In the last moments of his dream he was a camel awash in the warmth of a miniature sun so close he felt he could have reached out and touched it. A kind handler was stroking his flanks and whispering words in a language he didn’t know. As he drifted up into wakefulness the handler became his uncle and he was no longer a camel but himself. In the grey and uncertain early light he felt the loss keenly. His uncle was telling him it was time to get up and he raised his head off the pillow and nodded and his uncle left him to get ready.

When he was dressed the boy went to the kitchen where his uncle sat at the table nursing a mug of black coffee. He poured himself a bowl of cornflakes with plenty of sugar and when he couldn’t find a clean spoon he took yesterday’s from the sink and gave it a quick rinse. Outside the kitchen window a kookaburra started to cackle and the rest of the clan quickly took up the call. From the neighbouring valley came an answering chorus and the two groups of birds traded maniacal war cries while he bent to his breakfast and watched his uncle sip his coffee in silence. The boy thought he looked a lot older than his father. He had big hands but a thin neck under a narrow head and with only a greying band of hair around the back and sides his forehead seemed endless.

When he’d finished his cornflakes he went and put the bowl in the sink then sat back down to wait. His uncle didn’t seem to speak very often, least of all in the mornings, but when he did he spoke gently and as though everything were almost a joke. After a few days of being frightened of this new house and this man with strange ways the boy had decided he liked him and now paid him closer attention than he’d ever paid to an adult before.

Nobody had told him why he was going to stay with his uncle, only that he’d be there for a week and that when he came back things would be better. Nobody had told him what things would be better or why.

As his uncle stood up and drained the last of his coffee the boy jumped down off his chair and ran to get his jacket from his room.

There was a rough dirt road that ran from his uncle’s house down to the bottom of the valley and along the side of the farmhouse before it joined the main dirt driveway on its way to the front gate of the property. The ute bounced and rolled alarmingly until they reached the driveway where the ride became easier, though the fishing gear in the back continued to rattle around. The boy still wasn’t sure why there were two houses or how much of the property his uncle owned. There were often cars in front of the farmhouse but since he’d arrived he’d seen nobody but his uncle.

Once they were out on the highway the morning fog started to burn off and the cab of the ute grew warm and stuffy. The boy kept a close eye on his uncle and when he saw him open the driver’s side window a crack he carefully rolled his own window down an equal amount. It was nearly the end of March and summer was still lingering. They were out of the hills now and the landscape that slid past was dry and unchanging.

When they reached the town they parked in the main street in front of the post office and his uncle switched off the engine.

You wait here, he said. I won’t be a minute.

The boy nodded and as the door slammed shut he leant his head against the window and watched a tiny spider descend from the side mirror on an invisible thread. It was Sunday so most of the shops were shut. The only other people the boy could see were two young kids on pushbikes riding slowly down the middle of the street, each with one hand on the handlebars and the other dangling loose. He watched them as they rode by but they were talking to one another and didn’t see him.

When his uncle returned he passed a plastic bag to him as he climbed in.

You hold on to that, he said.

What is it? the boy asked.

Breakfast for the fish. And medicine for me.

They boy frowned and peered into the bag.

Bait, his uncle explained.

The boy put the bag down by his feet where sat another plastic bag full of empty bottles.

From the town it was another half an hour to the river. The last ten minutes were by dirt road. On one side was a wire fence that ran as far as the boy could see in both directions and on the other were thick trees. All of a sudden his uncle pulled over and switched off the engine. The boy looked around but he still couldn’t see the water. His uncle had already climbed out and was getting the fishing gear from the back so he picked up the plastic bag with the bait and followed him.

They went in under the trees and soon the ground started sloping away. After a few minutes walking the soil grew damp and then the boy saw the underside of a metal dinghy that was lying overturned on a bare patch of earth. Behind it was the dark expanse of the river. His uncle put down the rods, the tackle box and the bucket and with a grunt of effort he lifted and rolled the boat the right way up. There were two low wooden planks for seats and a pair of oars strapped to the inside of the hull. The boy came a little closer and peered all along its length as though he were inspecting it for faults while his uncle did the same. It was both well used and well maintained.

Couldn’t somebody just take it? the boy asked.

They could I suppose. But you can’t see it from the road. That only leaves the river and if you’re on the river I figure you’ve probably already got a boat.

They threw in the rods and tackle box and the bag with the bait and together they pushed it into the water. The boy tried to copy his uncle’s smooth step into the boat as it cast off on the river but he didn’t get the timing right and ended up splashing along with the water up to his knees before he finally managed to haul himself aboard. He sat himself on the stern seat and looked at his shoes. They were wet and heavy. He thought about taking them off but as he bent down to unlace them he noticed an old fishhook lying in a pool of rusty water in the bottom of the boat and so left them on. His uncle was kneeling at the bow to unstrap the oars.

The current wasn’t strong and they drifted slowly downstream towards a bend in the river and towards the morning sun still sitting low in the sky. The boy looked across at the far bank and thought it looked very different from the one they’d just come from. The trees seemed to hang further out over the water and it was difficult to see where the land began in the shadows beneath their branches. His uncle finally got the oars into the locks and with even strokes he pulled them towards the middle of the river.

The boy had been proud to say when his uncle asked that he had been fishing before. He could bait a hook without sticking his thumb and he could work the reel mechanism to make a cast and his uncle said that was all anyone ever needed to know.

They drifted in the shadeless centre of the river where the current was listless and where his uncle said the shadow of the boat wouldn’t scare the fish that hid in the channel just under the far bank.

Fish are a slippery lot, he said. Smart too.

He had the boy pass him the bag with the bait and then filled the bucket with water from the river. He pulled from the bag a frozen lump of little prawns in plastic and tossed it into the bucket.

They’ll have to wait for breakfast to defrost, he said and produced a bottle wrapped in brown paper from the same bag the bait had been in. He unscrewed the top and took a long sip.

The boy leaned over the side and dangled his fingers in the water. The morning glare reflected off the surface and the impenetrable dark below seemed to swarm with possibilities. He imagined the tips of his fingers were bait and that they were being watched and patiently hunted by some undiscovered river creature lying cold amongst the rocks and weeds. He envisioned its huge eyes opening and a stirring of mud as it slithered up off the river bottom and began to circle. He saw its pale body undulating behind a head held perfectly still as a million years worth of predatory instincts fixated on its quarry and then with a twitch of its tail and a sudden burst of speed the jaws yawned wide lined with countless sharp and irregularly spaced teeth and he jerked his hand free of the water. The ripples dispersed and the surface was soon still again.

His uncle had the tackle box open and was digging about inside. He came up with a spare length of fishing line and tied one end to the oarlock. He took the bottle out of its brown paper wrapping and tied the other end of the fishing line tightly below a bulge in the neck then threw it overboard. The boy watched the bottle disappear then looked his uncle.

Keeps it cool, his uncle said. Nothing worse on a hot day than a hotter drink.

The boy nodded and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

Once the bait was defrosted his uncle showed him how to use the natural curl of a prawn’s body to thread it onto the hook so no metal showed through.

On his first attempt to cast into the channel under the trees the boy threw too far and hooked an overhanging branch. He tugged a couple of times but it wouldn’t come loose. His uncle told him to hold both the rods while he rowed over and freed the sinker from a fork where it had become wedged. From then on the boy kept his casts low and most of them dropped well short of the shadows but he didn’t mind.

Through the first hour or so they both had a few bites but neither managed to hook anything. The sun climbed steadily and its heat reflected off the water and off the metal dinghy. Each time his uncle had to rebait his hook he’d drag up the bottle and take a drink first. The boy thought the water droplets sliding down the glass as it emerged from the river looked like heaven. His uncle hadn’t offered him a drink and so when the thirst became unbearable he leant over the side and drank straight from the river. It was cold and tasted clean enough. He drank deeply and then leaned further out of the boat so he could dunk his head and wash away all the sweat. As he did so he felt the dinghy start to tilt. He tried to pull himself back in but he was too far over and couldn’t get any leverage and as he started to panic he got a mouth full of water. He felt a strong tug as his uncle grabbed a hold of the back of his shirt and hauled him back on board. The boy sat coughing and wiping the water from his eyes as he tried to get his breath back. He still had his rod clutched tightly in his hand.

Thanks, he said.

You’ll want to take your shoes off before you go swimming, said his uncle as he took another drink and screwed the bottle cap on tight before dropping it back into the river.

Let’s try a bit further up upstream.

The sun was almost directly overhead by the time his uncle found a spot he was happy with and they baited their hooks again. The river was narrower here and the current a little stronger.

Should get us back to where we parked before dusk hits, his uncle said.

They cast towards the shadows again and this time the boy landed it close under the trees. He flicked the reel closed and rested his finger lightly against the line. He could feel the faint tension running through it from the current pulling them all downstream. Almost immediately he felt a tiny tug. He jerked the rod upwards slightly but whatever it was was gone. Then there came another tiny tug and before he could react the rod bent down sharply and was nearly jerked out of his hands. He managed to hold on and pulled back hard. He could feel the fish jerking and pulling all over as he fought to wind in the reel.

Got one, his uncle said. Just take your time and get him in.

The boy’s jaw was clenched tight and he gripped the rod with both hands and his knees. He wound in the line whenever he felt a little slack come into it and he could feel he was getting close. Suddenly there was a splash only a couple of metres from the boat and a tail flashed up amidst the brilliance of light caught in the disturbed water and then the line went slack. The rod was no longer bent down towards the water and the boy wound in the reel without resistance. The hook was gone.

Must have bit through the line, his uncle said. Don’t worry. We’ll get a new one on there in a minute. Wasn’t your fault. Fish are annoyingly particular about getting dragged along by a hook stuck through their mouth.

He handed the boy his rod and dragged up the bottle again. It was nearly three quarters empty. He took a drink then returned it to the river and stood up.

Nature calls, he said. Hold on to that for a second.

The boy held his uncle’s rod carefully and laid his finger against the line. The boat rocked as his uncle struggled to steady himself and then came a long bubbling sound and his uncle sighed deeply. The boy kept his eyes fixed on the spot where the line disappeared into the dark water under the trees. After what seemed like a very long time the bubbling stopped and his uncle sat down and started threading a fresh hook with a frown of deep concentration.

By mid afternoon they still hadn’t caught a fish. The trees drifting past were the only measure of their passage and the boy began to grow tired. From time to time his uncle took up an oar to keep them in the middle of the river. The boy thought all the fish must have been frightened away by his near miss because since he’d lost the hook they hadn’t had a nibble.

His uncle sat hunched in the front of the boat facing away from him the boy occasionally caught snatches of soft songs that he didn’t recognise. His finger had started to cramp a while back from being held still against the line for so long so he no longer bothered. Instead he held his rod loosely between his knees and watched the ripples in the river play with the sun that lay scattered over its surface. His shoes and socks were still damp and uncomfortable. Sitting in the bottom of the boat hadn’t allowed them to dry properly. A slight bend in the river was approaching and the boy noticed that they were beginning to drift in towards the bank but his uncle made no move towards the oar.

A kookaburra started up nearby. The boy looked up at the sun and saw it still had a long way to go to reach the horizon. He knew kookaburras were meant to call at dusk and dawn and he figured this one must live by some other clock.

They were drifting ever closer to the overhanging trees by the bank and the boy was starting to wonder if maybe he should give his uncle a tap on the shoulder to let him know when a slight jolt went through the boat. His uncle raised his head and looked around. The boy glanced over the side and saw a small wave where the current was running up against the boat rather than carrying them along with it. They were still a little way from the trees and the boy couldn’t work out why they’d stopped.

His uncle swore and when the boy looked over he saw him standing and fingering the line tied to the oarlock. It was taut as a bowstring.

Fucking bottle must have gotten snagged, his uncle said and tugged on the line. It wouldn’t budge. He handed his rod to the boy and started to tug harder and shake it from side to side trying to get it loose. He braced his foot against the side of the boat and the veins stood out on his neck and then without warning the bottle came free. The boy had time to note the look of surprise on his uncle’s face as he fell backwards and the boat flipped them both into the river. As he floundered about trying to rid himself of the fishing rods and his mouth filled with water he found himself looking up at the surface where the sun wavered thin and unaccountably small. A shadow moved across the sky and blocked it from view and when he reached up a hand he felt cold metal.

He stepped out onto the balcony with his glass of orange juice and stopped as he stared at the empty cage. His chest tightened up as he remembered his brother’s warning.

Never leave her outside by herself, Mitch had said as he carefully filled the little plastic container with birdseed and fixed it to the inside of the cage. Currawongs eat smaller birds and they’ll grab a budgie with their beak and pull it right through the bars.

Squeak nipped delicately at his proffered finger then turned her full attention to the pile of seeds.

The sun was falling behind the trees across the valley. They’d all be home soon. He looked all around the cage but he couldn’t see any blood or broken feathers. He told himself she’d probably opened the gate herself and flown off. She’d almost managed it once or twice before but her frantic efforts always ended with her just poking her head out before the gate slid shut on her neck and she was left shrieking and flapping her pale blue wings helplessly. The cage sat mute in the dappling light. He decided that it wouldn’t be too much of a lie to say that he’d seen her fly off past the kitchen window. Mitch would be angry with him for leaving her outside but the thought of her flying away free and happy wouldn’t be so bad.

The cage was light when he picked it up and as he turned to carry it inside he heard a lone Currawong chuckle a melody that echoed across the silent valley. He looked over his shoulder but there was no movement in the trees.

Tom cut the engine but kept the headlights on. There was only the single floodlight for the whole field and he thought the boys would appreciate the extra illumination for their last few drills. The forwards were packing scrums while the backs worked through some set moves. He turned the radio up to catch the news but it was the national edition and all fairly depressing so he switched it off and listened to the shouted instructions from the coach and the mingled calls from the players that drifted across on the bitter night air. Eventually the coach blew a whistle and the team assembled for a warm down lap and then a final talk. Steam rose from their bodies and when they came together in a huddle it coalesced and went up like a communal prayer.

Tom started the engine as the players wandered from the field. He spotted Hamish walking with the coach and nodding from time to time while the coach talked and gestured emphatically. They stopped near the car and the coach gave Hamish a clap on the shoulder as they parted.

How was it? Tom asked as Hamish climbed in and slammed the door shut.

Good, he replied.

What did the coach want with you at the end there?

Oh, he was just giving me some tips on how I can draw a defender or two when I take the ball from a ruck.

Tom nodded as he swung the car around and the gravel crunched beneath the tyres.

That’s good, he said. You’ll create more gaps for your forwards to run into.

They pulled out onto the main street of town and the headlights lit up the row of houses that sat across from the football field and the car park of the abandoned supermarket next door. The half-acre of asphalt was empty but for a single shopping trolley lying on its side.

