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He unfurled the newspaper and turned straight to the TV page. ‘What would you normally watch on a Friday afternoon?’

I looked at the paper and picked out the programmes I was in the habit of watching.

‘Right. If anyone asks, you stayed indoors today because it was too hot. You watched these TV shows. You noticed Rangi come home around lunchtime and you never saw him again. Okay? Where are the empty beer cans?’

‘We left them at the lakeside. His T-shirt is still there.’

‘Good. Accidental drowning because the stupid boy was drunk.’

‘What about his Auntie Georgia?’

‘What about her? She’ll move away now because she can’t drive. It suits us. I’ll buy her property. Dangerous having neighbours that close. It’s only a shack. I might even pay her more than it’s worth – or maybe not, that wouldn’t look right.’

I didn’t understand what he was talking about. I tried to make him understand.

‘Dad, my friend died. My only friend. Ever.’

He put his hand out and clasped mine. ‘I know it’s tough right now, but you have me. You’ll always have me.’

My tears pooled with the vinegar on my plate. He didn’t get it.

I went to bed about 9 p.m. as usual. It was still bright but I was looking forward to the oblivion of sleep. Sometimes Auntie Georgia got dropped off home by another bar worker around 9.30 p.m., 11 at the latest. Despite my exhaustion, I could not sleep.

At 10.15 p.m., there was a tentative knock on our front door. I heard Dad go out to the porch.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but my boy isn’t home and I’m wondering if Stevie’s seen him?’

‘My son, Steven, is in bed, as he should be.’

‘Oh, I know he’s a good boy, but would you mind if I talked to him?’

‘You want me to wake my son, at this hour?’

‘Yeah, it’s just that I’m worried, it’s not like Rangi to go off on his own.’

‘Rangi?’

‘Yeah, that’s my boy’s name. Him and Stevie are mates.’

‘Steven and Rangi are not friends. Steven has often complained that your son has come here uninvited. He has encouraged my son to drink beer. Steven is a quiet child and is easily intimidated. When Rangi does come home, please ask him not to bother Steven any more.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. How could my dad be so cruel? He knew that Rangi was dead, and yet he was allowing Rangi’s aunt to think that he was some kind of bully who intimidated me.

Auntie Georgia scuttled back to her house.

I emerged from my room, furious. ‘Dad!’

‘Lower your voice.’

‘Why did you say those things to her?’

‘Those are the things I believe. He was a bad influence on you. Good riddance. It will be a few days before she does anything. Her type doesn’t go to the police. When the body shows up, they might come around here asking questions, but you stick to that story, all right? Now, go back to bed.’

I did as I was told but I didn’t like it. He didn’t know Rangi. He had never even spoken to him. He’d lied about him.

The next morning, Auntie Georgia was picked up in a minibus as usual. She put a note under our door, asking us to call her boss if Rangi turned up. She assumed we would have a phone.

That Saturday night, after her shift at the bar, she knocked on the door again, asking Dad if we’d seen Rangi and then asking him if she could use our telephone.

Dad feigned a bit more concern this time. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Sisterson, but I checked with Steven, he didn’t see Rangi at all yesterday, though he did hear his truck pull into your driveway around lunchtime. He’s sorry to hear that your boy is missing. We will keep an eye out for him, but I’m afraid we don’t have a telephone. Who did you want to call?’

‘The police! Rangi has been missing for more than a day now. It’s not like him. He hasn’t even left a note.’

‘Didn’t the children get their summer holidays yesterday? Might he have gone camping with some friends?’

‘Without his truck? Without a bag? He doesn’t have friends. He thinks your Stevie is his friend. Talks about him all the time.’

‘Well, I’m sorry that Steven doesn’t feel the same way. Goodnight, Miss Sisterson.’

Dad kept calling me Steven to Aunt Georgia, even though he called me Steve, and sometimes Stevie. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d called me Peter. ‘Steven’ was a way of distancing me from Rangi, as if the name he called me was in some way illicit.

Dad came to my room again. ‘She might call the police tomorrow. Just remember. Stick to our story. Stay indoors. She doesn’t work on Sundays, right? Keep out of sight.’

The next day, early, she banged on our door again.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Armstrong, but would you be so kind as to drive me into town? I don’t know how to drive, see, and I need to report that my boy is missing.’

Dad played the good neighbour. He told me to stay put while he took Auntie Georgia to the police station. They returned three hours later. From my window, I could see that her face was tear-stained. She held my father’s handkerchief to her eyes.