looped around the nearest bollard. The throb of the engine was almost drowned by a buzz of excited voices…