The town was spread out in a methodical grid pattern like one of the great metropolises of North America but the buildings themselves were in no sort of order. Residential and commercial merged so that the battered Mitre 10 sat between two houses and the primary school had a pub for a neighbour. It was as though the outlines had been sketched with great care by an architect who had then moved on to another more lucrative project and left the plans lying around for a child to scribble on. There were very few streetlights.

The main thing you have to remember, said Tom as they pulled up to a stop sign at a deserted intersection, is that more than anything else you’re the rudder of the forwards. When I was playing we used to give our scrum half a pretty rough time in training but as soon as we ran out on the field his word was law. Most of the time you’ll be the smallest bloke out there but you can’t let that intimidate you.

Yeah I know, said Hamish. Coach says I don’t talk enough. It’s not that I’m intimidated. I’m working on it but I guess I just always feel like I should save my breath.

Tom laughed. Fair enough, he said. Did he tell you anything about the team you’re up against?

No. He said we just have to focus on our own game but I don’t reckon he’s seen them.

Well there’s one thing you can count on. They won’t have the heart you boys have. They might be faster and slicker but you can’t coach toughness and you sure as hell don’t get it sipping latte’s in Sydney.

The edge of town went by and they travelled along the straight flat road that ran towards the northern properties in silence. Hamish lay back in his seat with his eyes closed and Tom cracked his window to let in a breath of chill air. As he turned down the dirt road to home the town’s few lights disappeared, buried by a patch of trees or a slight rise in the earth or some other shapeless thing in the darkness.

Tom sat sunk in his armchair and picked at a dry patch of skin over his left eyebrow. He watched the second hand on the clock flicking away little desiccated flakes of time as it went all the way around once and then twice. He glanced towards the window where the living room was reflected thinly in the black glass. A sliver of moon was lodged in the pale peach wallpaper just above his head. The ceiling lamp obliterated the stars. He winced at the sound of Chloe attacking the dishes. The noise that spilled from the kitchen wasn’t loud but in the stern hush that lay on the house it seemed careless and unnecessary and each crash of crockery on sink lent its violence to the silence that followed.

He glanced at the clock again and then eased himself up out of the armchair. He edged towards the kitchen and peered around the door. Chloe stood at the sink with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her face was in profile and a tiny bead of sweat clung quivering to the end of her nose or maybe it was dishwater. She had the kitchen window open but the air was thick and not even the army of incessant cicadas could stir a breeze. He felt as though he should say something but they hadn’t spoken since Hamish had gone up to bed right after dinner and he didn’t trust his voice not to crack from lack of use. As he tried to discreetly clear his throat something got caught in his windpipe and he went into a violent coughing fit that tore at his chest and left him leaning with one hand against the doorframe trying to recover his breath. At the first spluttering sounds Chloe turned from the sink and stood watching his convulsions. Her forearms were covered in suds and dripped water on the lino. Tom raised his eyes to meet hers. This far west the sun was brutal and it had loosened her skin so that her face sagged as if it were too heavy for the delicate scaffolding of beauty beneath but her eyes were big and still darkly pretty, especially when she was angry, and as he met her gaze he felt the beginnings of a smile.

Don’t give me that, she said. The girls behind the bar might melt but I’m used to it and I know what it means.

What’s it mean then? he asked and his smile widened.

It means you think you’ve got the bull by the horns already but don’t believe it. You and I both know the only reason you want to take him is to get a free weekend away. The trailer’s been sitting there full for almost a month now and every week there’s a new excuse why you can’t deal with it. It’s starting to smell. The O’Connor’s would be happy to take him.

I’m sure they would but it’s not about that. The trailer can wait.

It’s been waiting and so have I. But go on. What’s it about then?

It’s about a chance for a proper father-son moment. There’s not going to be too many more like this.

Rubbish. He’s only fourteen.

No, it’s true. You’re his mum so you’ll always have his ear but me not so much. Even now he only listens when I talk about rugby because I played myself. We’ll road trip it down there, go to the game and then I can show him the sights of the city.

Chloe regarded him sceptically for a moment.

If you go, she said, you take the trailer to the tip next weekend. No excuses.

Tom was grinning now.

Not a problem, he said.

And I don’t want to hear you left him in the room and went out drinking with Chris and Artie after the game. If you’re there to bond you better do plenty of bonding.

Of course.

She pursed her lips and turned back to the dishes without another word but she was no longer attacking them as she was before and Tom thought he could even detect a tiny smile at the corner of her mouth.

Kick-off was scheduled for 3 p.m and since the drive was to take almost nine hours they left well before the sun was up. Some of the team had driven down the day before and stayed the night in Sydney but there were quite a few whose parents couldn’t get the Friday off work and as they rolled through town in the pre-dawn darkness they were greeted by several sets of headlights flashing a greeting that Tom returned in kind. One by one the cars turned out onto the highway and rumbled along in a loose convoy that soon broke up altogether.

They travelled in darkness on a perfectly straight road for nearly two hours and then as they came up towards the first proper town dawn broke over the horizon and lit up the thin frost with a brilliance that was almost blinding. They stopped at a service station so Tom could get a coffee and Hamish could use the bathroom. They were both shivering when they got back in the car.

As they returned to the highway the first changes appeared in the landscape. The bright red soil dulled and turned to brown and some time later clusters of trees began to go by with some regularity. An hour and a half later and a few low hills rose up out of the ground. Hamish sat with his earphones in and his head resting against the window and even though he’d never been this far east before he made no comment on the shifting scenery. The towns they came upon grew larger and busier as the morning grew older. They ate the sandwiches Tom had packed for lunch without stopping and then they passed through Bathurst and started the climb up into the mountains.

As they wound their way down towards the coastal plain what had been a thick fog at altitude became low clouds that drizzled then rained and finally let loose a deluge. Hamish took his earphones out and sat up straight as the windscreen wipers worked frantically and Tom slowed down so he could see the road ahead.

They wouldn’t call it off would they? Hamish asked.

No, said Tom. Not a final people have driven this far for. Looks like you boys will be in for some good old-fashioned mud rugby.

He glanced across and saw Hamish leaning forward in his seat and grinning.

Soon they reached the fringes of the city and started passing through the nameless industrial estates and as yet unpeopled housing developments of the outermost suburbs. Hamish read off a set of directions that Tom had printed back at home as they turned off the freeway and navigated their way into the veins and capillaries of urban sprawl.

They found the ground after having to backtrack only twice and pulled into the car park from a narrow street lined with small but neat houses at a quarter to two. They were early and it was still raining heavily so they stayed in the car. Tom scanned for radio stations while Hamish studied the surroundings. The ground was ringed by a low metal fence backed by thick trees and held two fields side by side along with a small brick building off to the right. There was no crowd seating except a steep bank that ran all along the left hand side and would offer a decent view of both fields. The fields themselves looked well maintained but beyond that they could easily have been in any number of small towns Hamish had played in earlier that year.

So this is Sydney, he said after a while.

Sort of, said Tom. The real city’s still about 60k’s that way. The blokes you’re up against would probably try to claim this as neutral ground. If you’re not too buggered after the game we’ll head into the city proper tonight to get some dinner. I think I should still remember my way around ok.

Hamish shrugged.

Sure, he said.

The ground itself was still deserted. There were a couple of other vehicles in the car park but through the rain it was difficult to see whether or not they had people inside. They sat and waited and Hamish put his earphones back in. Tom leant forward and laid his arms across the steering wheel and kept an eye out.

It was just on two o’clock when he saw three cars pulling in together. They parked but nobody got out. A couple more arrived and then Tom recognised the coach’s white ute pull up a couple of spaces down and he gave Hamish a nudge. The coach stepped out into the rain in a heavy oilskin coat and strode onto the ground with his familiar limp as the doors of other cars started to open and members of the team emerged. Tom realised he hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella.

Hamish had grabbed up his boot bag and was about to open to door and leap out when Tom stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

Listen, he said. I know you haven’t played these sorts of conditions before but don’t stress. It’s all about the simple stuff. Your coach will talk about tactics and whatnot but it’s going to be mostly tight and physical. In these sorts of games every collision counts and in defence you’re going to have to work like a third flanker. You can’t give away easy metres. Win the collision if you can but if you can’t just go low and make sure you put them down. Remember, it’s all about attitude. Commit fully to the hit. You only get hurt if you go in half-hearted. And remember to hit the inside shoulder on attack. It’s the stronger side but it’s the only way to commit your man.

Hamish grinned and nodded.

No worries, he said as he opened the door. As soon as he was out of the car he was running.

As the coach inspected the field and the boys switched their shoes for their football boots and started stretching Tom hurried with his head bent low against the rain towards the small brick building where a few of the other fathers stood huddled under the only bit of cover to be seen. He shook hands with Artie and Jim and Kev and was introduced to a couple of others he hadn’t met before.

Is Chris here yet? he asked Artie.

No, he’s not coming. Dan travelled down with us.

Ah.

Want a beer?

There was an esky back against the wall and Tom peered inside as Artie opened the lid. It held a full two cases worth of cans packed in amongst the ice packs.

Sure, said Tom.

Artie handed him a can and they stood side by side shivering slightly in their wet clothes as they sipped their beers and watched the boys begin their warm-ups.

You guys drive down yesterday? Tom asked.

Yeah, said Artie. We’re staying with Joy’s brother’s family. It’s crowded but they’ve got a couple of kids around the same age as the boys so it’s been good. You and Hamish staying down here tonight?

Yeah, we’ve got a hotel room in Parramatta somewhere.

Most of the team had arrived by now and the coach had retrieved a bag of balls from his ute so the boys could run some handling drills. There was still no sign of the opposition. Tom finished his beer and checked his watch.

They’re meant to kick off in half an hour, he said. Where’s the other team at?

Artie was bent over the esky. They’ll be here, he said. Probably orchestrating a fashionably late entrance. Another one?

Tom nodded.

He was halfway through his third when the opposition finally rolled into the car park. They came in a convoy lead by two battered Taragos that each opened to emit six or seven young men of Islander descent all kitted out in the team colours.

Christ Almighty, said Tom. This has gotta be some sort of mix-up. There’s no way they could be under 15’s. Half of them have full beards for God’s sake.

Artie whistled.

They’re some big lads for sure, he said. But good money says they’re all legit. When Harry’s side came down a couple of years ago I had the same reaction but apparently the clubs check each other’s paperwork to verify ages and whatnot so it’s all on the up and up. It’s just that these Islander boys grow up very fucking fast.

So how’d Harry’s team cope?

Artie grimaced.

It wasn’t pretty. The final score was something like 40-10. Our boys scored a couple of late tries when their big lads got tired but it was all over by then. Ready for another one?

Tom frowned and swirled the dregs around the can then tipped his head back and drained them.

No, he said. Thanks.

A few spectators started moving onto the bank on the far side. The referee and the touch judges had arrived and spoken briefly with both coaches. Kick off wouldn’t be far away.

Reckon we should move up onto the hill over there so we can get a decent view? Tom asked.

Artie squinted out at the rain.

It’s coming down pretty hard, he said. You got an umbrella?

No.

Well me and the beers might stay here then.

Tom shrugged. A whistle blew to summon the players onto the field.

Well I didn’t drive nine hours just to bask in the pleasure of your company, he said. One for the road?

Artie grinned and tossed him a beer.

Don’t worry too much about Hamish, he said as Tom stuffed the can into his jacket pocket and hunched his shoulders up. He’s a tough little bastard.

Tom stood a little way up the bank near the halfway line and slightly apart from the other spectators. By the time he’d walked all the way across he was soaked through and couldn’t stop shivering. The captains shook hands and Hamish’s side started walking back to get ready to receive the kick off. Tom struggled to open his can of beer. All of his fingers were numb.

As the whistle blew and the match began he felt the rain stop all a sudden. He looked up and saw the underside of an umbrella. He was confused for moment until he turned and saw standing to his left an older man in shorts and long socks who must have come down the bank behind him. He only came up to Tom’s shoulder and his knees appeared to be the widest parts of his legs.

Want some cover? he asked.

Cheers, said Tom. Not that I could get any wetter anyway.

The old man chuckled.

Your boy out there? he asked.

Yeah, he’s wearing 9 for the team without facial hair and tattoos.

The old man chuckled again.

He’ll have his work cut out for him today I reckon.

Tom nodded and sipped his beer.

Back when I was playing they graded by weight, he said after a while. There were still bigger lads and smaller lads and some of the backs played up a grade if they were really good. But this is boys against men. It doesn’t seem fair. Or safe.

The old man mulled this over as they watched the fly half for Hamish’s team guide a long clearing kick across the touchline almost at the opposition’s 22. A few of the spectators clapped.

They still go by weight in some of the lower grades I hear, said the old man as the teams formed up for the lineout. And that’s fine if they’re just out there for a bit of fun. But I reckon once they get to the level these boys are at it’s not a bad idea to throw them in the deep end. I’ve always thought it’s one of the reasons this part of the world produces so many great players. When they grow up playing against the Islander boys it’s a fairly simple equation. They get good or they get hurt.

That’s easy to say when your kid’s playing with them instead of against them.

The old man shook his head.

Mine are all grown up, he said. I just saw you all arriving and thought I’d come out for a look. There was nothing on the telly.

Still, said Tom.

The old man shrugged.

After fifteen minutes there was still no score. Hamish’s team had spent most of that time deep in their own half defending desperately against the huge bodies that hurtled into their line with no apparent concern for the physical wellbeing of themselves or their opposition. The Sydney side had knocked-on four times already and it seemed it was only their inability to hold onto the greasy ball that was delaying an inevitable try. Tom struggled to keep track of Hamish amidst the packed clusters of bodies. Patches of the ground had already been torn up badly and were forming deep pools of mud that soon coated the players from head to toe in dark brown muck. Often the disparity in size was the only way to tell which side a particular player was on.

Another long clearing kick moved the play close to halfway. Tom spotted Hamish tracking along behind his team’s defensive line as cover for any break. The opposition bashed away in the middle of the field for a few phases and then shifted the ball quickly towards the side where Tom was standing. They looked to be covered until one managed to stand and offload in the tackle to send their number 8 through a gap at pace. There were shouts from the spectators as the big Islander lad found open space and despite himself Tom swore under his breath in admiration. He’d never known someone so large to move so quickly. Even from the sideline Tom could see the separate muscles in his thighs bunching and stretching as they sent his huge frame careering down the pitch.

Hamish had started to move at the first sign of a break. He had a fair bit of ground to cover and was almost at full stretch to even keep pace with his much larger opponent, who was running at an angle away from him and towards the sideline. He’d managed to close down most of the gap when with a sudden left-foot step his target changed direction and bore down directly upon him. Hamish was caught wrong-footed and Tom shuddered and closed his eyes. They came together with a sickening smack of flesh impacting flesh that carried all around the ground then sank and settled like a malignant growth in the pit of Tom’s stomach. There was a groan from the spectators and then a smattering of applause and holding his breath he opened his eyes again. A ruck had formed at the site of the collision and players from Hamish’s side were shouting that they had the ball.

