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‘Amelie,’ Dr McLeod said quietly. ‘I think you’ve hurt yourself.’

‘No.’

‘I stand corrected. You’ve been hurt.’ Dr McLeod knew I took things literally, but she never made a joke of it. I appreciated that. ‘Show me your hands.’

My hands were more painful closed than open, but I was reluctant to unclench them because Dr McLeod would see what had happened. With gentle fingers around my wrists, she turned my hands palms up and I did as she’d asked.

‘What have you done?’ Mum was shocked when she saw. ‘What happened?’

A week later, when the dressings came off and I returned to school, the counsellor called me in and asked about the bullying. I presume it was Dr McLeod who reported it, because my parents stayed clear of authority and wouldn’t have wanted to make a fuss. It was easy enough to avoid Cameron in the classroom, but he found me on my way to the library at lunchtime.

‘Amelie.’ He fell into step beside me. ‘Mum said I had to wait until you were at school again. Can I talk to you?’

He could run twice as fast as I could, especially back then, but when I took off, he kept to my pace. We hadn’t gone far when the teacher on duty called him back.

The second time he tried to talk to me was after school. It was unusual that other kids weren’t hanging around him like they usually did. ‘Amelie. I want to explain.’

If not for what had happened at the roundabout, I would have appreciated the chance to talk to Cameron one on one, like we did when our teachers put us in pairs to answer the difficult questions in the back of the textbook that no one else could tackle. This time it was different. I’d told his mother the truth: I hated him just as much as I hated the others, probably even more. So, when he approached me that second time, I pointedly pushed my glasses up my nose and yelled that he should go away. He seemed shocked to hear me swear so much (I guess I was only twelve) and took a step back. Then he said (in a croaky voice I could barely hear) that he’d talk to me tomorrow.

As the sun came up the next day, my parents wedged me into the back seat of their van, boxes of leaflets on one side, vegetables on the other, pots and pans at my feet …

Chapter 5

When I arrive at the vet surgery on Wednesday morning to let the cleaners in, an elderly man with an ancient straw hat is standing at the gate.

‘G’day, there.’ He holds out his hand. ‘I’m Jimmy, Julia’s gardener.’

‘Amelie Peterson.’

He grins at Keith Urban. ‘Hello, mate. Gordon told me you were coming back. How’s your master really getting on?’

After telling Jimmy, on Keith Urban’s behalf, that Gordon’s health is slowly improving, I collect my bags from the ute and wait for Jimmy to step aside.

‘I’ve already let the cleaners in,’ he says.

‘They’re here for the kitchen and living spaces.’ I put the bags down. ‘I’m doing the waiting and treatment rooms myself.’

‘No access till next week.’ Jimmy taps his head. ‘Safety hats and all that with the scaffolding.’

I pick up the bags again. ‘I want to get in.’

‘Didn’t Julia explain?’ He grimaces. ‘She must’ve had one of her off days yesterday.’

‘I’m sorry she’s been unwell, but … explain what?’

‘Your hazmat crew will get rid of the dead cat and all that other palaver in the kitchen, but I’ve got strict instructions from Julia to get the whole of the terrace, the surgery and living space, cleaned up good and proper. You’ll be good to get into the surgery once the builders have set themselves up, but the accommodation will be out of bounds until the end of January.’

‘That’s not possible.’ I drop my bag at my feet. ‘I want to live in the rooms behind the surgery. Dr Brown agreed to that.’

‘You’ve got the cabin at Cam’s place. That’ll see you right.’

‘I said I’d be there for a week.’

‘As soon as the cleaners are out, that’ll be sometime later today, the builders will gut the back of the terrace. Kitchen, ceiling, internal walls, they’ll strip it out and start fresh.’

‘Why now?’

He puts his hands on his hips. ‘I’m thinking a dead cat might’ve had something to do with it.’