Now that’s a tackle! crowed the old man.

Tom glanced at him sideways. He was grinning widely and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

A joy to watch! he beamed. Dropped him like a bad habit.

He caught Tom’s eye and winked. Tom frowned and looked away.

The game had carried on and those involved in the ruck all got slowly to their feet and moved off to follow the play except for one who remained prone and unmoving in the mud. The growth in Tom’s stomach started to squirm about and he made as if to rush out onto the field but the old man took hold of his arm. Tom turned and glared at him but the old man merely gestured with the hand holding the umbrella.

Look, he said.

Tom followed his gaze and saw that Hamish had stirred and was slowly raising himself onto his hands and knees. He shook his head a few times and there was more applause and even some cheers from the spectators as he finally stood up. After a few unsteady steps he started jogging to rejoin his team, still shaking his head.

Tom finally released the breath he’d been holding. As the growth in his stomach settled down and became still he noticed a pain in his right hand. He glanced down and grimaced then tossed the badly crumpled beer can on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the old man studying him. He was suddenly very tired.

I don’t know if it was ever like this for you, he said. But sometimes I see things or hear things that make me want to take back everything I ever told him.

The old man opened his mouth to reply but Tom had already turned and started to walk back towards the car with his hands deep in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the rain.

On the night in question a heavy squall was sitting just off the coast. Its winds whipped up the swell and rain and sea spray both spattered the pub’s windows. The crowd inside was small for a Saturday but loud thanks to many an unneeded drink being drunk while waiting to see if the weather would clear. It didn’t and Darren, the bouncer, was wet and cold and thinking quietly murderous thoughts when the door beside him swung open and a vision in jeans, stiletto boots and a short leather jacket stormed out onto the footpath. She was a tiny thing with a delicate north Italian look about her and as Darren stepped over to ask if she needed a taxi she turned to him with a pair of bright possum eyes that flashed so dangerously he stopped short. Without a word she was away up the street, paying the rain no mind.

Phil leant his chair back, craning his neck to watch her receding form through the window, and nearly toppled over as Smitty nudged his chair with his foot. He clutched at the air for a second then grabbed the table and grinned.

Cunt, he said. What was up her arse you reckon?

It’s hard to say, said Smitty. He paused and picked something out of his teeth. Pretty sure I pulled out in time but you never know.

I said up her arse, not Jason’s.

Smitty’s eyes narrowed slightly as they always did when he was assembling a retort and the corner of his mouth twitched. Before he could get it out Jason appeared at his elbow carrying the drinks.

My what? he asked.

Your mum, said Smitty, and reached for his rum and coke.

You’re slipping mate. Seen this cunt over here? He gestured towards a sorry looking creature standing slumped in the corner formed by the wall and the bar with his chin on his chest, unmoving except that his head was rocking from side to side vaguely in time to the music. Despite the weather he wore a t-shirt, board shorts and thongs. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.

He looks proper fucked, said Phil. You know him?

Fuck no, Jason spat. You think I hang around dickheads like that? Fucking waste of oxygen. I was about ready to smack him one.

Smitty set his empty glass down and belched. I bet you were, he said. But at the risk of incurring your furious fists of righteous retribution myself, I feel I must ask why.

Phil snorted a laugh and Jason shot him a look before grinning himself. I was at the bar, he said, and this utter stunner comes up while I’m waiting. She’s this little wide-eyed brunette in a leather jacket open at the front with an Elmo t-shirt underneath. Great body and just a hint of a pout but those eyes—

Well how do you like that, said Smitty, cutting him off. We just saw her leave. Phil here was so smitten he nearly fell off his chair copping a perve.

Yeah? said Jason. Well that’s just tops. Anyway, neither of us said anything but we sort of gave each other a little smile, as you do. Next thing, this fuckwit stumbles over and starts trying to sidle up beside her, nearly knocking over a half a beer that was sitting there. He gets right up close to her and then just stands there not saying a word for a good minute or so. Meanwhile, she’s just staring straight ahead trying to ignore him. I was going to say something to him right then but the bar chick came over and—

Jess, said Phil.

What?

The girl behind the bar. Her name’s Jess.

Whatever. Anyway, she came over and asked what I wanted and I was in the middle of speaking to her when he said it so I didn’t hear all of it but basically, out of nowhere, when this chick obviously wanted nothing to do with him, he made a seriously fucking sleazy suggestion, the type of shit you just don’t say until you’ve got a girl actually undressed and into bed at the very least, and he might have grabbed her as well, I’m not sure, but next thing I know she’s calling him a fucking creep and heading for the door. Jason finally took his seat, having been standing all through his story, and drained a good half of his beer.

So what’d the guy actually say? asked Phil after a few moments of silence.

I told you, said Jason. I didn’t hear all of it, and I don’t really want to sit here and try to piece together this cunt’s grubby little thoughts but I heard enough to know it was filthy.

Smitty slammed his hand down hard on the table, sending several coasters flying to the floor and sloshing Phil’s beer all over the place.

Well hang it all man! he shouted, attracting several strange looks from around the pub. We can’t be expected to condemn the wretch on the basis of such poorly evidence! Are we but savages? Here stands the thin black line!

Trust me, said Jason. It was bad.

Oh, I trust that you think what you think you heard was bad.

Jason took issue at that and all three of them were soon deep in an argument over what he’d heard or almost heard or imagined he’d heard that rambled back and forth and around for a while until eventually the conversation just drifted away onto religion then rugby and finally renting versus buying in regional areas.

Though none of them made mention of the fact, throughout the banter and chatter all three threw an occasional quiet eye towards the figure slumped in the corner by the bar. For some time all he seemed capable of was a semi-rhythmical side-to-side rocking of his head, interrupted every now and then by an unsteady gulp from his visibly flat beer. The other patrons who came to the bar couldn’t help but notice the state he was in and though most just turned away with a smile and a shake of the head, one or two wore distinct expressions of disgust as they made their way back to their tables.

Eventually Smitty drew urgent attention to his empty glass and as Phil headed up to get the next round he brushed past an old man with taut leather-tanned skin clutching a fresh middy of black ale and muttering under his breath. Phil went to apologise but the old man just kept on past him, still muttering.

Jess was restocking the wine when he got to the bar and he waited quietly, watching her bent at her work, until she turned and noticed him there and stood up with a smile.

Hey, she said. What can I get you?

Two New’s and a rum and coke, thanks. Over her shoulder he could see the paralytic in his corner feeling along the bar for his drink. Hey, did you see what happened with that guy over there and the girl who just ran out?

I think she caught him looking down her top or something. She set the beers on the bar and grinned. Not that you can blame him. I could barely keep my eyes up myself. He needs to work on being a bit more subtle though. And a rum and coke was it?

Yeah, cheers. Has he said anything to you?

Oh, just the usual shit. It’s hard to understand some of what he’s saying but I’m pretty sure he asked if I wanted to meet up with him in the keg room. I would have cut him off but every time he buys a beer he hands over a twenty and then just walks away. Plus, he’s actually pretty cute. Drunk as a skunk, but cute. That’s sixteen-sixty thanks.

Phil arrived back with the drinks and a set to his jaw. Smitty and Jason were both leaning in over the table peering intently at something he couldn’t quite see, their heads bowed deep in discussion. Smitty looked up and waved him over quickly.

Here, check this out, he said and held up the coaster they’d been studying. It featured the scene of a catastrophic car wreck and a slogan warning against drink driving. Look familiar?

Phil shrugged. What?

Here, said Smitty, pointing to the figure of a female paramedic kneeling to lift the corner of the tarpaulin that covered the place where the passenger door should have been. Tell me that’s not the spitting bloody image of Jase’s sister.

Before Phil could get a good look Jason snatched the coaster away. He stared hard at it for a few seconds, putting it at arms length then moving it right up to his nose, then tossed it aside.

Mate, he said. You really have lost the fucking plot. Sometimes I could swear you’re just a hop, skip and a jump away from shaving your ears off, smearing your shit all over the walls and calling yourself Van Gogh. She’s got at least twenty years on Amy and she’s Asian for fuck’s sake.

Smitty closed his eyes and sighed and was about to reply but Phil spared him the trouble.

You’re both fucking batshit, he said. But I’m starting to think we should maybe do something about this pisshead up at the bar. Apparently he’s been making an arse of himself bothering the poor girl trying to work. What do they pay this Darren cunt for anyway?

Jason’s eyes lit up over the rim of his glass and while trying to get the beer down and nod his enthusiasm at the same time he managed to choke and spat foam over the table then doubled over coughing.

Shit yeah, he finally wheezed. I was gonna say the same thing before. I say just walk him out back into the car park and give him one or two to think about.

Fuck that, it’s pissing down out there.

What, you want to just walk up and deck him? You don’t shit where you drink.

Well, let’s just give Darren a tap on the shoulder and say this bloke’s been harassing women and could you please get him the fuck out.

Nah, this cunt’s filth. He needs a lesson. Maybe we could just take him into the toilets for a friendly chat. We’d be out of sight and you wouldn’t have to get your little toesies wet.

The three of us herding him into the bathroom might look a little suss though, don’t you think? And what if there’s people in there?

They fell silent and pensive and one by one they turned to regard the wretched looking figure across the room. He was still slumped with his head on his chest but now his lips were moving and a frown knotted his forehead as though he were struggling against a more articulate antagonist in some internal debate or maybe mumbling through the lyrics of a half-remembered song. Milling about at the bar was a group of half a dozen women of all ages who had been there since early afternoon and lacked only matching pink boas or novelty dildo cocktail stirrers to complete the illusion of a tragically provincial hen’s night and a few of them were glancing over at him and exchanging whispers. A crooked smile crept up Smitty’s right cheek.

I’ve got a better idea, he said and he told them about a story he’d heard from his brother about a prank they’d pulled on one of their friends who had gone and got himself obliterated early on in the evening when things were still only just warming up. They switched his beer with a schooner of piss while he was busy arguing with the bar tender and the whole pub watched in hushed expectation as the victim, drunk as he was, failed to notice and took a big swig of fresh urine. His brother had gone into great detail, which Smitty relayed now with only minor embellishment, in describing the rapid kaleidoscope of expressions that played across the poor bloke’s face in the first few seconds after it passed his lips and the corresponding reactions of the witnesses who were at first in shock before a sense of almost wonder set in and finally all erupted with cheers and howls of laughter and squeals and retching.

By the end of Smitty’s story Phil was frowning speculatively and Jason wore a wide grin.

So what happens after? said Phil.

Smitty and Jason shared a puzzled look then turned to him.

What do you mean after? said Jason.

Well, once that’s all done we’ve still got a drunk fuckwit standing at the bar harassing people and likely very bloody pissed off to boot. If anything we’d have just made it worse.

Jason looked incredulous.

Seriously? I didn’t know you’d gone and signed up for the fun police. Well fuck, once it’s done we’ll go and grab Darren and get him chucked out. How’s that?

Fine, said Phil.

Smitty leaned in and beckoned them close with a conspiratorial air. The plan then gentlemen, he said and in a faux whisper that could’ve been heard three tables over had there been anybody that close he began laying out a strategy. The other two listened attentively, nodding and asking the occasional question and then when the plan had been set out in full they offered a few suggestions and soon it was settled.

The rain was coming down harder and drumming heavy against the windows and the cautious vanguard of a puddle was creeping beneath the front door. A dance tune from a few years ago was on the jukebox and Phil was forced to skirt around several middle-aged couples grinding up against one another to the lewd rhythms of the bass as he once again made his way to the bar.

Jess saw him coming and paused from wiping up a spill on the bar top. She stood with her boyish hip cocked and the lank washcloth she still clutched dripped something dark down her leg below her shorts.

Same again? she asked with a smile.

No, I was just wondering if I could get an empty schooner glass.

She reached for the rack by her side but he stopped her with a gesture and nodded towards the fridge at the back.

Reckon I could grab a cold one? As cold as possible would be great.

I’ve got all the designs done up, said Smitty once Phil had left. How are the floor plans coming?

Jason shrugged.

Slowly, he said. They’ve just passed new changes to the legislation on fire exists so I have go back and make sure we’re in line with that.

Smitty nodded slowly then tilted back a long sip of beer without moving his head.

How’s Melissa? asked Jason. She still on the pipe?

Smitty’s eyes instantly brimmed with murder as they snapped around but it had all but slipped away by the time he met Jason’s gaze.

No, he said. Not right now.

Are you?

Smitty grinned.

Wouldn’t you like to know, he said. You oughta give it a try you boring cunt. Come on.

Jason followed as Smitty sauntered across the room towards the drunken sot in the corner who stood now with his eyes closed and his head thrown back and his mouth hanging open performing a swaying little side-to-side dance. Smitty strode straight up to him and stopped little more than a metre away. He leant against the bar staring the stranger full in the face and waiting with a little smile to be noticed. Jason slid past them both and stood with his back resting against the wall. They remained this way for almost a minute until the dance song on the jukebox ended and the gentle opening notes of an old power ballad brought the drunk’s little dance to an end. Without opening his eyes he fell back into the corner with a thud. Smitty’s smile grew wider and he moved in even closer, still without a word.

Jason rolled his eyes. Oi! he said, then leaned over to give the unresponsive form beside him a shake. Oi, dickhead! The eye nearest him flickered open a crack.

Fuck you, came the slow and slurred reply. The other eye opened and slid around to find Smitty. And the dickhead you rode in on.

His face crinkled up and from the back of his throat came a spit-filled panting sound that could have been a laugh and then he stopped and held up an unsteady hand palm outwards.

No offence no offence ’sall fun and games. Shits and giggles you fuck you. It was unclear whether he was speaking to one or the other or both of them. Again he shook with apparent laughter.

None taken you giggling shit you, said Smitty and he was grinning now. Cheers to fun and games and guns and fame.

Jason looked from one to the other and back again and shook his head.

Jesus Christ, he muttered.

He wandered off to grab a stool and when he came back Smitty was struggling to extract the name of his new friend from meandering and only occasionally coherent responses. Unable to get a straight answer, he finally dipped a finger in his beer and marked a cross on the nameless forehead.

And thus by this frothy cross do I christen thee Dribbles, he intoned with a solemnity Jason was tempted to credit as genuine.

With an air of equanimity seemingly at odds with his inability to stand straight Dribbles nodded his approval of this new name.

You’re right of course you’re right. Time for a new one and not a second too soon a second one or a third one. Who the fuck cares? Begone!

Not bad, said Jason. But I think I’ll stick with dickhead.

Smitty sighed.

Listen Dribbles, he said. My mate here was witness to a little incident just before involving yourself and a nubile young nymph at the bar, the ultimate unfortunate result of which was her swift exit from these here premises, forestalling my friend’s as yet unmentioned but unquestionably intended attempts at copulation with her and thus leading to an extensive and apparently quite painful knotting of his knickers.

He gave Jason a sly look out of the corner of his eye and received a wanking motion in reply.

Hence the hostility, he continued. But we’re stuck for a few details.

Yeah the devil’s in the details, Dribbles admitted. And Billy’s down by the bay. Yeeaaaahhhh!

Well, do you reckon you could fill us in at all?

Fill youse in. With what?

With what you said to that girl.

What girl?

You know. She was in a leather jacket and jeans. Brunette. Had an arse like a ripe peach. Made you want to take a big bite out of it and let the juice run all down your chin. Little ski-jump nose. Big bright eyes. Pretty hard to forget.

Hey you saw her too? Shit. I wasn’t sure you know. One minute she’s there and then she’s gone and I thought maybe she wasn’t all there like. Yeah. But Christ. What a creature eh?

Jason snorted.

She’s there and then she’s gone coz she caught a big whiff of creep you silly cunt.

C’mon, said Smitty. What’d you say to get her to lose it like that?

Dribbles frowned like he was confused.

Nah I just couldn’t you know I wanted to but. Too much. Body and soul so hungry I go crazy. Over your leather boots. Ha! But nah I couldn’t say word one I couldn’t go over she was too much too much too much too beautiful.

Jason gave him a sceptical sideways look. You mean you don’t even remember speaking to her?

What? No. Did I? Shit. Kudos to me eh? Man of the hour.

Jason was set to pour ice-cold water on all the self-congratulation when he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see that Phil had quietly sidled up and stood beside Smitty with one hand behind his back.

Smitty threw him a broad wink and turned to Phil.

Phil, he said. It gives me great pleasure to present to you Sir Dribbles the Dickhead, Fourth Hurl of Inebria. Dribbles, Phil.

The switch itself went off without a hitch. Smitty beckoned Jess over while Jason was grilling Dribbles over the actual state of his memory and told her what was happening in a few close whispers. When he was finished she nodded and went off with a little smile. Their plan had been for Phil and Jason to run interference while Smitty switched the drinks but as Jess was walking away Phil came up and whispered urgently into Smitty’s ear.

Listen, why don’t you and Jason do the distracting and I’ll make the switch. I’ve never seen you do anything quiet and you and him look like you’re getting on like a house on fire anyway.

Smitty shrugged. Fair call, he said and moved over to where Jason and Dribbles were quibbling over whether or not the girl who had stormed out was likely a lesbian. He threw an arm around each of their necks and drew them in together, suggesting they cease their petty bickering, which only served to harden a man’s heart against his brother, and instead all bow their heads and close their eyes and from the bottom of their hearts humbly beseech whatever God they might care to call on to grant that she be bi.

While the three of them were at prayer Phil set a glass just under half full of his pale yellow piss on the bar. He looked at it critically for a moment then took up the beer Dribbles had been nursing and poured a little over to add some carbonation and get the colour close enough that it could at least pass for cider. When he was satisfied he took what was left of Dribbles’ beer around to the front of the bar and passed it across to Jess. She gave him a serious wink and tapped a purple nailed finger against her nose.

With everything in place a certain tension grew throughout the pub. Jess had spread word of what was being planned to a few of the other patrons and whispers and covert looks were multiplying. Anticipation mounted as the minutes ticked by. Jason was finally starting to make some headway in his pursuit of exactly what Dribbles had said. He’d extracted a vague acknowledgement of having talked to the girl and was pressing his advantage while Dribbles sat swaying and squinting in an apparent attempt at intense concentration, leaving the drink ignored on the bar behind him.

Do you remember acting a sleaze when she clearly didn’t want to talk to you? Jason insisted.

Smitty cleared his throat pointedly.

I dunno, said Dribbles, after some consideration. But I think it’s like you shouldn’t ever let any beautiful go past without saying thanks or something at least. Yeah. ’Sall gone or going or on the way out or costs too fucking much. Nothing’s free. Specially not beautiful. Somewhere somehow some poor cunt’s paying so you gotta least say thanks you know?

I’m pretty fucking sure you didn’t say anything like—

Well I for one think such a touching sentiment demands a toast, interrupted Smitty and raised his glass.

Jason glared at him then turned away muttering something about trust and the thin black line.

Dribbles had found his glass by now and raised it up with Smitty’s.

But listen, he said and lowered it again. Listen. Listen. Anyway tell her sorry for me would you?

Sure, sure, said Smitty. But it’s all in the past now. C’mon, drink up and forget it.

Dribbles sighed and nodded and put the glass to his lips and took a long slow sip. He swallowed once then twice then stopped. He made a face and held the glass unsteadily at arm’s length to study it for a few seconds.

The pub was hushed with a barely suppressed nervous energy as they awaited his reaction. Smitty wore a pained expression due to the strain of keeping a lid on the laughter bubbling up his throat. He glanced over at Phil and was surprised by the naked intensity with which he was watching. Jason stood by looking sullen and slightly bored.

Dribbles frowned at the glass in his hand for another second or two and then they all watched in a state of surreal shock as he shrugged and drained it with a single swallow. Someone towards the back of the room let loose a solitary laugh. Nobody else made a sound. As Dribbles set the glass back on the bar a strange look passed across his face. He clutched his stomach and Smitty and Phil both shifted slightly and tensed ready to avoid any projectile vomit but he simply belched and grinned.

Alright, he said. ’Nother one. C’mon. Who’s up for another one?

The three co-conspirators looked at one another and each saw only blank mirrors of his own bewilderment. Jess and the rest of the witnesses continued to wait on tenterhooks for the dawning realisation and the fireworks but as Dribbles surged to his feet and stumbled past his companions and around to the front of the bar to order more drinks the excitement evaporated, leaving only a stale residue of tension. Most of them slowly returned to their own conversations with the uncomfortable feeling that they’d been duped.

After a minute or so of stunned silence Jason turned to Smitty with a wry smile.

Well that was a fizzer, he said.

Smitty nodded slowly. He picked up the empty glass from the bar and gave it a tentative sniff then put it back, shaking his head.

Un-fucking-believable, he mused. I never would have thought it was actually humanly possible to get that drunk.

Phil stood off to the side and fidgeted with a coaster as he watched Dribbles lean across the bar and say something that gave Jess cause to blush and grin. From this distance he couldn’t make out what it was over the music.

So what now? he asked suddenly.

What now? echoed Smitty. Well, that’s the eternally recurring question, isn’t it young Philip? Right now I need a drink and a slap like a Chinaman needs chopsticks.

But we can’t just leave it at that, Phil protested. Weren’t we supposed to be teaching him a lesson or something? There’s no point if he’s clueless to the whole deal. Plus, everybody else probably reckons we were bullshitting.

Smitty sighed and laid a paternal hand on his shoulder.

I hate to say it, he said. But I think the sly fox has foiled us my man. The show’s over and besides, if he can’t taste the difference between beer and piss right now he’s barely gonna remember his name tomorrow, let alone any high jinks we get up to from here on in. C’est la vie, the serenity prayer, shit happens, etcetera.

There’s gotta be something, said Phil. He surveyed the room and saw several groups starting to gather up their things and prepare makeshift protection from the rain and he clenched his jaw.

Jason too was looking towards the door. He yawned impressively.

I’m gonna grab Darren, he said. Let’s make sure this cunt’s gone and then head.

You can if you want, said Smitty. Me and that bottle of rum behind the bar still have some unfinished business and my slapping finger’s itchy. Come and watch me lose some money?

Jason shook his head. I’ve got footy tomorrow.

Smitty shrugged.

Call me when you’re done, he said. We have to get that loan sorted.

He spread his arms wide and bowed as he turned and headed for a doorway at the back of the room from which the ubiquitous melodies of the pokies issued. Phil and Jason both watched him go then stood together in silence for a moment. An old rock standard was on the jukebox but Jess had turned the volume right down. It was getting late. Eventually Jason cleared his throat and turned to leave.

Alright mate, he said. I’ll see ya.

Phil wavered for a moment. Wait, he blurted out. Don’t say anything to Darren just yet. I’m staying for a bit and I’ll sort it out before I go.

Jason stopped and turned to him incredulous. Christ, let it go mate. It’s over.

Just give me a little while, Phil pleaded. I’ll figure something out. You said it yourself, this cunt’s filth.

Yeah, and you said we had to make sure to get him kicked out. Now you want to keep him in here longer. So?

Phil fumbled around for a reply and as he watched him struggle Jason’s expression softened to a look almost like pity.

Look, he said. Fine. Whatever. Good luck I guess. He gave a little half wave and without looking back was gone out into the night.

Phil took a deep breath and headed back to the table they’d been at earlier. He still had most of a beer left and for a while he sat watching the bubbles rise irrepressibly one after another to expire at the surface. Nothing in the way of a plot or scheme seemed willing to come to him. He finished the beer and went to get another. He picked a new spot towards the back where he could watch the whole room. The last few groups were getting ready to leave. He saw Smitty come out of the pokies room and head for the door but he didn’t call out. Dribbles was still up at the bar, apparently chatting away to thin air while Jess emptied the tills.

Phil was still sitting and watching from a distance and putting every stray thought he could into coming up with a way to enact some sort of humiliation when a large figure in a heavy jacket entered the now almost empty pub. He walked up and put a firm hand on the back of Dribbles’ neck and whispered something into his ear. Dribbles looked confused and a little upset at having to leave his drink unfinished but nonetheless he let himself be steered towards the door and out into the rain.

Phil sat by powerless as the two men went out. He looked around the room and he and Jess were the only ones left. With nothing else to do he drained the last of his beer and went up and put his empty glass on the bar. Jess was wiping down the sink and bobbing her head to the music still coming softly through the speakers. She didn’t seem to notice him and he hesitated only a moment before he turned a little unsteadily and headed for the door and home.

Darren’s hair was saturated and plastered against his forehead in dank clumps. He kept his head bowed and studied the hulking shape of the big V8 that crouched a little way down on the other side of the street, facing his way. For some reason he hadn’t seen it arrive but it had caught his eye when the interior light came on and the diver’s door opened to emit a large man out into the rain. In that moment he’d thought he’d seen a figure sitting in the passenger seat but he couldn’t be sure at such a distance and as soon as the door swung shut the dark windows were impenetrable. The man had crossed the street and come towards him and as he got level with the pub the light spilling from the windows lit up the left side of his face, which was roughly lined and pitted but somehow still quite young looking. He’d thought for a moment of refusing the man entry. He was soaked through and thoroughly cold and if there were still people inside buying drinks the place would stay open another hour at least but a quick glance inside told him there were a couple of people still drinking anyway. They exchanged nods as the man went past him and inside.

He dug his hands deep into his pockets and kept his head bowed. It wasn’t long before the door opened again and the same bloke came out with a young guy in shorts and thongs and they headed down the street away from the car. The young guy was drunk and stumbling a bit and the older one held him steady with a hand on the back of his neck. They went down the street a way and then just before their silhouettes were absorbed into the night they turned and disappeared.

By now the car and the idea of some passenger invisible and watching was making him uncomfortable. He checked his watch for the third time in five minutes then glanced inside again. The last customer looked like he was heading for the door. Darren smiled to himself then froze. Muffled though it was by the wind and the rain, the crack that rent the night air was clearly distinct from the still distant thunder and was unmistakeable as a gunshot. The headlights of the big V8 lit up the rain as it rumbled into life and pulled out into the street.

The trains had stopped running over an hour ago but a small crowd was gathered under the entryway to the station to shelter from the downpour that had opened up upon the city with little warning. Most were in various states of damp bedragglement and periodically peered out into the night for the approaching orange beacon of a taxi. There was little conversation. The crowd was split into small groups that kept their words quiet and amongst themselves. A girl in a black cocktail dress sat slumped against a wall on the station side with her head between her knees and the tangled veil of her auburn hair brushing the ground around her bare feet. A young guy in a bicep-hugging t-shirt printed with an allegedly oriental design was stroking her head and slowly studying each group in turn while her stilettos dangled from his free hand. Standing not far from these two was a young family. The father held his little girl asleep in his arms with her head on his shoulder. They seemed incongruous to the scene and both parents kept close together, offering up few clues as to where they had been and why they were still out at such an hour.

It was that time of night when desire itself becomes terminally myopic and all but those few brave souls now utterly lost to despair or euphoria or some heady mixture of the two start seeking a way to their beds. For longer than we might calculate man has used the geometry of the night sky to find his way both upon the open sea and in lands unfamiliar but the lack of stars this night would deprive few wanderers of guidance. The celestial map is a vague and fragmented thing above the city’s lights and its directions are too grand to be of any use for navigation amongst this architecture anyway.

The exceptions were two homeless men sitting each alone in a semi-permanent cocoon of accumulated small comforts, shame and security with their backs against the same sandstone wall. Their common space was given a wide enough berth by the rest of us so as to make the two seem like a pair. The one closer to the entryway and the weather that threatened with every change in the wind to sweep in and drench his neatly stacked belongings was the elder. He wore a black garbage bag poncho and an untamed beard but his eyes were bright and alert as they watched the curtains of rain billow across the pavement. The other looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties but it was difficult to gauge the features gaunt in shadow beneath the drooping hood of his jumper. The heavily laden shopping trolley parked beside him was covered by a tartan blanket that made a mystery of its contents.

Through the rain came shouts and the slap of expensive shoes on wet pavement. Several heads turned at the sound just as a group of six or seven men staggered into the almost silence of our shelter wearing grins and sopping wet suits. They milled about the entrance for a while just talking and laughing and working out who was there and who was still labouring up the hill behind them. One produced a bottle of champagne from under his jacket. He swayed a little as he fumbled with the wrapping around the top but after a few curses and more than a few taunts from his friends he finally got the wrapper free and sent the cork flying out into the night to cheers that echoed around the walls. He sucked at the foam spilling from the bottle then seemed to remember himself and quickly held it out to another of their number who was standing a little apart wearing a debuttoned suit and a wide and slightly glazed grin as though he were watching some other unseen scene unfold and found it rather beautiful. He eventually noticed the proffered bottle and there were more cheers as he put it to his lips then tipped his whole body back to drink. He came up coughing and laughing and passed the bottle off to someone else and so it went for a while. The new arrivals paid little attention to the rest of us and we for the most part feigned disinterest towards their obtrusive merriment, though I noticed the couple with the sleeping child watching them and exchanging whispers.

In the end they all left with a little less exuberance than they had arrived with but just as abruptly. I watched as one fell silent and frowned at the air in front of him for a moment then dug around in his suit pocket and tugged free his phone. After a few words he was soon busy corralling the others back out into the night. One or two took their jackets off and slung them over their heads as makeshift cover but most didn’t bother and strolled uncaring out into the downpour. Several were singing a strange new arrangement of an old song featuring the chorus and three-fifths of a verse looped together over and over almost seamlessly. Their celebration faded quickly into the dark and the drumming rain but one of their number lingered. He seemed a little younger than most of the rest and he had no tie or jacket but his clothes were neater than those worn by his companions. He’d been about to leave when he paused in front of the older homeless man sitting by the entryway. I had a good friend once who hung his work along the length of the long line between legal and otherwise and reaped the benefits in a miner’s dump truck and among other things he told me that you can tell a man from the way he walks his drunk walk. The walks themselves are many and varied and though all attempted interpretations of them is as fraught as the interpretation of dreams they are just as unaccountably reliable. Among the more common archetypes are those whose bodies sway like a ship but who put each foot deliberately forward like a fist into the face of the last person they spoke to and these are the men who sense of themselves something indefinable missing and come to believe they’ve somehow been robbed and that the world in its infinite injustice must be shielding the thief. The man who simply tilts his body forward and leaves his legs to catch up however they can is generally one whose fears and desires rarely coalesce into recognisable shapes but quietly harry him onward like a cloud of bats. The case of the young man now tottering slightly beneath the restrained attention of the homeless man at his feet was a difficult one. He had taken up a wide stance and was forced to shift his feet about from time to time to keep his balance but his upper body remained steady. He searched his pockets methodically and without fumbling.

I stood alone nearby with my back to the wall. From time to time I shifted my weight and let my spare foot rest against the sandstone behind me to ease the strain of having been standing for most of the last twelve hours. Sweat, smoke and the sweet smell of spilled alcohol all lingered in my shirt and my fingers were heavily pruned. The damp squelch my shoes made with each step suggested my toes would be too when finally unpeeled. Early in the evening I’d slipped while shifting a keg and opened up a gash on my shin that was now ridged with heavy bruising and throbbed in constant protest at the slew of inadvertent knocks that had only increased in frequency as the night wore on and coordination and inhibition both deteriorated. My head had started to unfog a little since I’d been standing and waiting and thoughts were moving slower but with more purpose. They no longer slid easily about on cerebral surfaces slick with lubrication but became caught and snagged in strange places. I braced for re-entry.

The young man had managed to produce from his pocket a ten dollar note and he handed it now to the older homeless man with a small nod that was returned in kind. He then took a couple of unsteady steps backward until he was level with the younger man sitting as yet unmoved beside his trolley. His hands were searching his pockets again and he seemed to become distressed as he dug deeper but came up with only a few silver coins. The seated figure gave no indication that he’d noticed the potential benefactor standing before him. Finally the increasingly desperate young man dragged forth a cigar still in its wrapping. He held it at arm’s length and studied it doubtfully for a moment then offered it with an apologetic shrug.

Sorry mate, he said. Looks like I’m broke.

The young man at his feet took the cigar with a muttered word that could have been thanks.

Enjoy, said the unsteady philanthropist. It’s a boy.

With that he gave a half wave and ran off after his companions.

Though there had been little conversation for as long as I’d been standing there the silence left by the young man’s departure was noticeable over the rain. The isolate groups weren’t speaking even amongst themselves. For a long time the figure beside me seemed to study the wrapped cigar in his hand from out the folds of his oversized hood. Eventually his upper body jerked as though from a sudden shrug or short burst of silent laughter and he turned to the older man sitting beside him.

I don’t suppose you might want to buy this off us, he said. I’d take a tenner for it.

The older man sat up a little straighter and dug deep into his beard to scratch his chin.

Sorry, he said eventually. I never got much of a taste for those things.

His voice was clear and of a higher register than should have been allowed by the weight of memory that invested his face.

The other nodded slowly and then began to peel the plastic wrap from the cigar. He scrunched it tightly into a ball and stuffed it into the front pocket of his jumper. After running his fingers over the length of the outer leaf he suddenly looked up and around at the people sharing the alcove and when he turned to me I saw his face in full light for the first time. His dark eyes were framed by girlish lashes and his chin thrust forward like a bulbous bow. He looked me up and down and then asked if I had a lighter. I nodded that I did and handed it over. He thanked me and brought a flame to the tip of the cigar that he held gently in his teeth while turning with a practiced hand. When he was satisfied he handed me back my lighter and rested his head against the sandstone wall to exhale a lazy cloud of pungent smoke that was soon suffused sharply through the still and waterlogged air. The stiletto-bearing young man watched on from across alcove with an expression of undisguised disapproval but the others sharing the shelter ignored the intrusion. As he smoked the hooded figure’s bearing relaxed from that of a plover nesting in a park overrun by unsupervised children to the point where he seemed almost at ease. As he took a second longer pull on the cigar the older man beside him squinted and dug into his beard again and finally spoke.

How is it? he asked.

Not bad, came the slow reply on a fresh cloud of smoke. It’s a bold leaf with hints of cherry, saffron and obscene indulgence.

At this the older man paused from scratching his chin.

How obscene? he asked.

The sort of obscene that shouldn’t be discussed in polite company. It’s that good.

Neither spoke for a moment as they both watched the smoke curl and eddy and very slowly disperse.

What say we split it and I buy you a Big Mac meal? asked the older man suddenly.

A large meal?

Medium.

With a McFlurry.

Soft serve.

Sundae.

Done.

When the lights came back on a communal but almost silent sigh of relief was released throughout the carriage. A few seconds later the motors started up again and the train moved off with a small jolt. In the nearly fifteen minutes that had passed since the fluorescent bulbs flickered out without warning or word of explanation and the whole marvel of engineering drifted silently to a stop Beth hadn’t once shifted her head from where it lay in my lap. She was stretched across the seat with each of her feet dangling a sandal in the aisle. A white noise of whispered conversations had persisted through the darkness and in the fresh light those voices emerged into audible banality and left their private truths behind.

I reckon somebody’s probably said it before, I said, speaking a little louder now. But I’ve never read it and there has to be some sort of solid link between the two. In a way maybe they’re really the same thing.

The same thing? Beth echoed. Why would somebody say that? It doesn’t make any sense.

With the lights back on she returned with a small frown to her mission of carefully threading the seven cicada shells she’d found at the station onto her necklace. Several were already broken in places and it required a delicate skill to coerce their desiccated forms onto the necklace intact.

That’s probably true, I said. But I had this thought and I haven’t been able to shake it for a while now so bear with me and I’ll just put the whole mess out there and see if it doesn’t fall to pieces.

Go nuts, she said as she fed an end of the leather cord into the hole where a cicadas mouthparts once were.

Well, I guess it’s all about dimensions. People talk about the three dimensions of space and time being the fourth dimension and when you put them all together you get space-time, which is basically the universe. Right? But then why three dimensions of space and only one of time? Well, what if time isn’t the fourth dimension at all but is actually the first? Like, time is the universe and it’s expanding into space.

How so?

Well, OK. So, the big question always seems to be how to get something out of nothing. But I don’t really see that because the opposite of something isn’t nothing. The opposite of something is its opposite, which is also a thing. Nothing is just a perfect balance between something and its opposite. So, the universe as it is would have come about when that perfect balance was disturbed in some way and the whole conservation of energy thing suggests the universe started with just as much energy as it has right now and that its expansion is its own way of returning to balance.

If you say so.

So, in the beginning the choice is between two opposite forces and whichever wins out begins expanding into the first dimension of space.

Wait, what choice? Who’s making the choice?

God, chance, whatever I guess. Anyway, one of the two opposites is chosen or wins out on its own. In our universe, we call that force or energy time and it’s what drives the universe. But its opposite is at work too. While time is expanding into space, wherever it encounters its opposite space is inhabited for a period of time and there you have a one dimensional form of matter. As the energy moves further from its origin while continuing at its inevitable pace it becomes less and less dense and the opportunities for the two forces to interact in space become fewer and fewer. Eventually, those opportunities disappear altogether and at that moment of nothingness another choice is forced. If the opposite force wins out this time the universe would begin retracting backwards into itself as anti-time takes over. If the original force wins out, then it has to continue expanding but can expand no longer in that dimension of space and so moves into the second dimension of space. Entering a new dimension of space the whole universe begins again at a singularity in the new dimension and the whole business repeats with two dimensional matter and whatnot. The cycle is repeated and thus the third dimension begins with the Big Bang. The battle between matter and anti-matter would therefore represent the choice between the two forces and dark matter and dark energy would be energy and matter that operate in only the first and second dimensions. They still act on the universe as a whole but they have only a background effect on three dimensional energy or matter because they don’t exist in the third dimension. So, coming full circle, given that the speed of light is a universal constant that can’t be exceeded it stands to reason that the speed of light is the speed at which the energy of the universe, or time, moves in whatever dimension its operating in and that light is the most elemental form of this energy. If the universe is basically energy moving in space and takes the form of space-time then energy, of which light is the most basic manifestation, and time must be two sides of the same coin. Or something like that.

I waited in almost patience silence while she carefully slid the last shell along the cord and into place and then settled the chain of remains against her breast before speaking.

So the universe might never end, she mused. Before it all falls apart it will just burst into the fourth dimension of space.

I figure it’s a fifty-fifty shot whether the universe ends or keeps going if it’s up to chance.

And if it’s not up to chance the universe will take a long hard look at itself and decide if it’s worthwhile to keep going or not?

Something like that, yeah.

Well, she said as she looked up at me with one eye closed against an errant strand of bleached hair. I can’t pick any obvious holes in it but most of the time when my dad talks it’s just background noise to me. He’ll like you though. I haven’t made up my mind yet if I like that idea or not.

I smiled and the rest of the trip passed quietly. We were soon shat back out of the city’s unmappable bowels and into a warm winter morning and the shadows of trees and shining towers slid swift and silent across Beth’s body. Under fluorescence the skin between her t-shirt and the top of her skirt had shone pale but daylight revealed in it the elusive native hue that smouldered always in her eyes and lent her lips their fatal curve. I’d never been to her house before but still I had to rouse her when we reached the station.

The walk took us back along the tracks the way we’d come. On our right was a high chain fence and then the train tracks and beyond those the highly decorated brick walls of large abandoned buildings that once churned out steel girders or light bulbs or biscuits or some other equally essential commodity. On our left stretched the cagey facades of terrace houses. The street was narrow and choked with parked cars. As we walked we talked a little and for only the second time since we’d met almost a month ago she told me of her family. She was the eldest of five children and her mother had left when she was thirteen. There’d been some vague hints concerning drugs and threats but she had never managed to extract the full story from her father. When she spoke of the younger siblings she’d effectively raised herself her voice grew from its normal duet of whisper and contralto to a full and throaty soprano and developed a curious tick whereby she almost rolled her R’s. She was halfway through telling me about her youngest brother’s growing obsession with other people’s pimples when she suddenly stopped short. I turned and was about to ask if we’d reached her house when I saw her features welded into a look of such abject horror that my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. I looked wildly about for some advancing catastrophe but the sun-dappled street was empty and held no clues as to the source of her terror and when I turned again to seek an answer in her face I saw her mouth was open in a tiny ‘o’ shape.

What if one of them asks how we met? she whispered wide eyed.

The question puzzled me for a moment and then I began to grin and then chortle gleefully while she watched on with an expression caught between genuine fear and irritated tolerance.

Why not just tell them the truth? I suggested.

Don’t be lewd, she said and the tolerance evaporated.

If you say so, I shrugged. What are you going to say then?

I don’t know yet. Shut up and let me think.

We walked on in silence while Beth frowned and studied the pavement that rolled and cracked over the blooming roots of nature-strip banksias. Neither of us had spoken by the time she finally stopped and put one hand on the peeling gate of a neat brick terrace.

Listen, she said as she turned and met my gaze. Rachel’s almost fourteen and she’s still never seen anything like a good love story. I’m not subjecting her to one that starts with her sister walking in on you having sex with her girlfriend.

She didn’t blink and I lowered my eyes under her lack of accusation.

Sorry, I said. So what’s the plan?

Her fingers toyed with the latch on the gate as she looked towards the house and chewed her bottom lip.

I don’t have one, she said.

Ok, I pondered aloud. No worries. So. We met through a mutual friend. At an intervention. For her gambling addiction. And she hasn’t been near the pokies since.

Beth’s eyes narrowed slightly.

It’s simple and it’ll make it easy to remember.

She chewed her lip a little longer then sighed and nodded and pushed open the gate.

Hey, I said and as she turned I moved quickly to plant a kiss beside her ear.

She leant into me almost imperceptibly as my lips drew back and then she was away again.

Alright, she said. Come on.

The front door had four separate locks and by the time she’d found the key for each and performed the necessary jiggling and wrenching on the last one a small crowd had been drawn by the sound and the door swung open to a wall of waiting faces.

Nice of you all to help, said Beth and one or two of the faces turned a little sheepishly before a young girl about eight or nine who had half her hair braided with bright beads spoke up.

Monty might have got a girl pregnant, she said.

We were all stood in a narrow hallway with balding carpet that smelled faintly of asparagus and mould.

What girl? Beth demanded.

Dan Parker’s little sister, said a rake-thin teenager with a shaved head who stood a good half a foot taller than anyone else there. You don’t know her. She’s finding out for sure tomorrow.

Then tell me again tomorrow. Could we, you think?

The wall of faces quietly disintegrated and dispersed through several different doorways and we headed down the hall with only the young girl and an even younger boy wearing a Broncos jersey over bare legs for an entourage. Muted arguments and laughter soon began to tumble all around and above us as though the house itself was speaking in tongues. At the end of the hall was a huge room that included the kitchen and which had been enlarged by knocking out two walls such that it now took up the whole back third of the house. Its windows commanded an uninterrupted view of the tightly enclosed concrete backyard. Despite its size the room had little surplus space but it was unobtrusively clean and the patchwork furnishings had been scavenged together with great care being paid to their aesthetic harmony. Beth slung her bag on the counter then turned and nearly tripped over the two small children who had been following almost in her skirt.

Jesus Fuck, she sighed. Where’s Rachel?

The little girl shrugged.

How long has Aiden been here for?

The little girl shrugged again.

Since today or since yesterday?

Yesterday.

Shit.

Shit’s right, came a voice like rusted hinges from the other side of the room.

Beth jumped as if she’d just been hit by a live light switch and we both swung around to see an obese old man haul himself out of an armchair where his heavily stained shirt that may once have been white but was now the colour of weak tea had camouflaged him well against the faded patterns of the upholstery.

I thought you were at a conference til Wednesday, said Beth.

I was but that syphilitic cunt Chisholm started in on me again and when I again shut his mouth for him a few people got their noses out of joint. So here I am. I guess this is the bartender? I thought you said he was tall.

Did they let you keep your fee?

The old man started across the room towards us with a sea-legged shuffle whilst ignoring the question. Despite his obvious age he had an almost full head of wiry white hair and the legs that poked out from his khaki shorts like walnut twigs were unaccountably steady under the bulk they supported.

I’ll take that as a no, said Beth. Brilliant. You know it’s Archie’s birthday next week?

Sure, sure, he said as he lurched closer. Good thing you’ve gone and got yourself a proper captain of industry type to navigate the treacherous straits of our cruel poverty. Never fear, the bartender’s here.

He stopped just out of handshake reach and cocked his head a little to the side as he studied me.

Well, I said. It’s about the most resilient industry there is. The worse things get the more people want to drink.

Is that right? So, what? Your careers advisor was a cockroach?

I grinned and raised my eyebrows.

He studied me in silence a moment longer then shuffled past us and down the hall. I turned to Beth but she was already on the phone trying to reach Aiden’s mother. The young girl had meanwhile begun to move slowly about the room with her eyes on the floor. Every now and then she would stop to pick some invisible thing from the carpet and deposit it in the cup of her left hand before straightening and moving on.

We can’t keep doing this Lea, said Beth into the phone. Til tomorrow’s OK this time but it’s not fair on him. Who’s got Karen?

The boy I took to be Aiden stood staring up at her with a finger parked immobile up one nostril. The young girl paused in her browsing to poke about in her hand as if counting her harvest and then went on as before. Eventually my curiosity got the better of me and I sidled up behind her and peered over her shoulder to try and see what she was collecting. She heard me and turned around and I saw her left hand held a dozen or so stiff black hairs.

Hi, I said. Who did your hair for you?

She stood looking up at me with a blank expression and said nothing.

It looks very pretty, I tried again. What are you picking those up for?

She held them up towards me so I could get a better look.

Dad let Napoleon inside before so I’m trying to get all the hair he left, she said.

As if on cue a hideous little snub-faced spaniel thing sprinted up from out of the shadows at the back of the yard and started barking at me like a dog possessed through the glass door.

Oh, I said. Are you the one that keeps this place all ship shape then?

No, she said with a look as though I’d said something truly queer. Dad likes it on his breakfast.

Oh.

She gave a little smile as she walked past me towards the kitchen and as I turned I saw Beth standing and watching our little chat but she quickly went back to wiping a bit of something from Aiden’s chin.

Here, the little girl said as she held up her hand.

Nice work, said Beth. Just leave them here. Can you take Aiden up to his room? Lea will be here in a couple of hours. Don’t let him near anything sharp.

Mhm, she said and took the boy’s tiny hand in hers and led him off down the hall.

I stood looking at the little pile of black hairs on the white countertop while Beth moved about the kitchen to no apparent purpose.

Bit of hair of the dog? I asked eventually.

What? she said. Oh, that. Mary heard him moaning about his hangover one morning and she thought we could sprinkle it on his cereal. It was really quite sweet and so I let her collect them. I only end up using them like half the time.

Somewhere in the house that same voice of rusted hinges started swearing loudly in an uninterrupted and impressively cornucopian stream that carried easily over the myriad other voices that the house seemed to breathe with. Beth and I looked at one another and I raised my eyebrows but she just shook her head slowly. The invectives were irregularly interrupted by brief semantic passages that seemed to imply somebody had stolen one of his shoes. Beth stood with her head tilted slightly back and her eyes all but closed as though pausing for a moment from some frantic work to listen to a favourite song on the radio and waiting without impatience for the chorus. I was about to ask where I could find the bathroom when the filthy spiel suddenly stopped mid-swear as if a tap had been turned off. Beth’s eyes snapped open and a small frown appeared. Without a word she headed off down the main hall.

I followed her as she made her way upstairs and through a maze tiny hallways. Snatches of unseen conversation and laughter persisted through the walls but the only person we saw was a boy of about twelve or thirteen who skipped quickly through a doorway as we approached until we almost collided with the tall youth with the shaved head who had spoken when we first entered and who could have been Beth’s brother. He rounded a corner ahead of us flanked by a pale owl-faced young man carrying a bottle of whiskey and wearing a sneer that might have passed for an unfortunately shaped smile if it wasn’t so etched onto his face from overuse. Beth danced nimbly to one side to avoid a collision and I almost tripped myself up in my attempted imitation. The pair burst into guffaws and the guest barked something that seemed to be directed at Beth but we didn’t stop.

We eventually reached a closed door that was tucked into a corner of a bizarre little alcove at the end of an otherwise dead end hall. Beth knocked but when there was no answer she pushed the door open and stepped inside. I followed her into a small room darkened by sunlight bleeding through the same heavy orange curtains that muted the shadows. Beth’s father was sitting on the single bed that dominated the middle of the room. He was holding a piece of paper barely an inch from his nose and his lips were moving rapidly but silently under the fringes of his beard.

Please don’t do that, said Beth.

Do what? asked the old man without looking up from the page.

Shut-up without being told. Every time you do I think you’ve had another heart attack. Don’t you know better than to get a girl’s hopes up like that?

Beth’s father read on silently for a few moments longer and when he finally put the paper to one side his deep-set black eyes fell on me.

How much do you know about tax law? he asked.

I know of it, I said.

He turned to Beth.

Could you please tell me what is the fucking point of letting a white fella fiddle with your girl parts if he can’t even help fix basic white fella bullshit?

Because nobody fiddles like the Devil himself, I offered.

His eyes bulged and he let out a long breath that made a very low whistle but before he could form words Beth was moving towards him.

If either you ever talk to me like that in front of the girls you’ll quickly wish you hadn’t, she said. What’s the problem?

Never you mind your pretty head about it, the old man grumbled as he finally looked from me to his daughter. I’ll take the cunts to court and before you say anything about money I’ll represent myself. See how long they keep fighting once I’ve had the floor for an hour or two.

Give it here.

She stepped forward and snatched the letter from the unmade bed. While her eyes skimmed the page I ventured a few steps further into the room and saw stood against the wall on my right a set of Ikea drawers over which was hung a strange picture. It looked like a satellite photo of Australia at night but the lights of the coastal capitals were dwarfed by some strange megalopolis burning across the continent’s dark heart.

How many letters did they send you before this one? Beth asked slowly and deliberately.

The old man muttered something unintelligible.

Don’t give me that, said Beth as her speech slowed further with soft menace. They’re after you for fourteen fucking thousand you…

They won’t get it because I don’t have it and they know it, he said as I leant in to get a closer look at the picture and the alien brightness in the desert. See something you like sunshine?

What about the house? whispered Beth more to herself than either of us.

What are all the lights in the middle of nowhere? I asked. They can’t all be from the miners.

Surely not, said the old man as he heaved himself to his feet and shouldered past Beth who was re-reading the letter again as if desperate for it to have changed. They’re bushfires.

Christ, I said. What a picture. There’s easily a thousand words there.

And the rest, he cried. The whole fucking story of this country is right there. Your people huddle together within spitting distance of where you stepped off the boat, spend all your time trying to swim back and then as soon as you can you piss off to swagger around overseas like you really did conquer a whole continent. You don’t know fuck about what this country is.

Sure, sure, I said. That’s good actually. But what about the ones that don’t huddle within spitting distance? We couldn’t have stayed here if we couldn’t farm here and there are millionaires that own properties about as deep into this place as you can go.

Oh, some of your folk can be stubborn as all fuck but even the ones who did beat something out of the land have been killing each other or themselves or heading off for the big smoke since they first started scratching around in the dirt. You’ll make a few more bucks from digging the place up for a while and then you’re stuck on a big lump of worthless rock with barely enough to feed yourselves.

Well then we’re just strangers in a strange land from birth and wherever we go I guess. Not as much as your people are these days though.

Is that a fact? he asked and shuffled closer til the forest of his beard filled my vision and I could feel his faint breath on my face. Do you know what Songlines are?

I’ve heard the word, but no.

Then fuck you you young fuck. There are songs that can carry a man alone across all those deserts.

Really? Shit. Well, that’s fine for the desert but do you have a song that can guide you through a white man’s court room? Because that’s the land you’re really living in now.

I’ll improvise. Or do you have a better idea?

Not a one, I shrugged. It seems to me a fair chunk of all our ills are the result of people trying to legislate for others who they don’t and can’t ever really understand. It’s no good looking to us. Me and my kind are just exiles driven off the plains into the foothills of the Mountains of the Moon or something. We adapted to the hills but by our mere presence we all but wiped out the ancient mountain people - that’s you – and poisoned their culture when they were the only ones that could really thrive above the snowline or live above the treeline. We’re a borderline nation of fucking hillfolk haunted by the shadow of the mountain. But at least we know the mountain a little better than they do down in all the cities of the plain. It’s a good thing to know because its shadow falls everywhere eventually. Shit, how’s that for a new anthem? Beth, you could put that to a tune couldn’t you?

What? Beth looked up at the mention of her name and our eyes met past the now grinning visage of her father but she quickly shifted her gaze to the old man.

Have you been listening to me at all? she asked. They’re coming hard and they’ll be coming for the house.

I told you I’d sort it didn’t I? he said over his shoulder. Christ, it’s like I’m talking to myself around here.

Listen here shackle-dragger, he said to me now. That’s a lovely thought but you’re much more like a cane toad. You eat anything you can fit in your mouth, if anything takes a bite of you it drops stone dead and every beautifully unique ecosystem you find you turn into nothing but cane toads.

You know I really can’t argue too hard with you there since I know of at least one town where we’ve put up a monument to the thing itself. We’re drowning in cane toads so we better build a statue of one. And why not? Here they evolved into Super Toads with stronger legs and an unstoppable migration instinct. Look it up. And we had a dog once that used to get high off licking them. I’ve heard there’s people pretty into it too. It’s some sort of trip apparently. You ever tried it?

No. And they’re killing your Super Toads by the hundreds of thousands in the Territory.

I bet they are, I said and grinned.

The old man frowned and for a moment looked like he was going to say something else but in the end he just sniffed.

Well, he said as he turned to Beth with a look as though he’d just killed a brown snake with his bare hands. If you had to pick a white fella at least you picked one who can listen when he’s told.

And I can ask my brother about the tax thing, I said to her. He’s studying law so he might know somebody who knows something.

Beth gave me a flicker of a smile but her brows still hung heavy with worry.

Law is it? her father asked as he turned back to me. Tell him to read Fitch’s recently commissioned study into the modes of survival for substratum cultures in colonial democracies.

What good is a study? I asked. All that’ll get you is facts and the facts won’t help you. The facts are fucking awful. And neither will the little gaggle of balding cunts looking at them. But right now pretty much anyone who’s having a proper thought about it is likely recording it in one way or another. Really the best thing we can do is listen to the internet. All of it. Jesus, if ever we needed a new Jesus we need a Jesus of the internet. Step up, Julian!

From downstairs we heard the front door slam and a girl’s scream mingled with several shouting male voices. Beth’s eyes widened and her lips parted and she rushed out without a backwards glance as her father and I looked at one another then followed doggedly behind. As we came to the top of the stairs we could see a similar crowd to the one that had greeted us gathered close around the front door in a state of some excitement but the crush of bodies obscured whatever it was that had drawn them there. Beth hovered for a moment on the landing with one foot poised over the top step and then stepped back slowly and took a deep breath.

Cops! she screamed at the top of her voice.

The heads at the door all whipped around at the cry and several bodies flew off through doorways or down the hall. I saw the owl-faced guest barging his way through the crowd. He knocked little Mary off her feet as he rushed towards the stairs and he was halfway up before he saw the three of us standing unmoved on the landing and paused.

What the fuck, Rachel? Beth said to a long bodied slip of a thing with wild hair who was still standing just inside the door wearing a sardonic grin and clutching a brown paper bag in her left hand.

I brought you a present, said Rachel and she tossed the bag in a wobbly arc towards Beth who caught it full on the chest.

What is it? she asked as she peered inside. She immediately recoiled with a gagging sound and dropped the bag and I quickly scooped it up. Inside was some sort of foul-smelling sludge.

It’s cane toads, said Rachel. Or it was. Me and Harry are catching them and breaking them down for fertiliser. It’s a piece of piss and there’s some decent coin in it.

You know there’s a pretty good market for their poison in Japan and China, I said. If you milk them before you mulch them you can sell that too.

She looked at me with her head cocked a little to one side.

Harry’s already made up a little machine to do it, she said. We’re just looking for an importer.

Waste of fucking time, grumbled the old man. I’m guessing you don’t have another bag hidden about your person with my Goddamn mouthwash in it do you?

You never asked me to get you any, Rachel said as her grin faltered a little.

It’s Sunday is it not? I’m pretty sure it still comes around about this time of a week. Unless of course the rotation of the planet has changed without my notice. Has it? Well?

The grin slid all the way from Rachel’s face and she looked down at the toes of her combat boots.

You never know, I said after a moment’s silence. You look like you could just about put a real wobble in the Earth’s orbit and if you did you yourself might never be able to tell. Relativity and all that.

The old man turned to me and his eyes were shining pools of ink. He spat a thick gob on the carpet at my feet.

When we need an opinion from whitey I’ll be sure to let you know, he said. This is family business and we wouldn’t want the nice barman to dirty himself now.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beth’s brother reappear from the doorway opposite the stairs..

Aw, you’ve got me all wrong, I said to the old man. I might wear a white shirt to work most days but I am the man in motherfucking black and I am coming around.

Well, you sure as shit won’t coming around here no more, he said.

Or what?

Johnny, he barked and his upper lip curled back with savage glee.

Beth’s brother gave a curt nod and started for the stairs but the guest was halfway up already and at the implicit invitation he charged ahead with a short laugh and with the full bottle cocked back behind his shoulder. When he was three steps below me I concentrated on bracing my right foot and I knew I’d connected well when I felt a tooth burst through the skin of his lip and then snap against the knuckle of my ring finger. He crashed through the bannister and the bottle shattered as he crumpled in a heap in the hallway below. I heard several screams that seemed to blend together into a single animal howl and Beth’s brother was leaping up the stairs and taking them three at a time as her father lumbered in as fast as he could with his lips curled back into his beard to bare both rows of tombstone teeth. He was almost upon me when he stopped and his face fell slack with shock and he leant against the remains of the bannister for support. It gave way just as my right temple exploded with light.

When I checked my watch for the last time it was eleven minutes past two and the rain seemed to have settled into that particular rhythm of methodical drenching that echoes an endless two-chord ballad. I had no money for a taxi and my phone had run out of battery several hours ago and so I decided to light a last cigarette while still under cover before starting off on the long walk home. No sooner had I done so than the young Lancelot across the alcove gave a shout.

Oi! he said and pointed to the No Smoking sign just to the right of my head. Can’t you fucking read?

I turned and frowned hard at the sign for a moment then turned back to him and shrugged.

No, I said. Not since I got back from the war anyway.

His eyebrows came together and his mouth framed a few different shapes before he finally gave a slight shake of his head that was almost a twitch.

Put the fucking thing out, he said. The smell makes my girlfriend sick.

I glanced at the semi-comatose creature mumbling through her hair and had taken a breath to reply when I felt a tap on my left arm. It had come from the homeless man to whom I’d lent my lighter and he gestured for me to wait while he lifted a corner of the blanket that covered his shopping trolley and rummaged underneath it for a moment. He came out holding the remains of an old Sprite can that he’d fashioned into a cigarette holder complete with a narrow hood to keep the rain off. He offered it to me and when I tried to refuse he rolled his eyes and offered it again.

I’ve got six of them for fuck’s sake, he said. And this one’s a bit shit.

Alright, I said. Cheers.

I slid it over my cigarette and even though it was a loose fit I could keep it from slipping with just a little pressure from my fingers. I thanked him again and walked out into the rain.

Within seconds I was wet to the skin and my clothes clung like shrouds soaked in embalming fluid. The street leading down from the station was steep and empty and the streetlights showed up the myriad percussions of the rain on the slick tarmac. It was a good hour and a half walk to the apartment but the wind had dropped just enough for the chill to be kept at bay if I kept up a good pace. At the end of the street I turned left and walked for a while under the cover of closed shopfronts until I came to the main road where the buildings were set well back from the footpath. I took another left.

I’d been walking for perhaps fifteen minutes when I noticed a car parked on the opposite side of the road with its headlights on. As I got closer the car’s headlight’s flashed several times and since there were no other people or cars about I jogged across the road and approached the driver’s window as it was rolled down. Beth was sitting with her arms crossed over the steering wheel and her chin resting on her hands. The seat was titled right back as though she’d been sleeping.

How are you? she asked.

Oh, I’m cock of the fucking walk, I said over the rain. How are you?

Ok. I’ve been trying to call you for an hour. Phone dead?

Yeah. Sorry. What are you doing here?

I got a flat.

Oh. Whose car is this anyway?

A friend’s. You don’t know him but it turns out he doesn’t have a spare.

Shit.

It’s OK. Johnny has one and he said he’d drive me up tomorrow to put it on. Do you have money for a cab?

No.

Then I guess we’re walking.

She wound the window up and a few moments later the door opened and she stepped out in a low cut dress of dark purple with little fringes of lace that soon shone with clinging droplets.

Hang on, I said as she went to close the door. I took a last drag of my cigarette then stubbed it out and threw the piece of Sprite can onto the driver’s seat.

What’s that? Beth asked.

A present from a bum, I said.

She nodded slowly as she locked the door and took my arm in hers and we walked on.

How’s your Dad? I asked after a while.

It doesn’t look good, she said. The doctors say every time he pushes it his heart gets that much weaker. He just can’t help himself the silly old shit. At least if he carks it the insurance will cover the tax business.

And if he doesn’t I guess we’re all moonlighting as cane toad hunters. Should I go see him?

The melody of her laugh rippled out over the rain and back again.

He might quite like you in the end but that won’t stop him or Johnny killing you if you give them the chance.

She hesitated for a moment.

And if you do see Johnny about, just don’t look him in the eye, she said.

I won’t, I said. I’ve never been hit like that in my life. Does he box?

He did Muay Thai for a while but he had to give it up. You can’t play the violin with busted hands.

I grinned.

I still can’t see him sitting at first fiddle for an orchestra, I said.

She grinned back.

Me either. When I was twelve or so he was auditioning for a place at the Conservatorium of music. I think I called him a traitorous fuckstain of an Oreo or something like that. He got very serious and I still remember exactly what he said. He looked me in the eye and said, Elizabeth, you have to keep what you can and get what you can and keep going.

Well, I guess you can’t ask much better than that. Give him by best if you think it’s a good idea.

She looked up at me and held my arm a little tighter.

We’ll see, she said.

And tell him sorry about his mate.

She wrinkled her nose.

Fuck that, she said. He’s a leech. Johnny only keeps him around because he can talk anyone into just about anything. He’s sort of his manager I guess.

She giggled.

He won’t be talking for a while though. His jaw’s wired shut and will be for a good couple of months.

Looks like I got out alright then. Can you do dinner tomorrow night?

No, I have a psyche paper due. The night after should be fine.

What’s it on? Stats?

No, Freud.

Crazy fucking Kraut, I said and she made a sound in her throat that could have been anything.

You know, I said suddenly. You have a very curious way of completely disarming my ego, which is no mean feat because that motherfucker comes strapped and ready for war.

She didn’t reply for a long while. The rain seemed to have grown heavier and I watched it running in uneven rivulets all the gently sloping way from her hair down to her breast. We had an easy pace going and I was keeping an eye to the ground to watch for sly puddles in the dark.

Well, she said eventually. Good.

David had just woken from a series of confused but not unpleasant dreams when his phone rang. It lay on the bedside table and the wan luminescence of its screen stirred up all the nearby shadows as it came to life. The ringtoned strains of Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum featuring additional syncopated percussion from the vibration against the table soon followed. He grabbed at the phone and muted it against his chest as Lucy rolled over beside him. She muttered something about cats in the attic then sighed and slipped back into sleeping breaths. David lifted the phone a little to check the caller ID and saw it was a private number then glanced at the clock. It was a quarter to five. He swore under his breath then slid out from under the covers and sat naked on the edge of the bed to answer the call.

Hello? he whispered.

There was a rustling sound at the other end of the line then silence.

Hello? he tried again a little louder.

Still there was no reply and his whole upper body sank a little. He went to hang up but then paused. After a moment’s reflection he stood up and opened the door as quietly as he could. A thin shaft of light came in and fell across Lucy lying coiled in her dark hair with a single strand strung across her mouth. He went out into the living room and closed the door gently behind him.

This is getting beyond a joke, he said to the silent caller.

It was dark outside and the only light came from a table lamp that had been carelessly left on. He watched his naked reflection in the sliding glass door that lead onto the balcony as he stooped to grab his cigarettes from the coffee table then sat down on the couch with a deep sigh.

Do you really have nothing better to do at five o’clock in the morning? he asked.

There was no reply and he put the phone down on the coffee table while he lit a cigarette. He blew the smoke towards the ceiling then turned the TV on and hit the mute button. He flicked through the channels til he found the twenty-four hour news then picked up the phone again.

I mean I have to head to work in a couple of hours so I don’t really give a shit. You nearly woke my girlfriend up though so I guess I have to make some sort of a stand. Not that I think it’ll do any good. I know a lost cause when I see one. Or get a series of inappropriate phone calls from one.

He took the phone away from his ear to check if the call was still active. It was.

You know this is just costing you money mate. Isn’t there something else you’d rather be spending it on? If you’d just saved up instead of calling me every other night I reckon you could’ve bought yourself an hour with an only slightly overweight call girl by now. It’s a much more effective way of relieving feelings of desperate inadequacy and crushing loneliness than breathing down a phone line I’m sure. But then again maybe not. I guess you’re the expert on such things. At this point I’m not even that pissed off any more. I’m genuinely curious about what sort of pathetic existence a person would have to be leading to resort to this sort of shit for their entertainment or whatever it is this does for you. You can think you’re getting to me if you want but you’re not. I was awake when you called. Believe me or don’t, I really don’t care.

David paused to stub out his cigarette and light another one. The television was showing images of a conflict somewhere in the Middle East. Black-veiled women wailed on their knees amidst indecipherable piles of rubble and moustached men gesticulated furiously at the carnage and at then the camera and then at the carnage once more. David kept his eyes on the newsreel at the bottom of the screen as the overnight sports results began to roll past.

There is one question that’s been plaguing me, he said after a while. You see, something tells me that you don’t currently have a job that requires you to be up and about at such an ungodly hour. It’s just a hunch so tell me if I’m wrong.

He waited for a moment then went on.

I’ll go ahead and take your silence to mean I’m right. So the question that’s bothering me is whether you planned ahead and set your alarm just so you could wake up and call me when you figured it would be most inconvenient or whether you’ve been up all night drinking cheap vodka and picking your nose and whacking off to granny porn and the bright idea of giving me a call just swam up into your head. It’s a split decision for me and either way when I try to form some sort of a picture of you in my mind as you are right now I see a toad-like creature sitting in the dark surrounded by biscuit crumbs and boxes of old magazines and balled up tissues with one hand down the front of your stained tracksuit pants. It’s not a pretty sight. Now I don’t reckon you’re going to tell me which it is and I don’t reckon I’d believe you even if you did so I’m in a real pickle here. It’s driving me nuts.

He lay back and put his feet up on the coffee table. A few of the larger toes were bearing dirt under the nails and he frowned and searched around for the nail clippers until he found them on the floor under a pair of Lucy’s jeans. As he pruned he ruminated further.

I bet you haven’t had a girl in a good year or two or maybe more. I’m sure there are plenty of factors at work there but they can smell desperation you know. Apparently it has an odour a bit like rotting meat, sweet to the point of sickness and we’ve all evolved to associate it with death. Showering every now and then does help though I’m told, so maybe give that a crack. I would suggest trying to preserve a certain level of self-respect but all evidence points to that ship having sailed and sunk off the coast of somewhere or other with the captain drunk at the wheel so that’s about as much advice as I can give I’m afraid. I do hope you appreciate it though. I don’t just hand out pearls of wisdom to any old prank caller.

He stopped talking for a moment and listened to the breath without voice at the other end of the line. He was waiting for some reaction but the breathing didn’t even change pace.

I’m gonna tell you a story, he said eventually. A mate of mine once told me about an old boyfriend of his sister’s. She dated him for a few months and my mate said he seemed like a pretty decent guy on the few occasions he met him. A bit quiet maybe but alright to have a beer with and whatnot. He was an Irish bloke I think he said. Anyway, my mate’s sister seemed to like him well enough and everything was going ok but after like three months she’d still never been to his place. He was flatting with a couple of people in an apartment in the city but every time she suggested they go there he made some excuse like the floors were getting redone or they were having the place fumigated or something like that and so they just ended up going back to hers. Still, she thought nothing of it. She was a sweet girl. I met her a few times. She grew up way out in the country and was one of those what you see is what you get kind of people. Not in a tomboy sort of way but she just didn’t have a suspicious bone in her body. So they were getting pretty close and he introduced her to his three flatmates and she became friends with them. One in particular was a girl around her age and they started hanging out quite a bit, just the two of them. They were out drinking together one night when the boyfriend, and I can’t remember his name for the life of me, was away with work. They got pretty drunk and the flatmate suggested my mate’s sister come back and crash at theirs for the night so they made their way back to the apartment some time in the early hours. At this point the flatmate mentioned that the boyfriend was pretty private and never usually let anybody else into his room. My mate’s sister was pretty drunk and just wanted to sleep and she figured that since they’d been dating for a while now he wouldn’t mind if she just crashed in there for the night. So the two of them went into his room and turned on the light. Now I only heard this through my mate but he swears that every detail is exactly as his sister told him and she was never one to lie. What they saw when they turned on the light was a room stacked full on every surface and every which way with hundreds and hundreds of glass jars. Jam jars and peanut butter jars and coffee jars and all sorts. Each jar was carefully labelled with a date and a location and as they moved into the room a little further they saw that each one held a single turd. I shit you not. This bloke had his own personal turd museum in his bedroom. Fuck knows how long he’d been collecting them. I assume they were all his but you never know. The girls didn’t stay long enough to do a thorough examination. One look and they both ran screaming out of the apartment and I can’t say I blame them. So that was that basically. My mate’s sister never spoke to the guy again. She just avoided all his calls. A week or so later the flatmate who had been there that night moved out to come and live with her and apparently told the bloke what had happened as she was leaving. He stopped calling after that. Last I heard the bloke got done for something or other on the Gold Coast. That’s a true story. Every word. I don’t quite know why it popped into my head just now but it did and I felt an urge to share it with you. Hope you enjoyed it. Maybe there’s something—

David stopped talking as the bedroom door clicked open. He looked up and saw Lucy standing all bleary eyed and mussy haired in the doorway in just her black tank top and panties.

Who you talking to babe? she murmured.

David put the phone on speaker and set it on the coffee table. The caller’s rhythmic breaths were just audible through the static.

Same old, same old, he said. I hope so anyway. I couldn’t cope if there was another one. Sorry if I woke you up. Anything you want to say? I’ve been trying to get him to speak but I can’t get a word. You just might though I reckon.

Lucy sniffed and rubbed her eyes.

Just hang up and come back to bed, she said.

No, I’m up now. I won’t get back to sleep before I have to leave anyway.

Lucy looked at him from under sleep-lidded eyes for a long moment. David shifted uncomfortably under her gaze and glanced towards the glass doors that led onto the balcony. Dawn was still a fair way off but the light outside was growing greyer. Eucalyptus canopies were visible now as silhouettes against the paling sky and they appeared as dark clouds that shook but wouldn’t shift with the wind. He eventually met Lucy’s eyes again and saw that her look was full of confusion and disappointment.

The moment was broken by a baby’s cry. The sound struck Lucy out of her slumber and her whole body tensed as though charged with a sudden surge of current but then just as quickly she sagged against the doorframe and implored him with weary eyes. David glanced at the phone still counting up the chargeable minutes then gestured helplessly at his nakedness. Lucy sighed and eased herself up onto heavy feet and began to make her way towards the child’s bedroom. Out of the corner of his eye David watched her half-clad body closely as it passed. She disappeared down the hall and a moment later he could hear her murmuring words of comfort and humming a tune he recognised from his own childhood but couldn’t name. He frowned and studied the carpet. After a while the sounds of mother and child grew softer as Lucy’s soothing tones took effect. It was then that David realised the phone was still on speaker and the breathing at the other end of the line had all but stopped. He glanced over his shoulder then picked up the phone and held it close to his lips.

You know, he whispered. Once or twice in the middle of the night I’ve actually wished she really wasn’t mine. I guess me telling you this is pretty fucking sick when I think about it but I can’t help it. The feelings only last a second but afterwards when I remember having had those thoughts the memories come back so laden with guilt that I can barely breathe. And I can’t tell Luce. She wouldn’t understand. I don’t expect you to either but at least I don’t have to look you in the eye.

Lucy’s footsteps started back down the hall and David cleared his throat then went on more loudly.

So there were these two daddy long legs in our bathroom, he said.

Lucy came past him and took his cigarettes from the coffee table. She lit one and went to stand by the window.

They lived in opposite corners up by the ceiling, David continued. One night I came in and one had wandered over to his neighbour’s web and the two of them were locked together in an embrace. I was a little drunk so it took me a while to actually work out that there were two spiders together there and not just one. I blew at them a few times so they’d scuttle about and after like ten minutes or so I could say with absolute certainty that there were more than eight legs operating. You know how those things have such tiny bodies. They were all curled into one another as well so it could have just been the one. But no, there were plenty more than eight legs operating there. I watched them for quite a while trying to work out what they were doing. I figured they must be either fucking or fighting or some combination of the two. You know how when some spiders mate the female eats the male straight after? Black widows I think they’re called but I didn’t know if maybe daddy long legs did the same thing because sometimes their webs have corpses of other daddy long legs in them. Anyway, I eventually got bored and went to bed with them still in their strange embrace but over the next few weeks I kept an eye on those two. And you know what happened? Nothing. Neither of them became a windblown husk hanging sadly in the web and no clutch of eggs or babies appeared. They just went on sharing a web. Is that not bizarre? Because from what I’ve read spiders don’t like to live in close proximity to one another, especially when there’s a lack of food. And our bathroom is hardly crawling with bugs. We keep it pretty clean. So how do you explain that? What the fuck were they up to?

As David had started getting into the swing of his little story Lucy had turned slowly from the window to watch him with mounting bewilderment. Towards the end her eyes began to narrow slightly. When he was finished with his tale David threw her a broad wink and after a brief internal struggle she failed to suppress the grin that fought to break free across her face. Their eyes met and David grinned back. He held her gaze for a long while until a slight flush crept up her neck and she looked down at the carpet as though the pale stain by her foot was suddenly very interesting. A small smile was still playing about her lips.

Mysteries abound, David said into the phone. But what’s life without a little mystery?

Lucy shivered slightly and came over to deposit the remains of her cigarette in an empty beer bottle from the night before that was sitting on the coffee table.

Don’t get yourself too worked up, she said softly. I’m going back to bed.

She turned and walked away but at the door she glanced back over her shoulder.

And would you put some fucking pants on? she said. It’ll be light soon and we don’t have curtains, remember? You’ll give Mrs. Harrison a heart attack if she looks out her kitchen window first thing in the morning and gets an eyeful of your tackle.

It’d probably make her month, David chuckled. I don’t reckon the poor thing’s seen one in years.

And imagine her disappointment when she finally gets the chance for a perv and all she finds is that sad little thing, Lucy said without missing a beat.

David’s mouth goldfished as he fumbled briefly for a reply and in that moment of hesitation Lucy blew him a kiss and disappeared back into the bedroom. The door closed with a soft click and David was left staring at the space where she’d been.

God I love that girl, he said. Despite what I said before I would have raised the kid no matter what the test said if she wanted me to. I don’t expect you to understand that.

He sighed and collapsed back onto the couch. The leather was cold and clung a little to his neck and shoulders. He chewed his bottom lip and gazed vaguely at the television. They were showing a press conference with some politician he didn’t recognise and for almost a minute he lost himself in the series of measured gestures and ambiguous facial expressions that gave no hint as to whether the silently moving mouth might be outlining the new budget or confronting questions on a sex scandal. Eventually he began to speak again and though the phone was some distance away on the coffee table he didn’t bother shift from his supine position.

Here’s something I haven’t told you, he said. This is going back a fair way now. I would have been about fourteen or fifteen I reckon. It must have been during the mid-year school holidays. It was definitely winter and it was during that cold snap because we weren’t anywhere near the mountains and yet that week was the first time I ever saw snow. We’d driven out into the country to visit our cousins on Mum’s side. They had a farm outside some town out west. It was a fair way south as well I think. What was it called again? The name’s on the tip of my tongue. I think it maybe started with an ‘M’. Fuck it. Anyway, it was on the way back that we ran into snow. We all flipped out when we saw it but that strange thing is that more than anything else I remember the smell. Well before we caught sight of it we were at a truck stop getting petrol and I’d stepped out of the car to stretch my legs and the air was somehow different. It was heavy but not like the smell of rain. It was less sweet and more like all the life had been sucked out of it. Like this was the smell of air itself and nothing else. I remember thinking that at the time anyway. We got back in the car and five minutes down the road the clouds grew darker and then all of a sudden there were these thick flakes drifting down all around us. Where it hit the road it melted and the bitumen became deep black but the fields on either side were soon dusted white with the stuff as far as you could see. It was surreal. The images are a little hazy now but to this day when I catch a whiff of that scent on the air I know it’s snowing somewhere maybe miles away upwind. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. While we were at the farm I overheard Mum and Auntie Cat talking in the kitchen. They didn’t know I was there. All the rest of the young people were out messing around with the pet goat if I remember right and I’d come inside to use the toilet. I don’t know why I hung around to listen but I did. For a while they were just chatting about this and that and gossiping a bit I suppose as sisters will but then Auntie Cat mentioned something about one of her kids getting into some trouble at school. I can’t remember which one it was. Actually, yes I can. It was Gavin. Christ, he really was a bit of a shit. He would have been two years younger? That sounds about right. I don’t remember him ever causing any trouble normally. He was actually quiet to the point of being seriously awkward. I used to feel sorry for him in some ways but then he’d do or say something that just made you want to punch those bug-eye glasses right off his face. He had such a thin little beak of a nose that he was constantly sliding them back up into place with his middle finger right before launching into an explanation of how what you’d just said wasn’t technically correct. I remember he used to throw tantrums and cry a lot when things didn’t go his way as well. None of us really liked him. Anyway, Auntie Cat was saying that he’d been caught trying to set an older kid’s car on fire with matches and a pair of boxer shorts soaked in lighter fluid. The other kid had been giving him a hard time or something. So Auntie Cat was telling Mum this story and saying she was really worried because with his dad being dead she was struggling to give that guidance about how to act as a man. Mum was saying all the right things about this just being a phase and he’ll grow out of it and she’s a wonderful mother and all that bullshit but then she paused. Even though I was out in the hall I could feel the silence weighing down the room. When she spoke again her voice was softer and I can remember what she said word for word. I really can sympathise though, she said. Even with his father overseas all the time I know I never really have to worry about David. He’s been in one or two fights at school but each time he’s been honest with me about what happened and he had his reasons. It’s Archie that I worry about. He rarely gets into trouble but I get a feeling of this terrible hidden fear in him that I don’t understand and it frightens me.

They kept talking but I left after that. I didn’t think too much of it at the time and it wasn’t til much later that I really understood what she meant but her words have come back to me a lot since then. The first time was probably that night you got really drunk at Huxley’s party and threw a brick through his kitchen window after Roach made some stupid joke about your haircut. I’d never seen anything like that before and when I went over it in my head the next morning I suddenly recalled that conversation as clear as if I’d just heard it. In all the years between it had never crossed my mind. From then on I never really felt like I understood you. It didn’t frighten me like it did Mum though. In the end I guess maybe it should have. Maybe I would’ve tried harder to understand and maybe all this shit wouldn’t have gotten so out of hand. Not that I blame myself. I still blame you. I don’t reckon you’ll ever understand what damage you could have done and almost did. I don’t reckon you have the ingredients for that sort of pain.

He fell silent and shifted his attention to the television once more. The sports report had started but he’d already seen all the headlines scroll past and after a moment’s reflection he struggled into a sitting position and picked up the phone. The call had been active for an hour and thirty-seven minutes. He stood up with a slight groan and raised his arms into a long luxuriant stretch. The glass doors onto the balcony faced north and so the sun still wasn’t visible but the light outside suggested it was now sitting just above the horizon. He cracked his back one way and then the other and then made his way towards the kitchen still holding the phone. He opened the fridge and reached for a carton of eggs but as his eyes went past a little plastic bottle half-full of milk he checked himself. He grabbed the bottle and set it on the counter then added a spoonful of formula and some water and put it in the microwave on medium-high for a minute and fifteen seconds. He watched as the bottle rotated slowly to reveal a cartoon scene of two puppies of some indeterminate breed blissfully chasing one another’s tails.

I have to head to work pretty soon now, he said. So speak now or forever hold your peace.

He waited in silence for a response until the light inside the microwave went out and it issued three slow beeps and then he retrieved the bottle and dribbled a couple of drops on his wrist. He nodded to himself and set the bottle down on top of the microwave.

I’m going to hold you to that, he said as he went back to the fridge.

Because you’ve had your chance to say if you think you’ve been wronged. To demand apologies. Or offer them and I’m open to that by the way. Whether or not what you say happened actually happened it didn’t matter in the end because I had to stop hating you so I could trust her. And it wasn’t even a matter of believing her or believing you. While ever I kept hating you I couldn’t let myself believe her just in case and a part of me hated her too for letting you do that to me. But one day I woke up and realised just what she might have been going through if she had been telling the truth and I felt like such a cunt. Because she was still here. She’d chosen me regardless. I had to let it go.

He set the bacon and the eggs on the counter and moved over to the stove.

So you see you can’t hurt us anymore. No matter where you’re trying to go with this shit, it won’t get you anywhere. I know there will always be the possibility that you were telling the truth the whole time and only wanted your sins to be acknowledged but you can forget about that now. I’ve forgiven you. It doesn’t matter what for.

The kitchen began to fill with the hissing and spitting of breakfast cooking and David left the phone where it was on top of the microwave to fuss over the stove and the toaster and the kettle. He could hear Lucy beginning to stir in the bedroom. She would be another half hour or so in emerging as she mused over her hair and assembled the day’s outfit, which would inevitably articulate her mood better than she ever could with words. When his breakfast was ready on the plate David took up the bottle of milk and went to feed the child. He returned several minutes later with the empty bottle and put it back in the fridge. He took his breakfast and his tea into the living room and set them on the coffee table then went back to the kitchen to get the phone. It was still sitting on top of the microwave but when he reached it he saw that the call had been terminated. He stared at it for a long while and almost reached to pick it up but then he shook his head and left it where it was.

I have seen a few unspeakable things in my life. Years and years ago when I was going to school and before they had automatic doors on trains my friends and I used to lean out of the moving carriages to impress the girls. One day a boy called Kieran Smith was leaning out and looking the wrong way back down the train when we entered a tunnel. All of a sudden his body was headless and then it was gone. We never heard if they found the head or the body or if they got chewed up on the tracks.

So that was one and there have been plenty of others, like sheep all shredded up from being caught in barbed wire fences overnight or a calf bleeding out after a badly botched castration but no, nothing’s come close to the sight of Erin’s leg, still wearing her work boot, surfacing in the mouth of a crocodile.

It’s strange. As I’m looking down, shivering and still numb with shock, I know for an incontrovertible fact that the creature below in the water acts on little more than raw animal instinct and that its brain lacks anything like the complexity necessary for thoughts of malice or spite or any sort of sadistic thrill at torments inflicted on another living thing. Yet this leaves me at a loss to explain why it followed me to my brittle perch and fought the current to flaunt before me the pieces of my dead wife. It had its meal. There was nothing more for it here. So it’s hard not to attribute its behaviour to some malevolent impulse encoded into its predator’s DNA. I’ve read that crocodiles are the only animals that instinctively view humans as food. There are plenty of stories about lions and other big cats hunting humans but those cases are the exception and the result of learned behaviour. A shark will leave a person to bleed to death once they’ve taken an exploratory bite and discovered they’re not a seal. But any croc that’s big enough will stalk and eat a human. Forget the snake. In the natural world this thing is nothing if not our nemesis; the perfect hunter of mammals, perfected before the first mammal was ever born, hiding death within life-giving water. People talk about crocodile tears and I don’t know if that’s a myth or not but it makes you think. If they can cry, surely it means they can understand pain. And if they can understand pain then it stands to reason some could enjoy it. It’s strange what goes through your head in these sorts of moments.

Anyway, she was gone under the flood before I even knew we were being hunted. I couldn’t see or hear a thing over the rain on the river and I knew she was a strong swimmer anyway. When I reached the tree and was able to pull myself up by a low-hanging branch I looked back and she wasn’t there. Since the water had started to rise yesterday morning I’d thought of little else but swollen tributaries and drowning stock and so when I couldn’t see her I thought the water had taken her. I was about to dive back in to search when the croc surfaced just a meter away. I froze in fear for my life and then I saw what it had in its jaws. For a moment I couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing but then I did and despair opened a hole in my chest through which everything I was drained out. My will went with it and I would have given up my grip on the branch and slid uncaring into the water if I hadn’t remembered Becca, asleep back at the house and less a mother already. Instead, I cling to the thin branches of the drowning tree and after watching me for a minute or so the animal sinks back under, taking with it the last of my wife.

So now I’m waiting and hoping for some kind of rescue while the water gets steadily higher. I study the surface but any ripples signalling the hidden presence of a crocodile are lost in the roiling current. It’s flowing strongly but not so hard or so fast that I couldn’t swim it if I had to. I look out to the far bank and figure it’s about a hundred meters to where the land rises up in a low hill but the more minutes creep by the higher the water rises and the further the bank recedes. Behind me the river stretches off into the distance unbroken except for the crowns of a few trees that the cattle use for shade and which are now struggling to stay above the floodwaters. I hesitate for one last second, looking to the sky for a rescue chopper or any other form of deliverance, but nothing comes and so I close my eyes and slip into the water as gently as I can. My body’s tense and shivering and with a deep breath I strike out for the bank.

I haven’t gone far when I see it out of the corner of my eye. There’s the long low profile with the knotted ridges over the eyes and nostrils and my heart hammers hard in my chest and I panic I’m trying to swim as fast as I can but I don’t seem to be moving despite all my thrashing while my pursuer cuts effortlessly through the water and glides steadily closer and closer until it’s upon me and I can see it’s just a branch being carried along on the current. From that point on every piece of debris I see drifting close on the tide looks reptilian and I’m a shattered creature when I finally crawl up onto the bank and collapse.

Thank you Mr. Cooper. I know that can’t have been easy for you but we just needed to clarify a couple of things. We appreciate your help.

That’s fine. I’m just glad it’s all done with. Can I see my daughter now?

Sure, sure. There’s just one thing though. Now, this crocodile that you saw with a leg in its mouth. I need you to think very carefully now. Is there any chance at all, and I mean any possible chance, that the leg you saw wasn’t Erin’s?

Well, I suppose…

Because we found your wife’s body a few kilometres down river. Finding her was pure chance. We got a call from a Mr. Frank Bruce saying that he’d been trying to rescue a calf from the floodwaters and had found a woman’s body but there was no leg missing. In fact, she was almost completely intact except that some fish had gotten at her eyes and tongue. They haven’t done the autopsy yet but the forensic team did note what looks very much like a brown snake bite on her right ankle. We’re fairly confident that was the cause of death but the real mystery is how she came to be in the river weighted down with cinder blocks and secured with rope. Mr. Cooper?

The Cormorant’s Bluff Golf Course isn’t widely known. It lies on the outskirts of a minor coastal town once made prosperous by a long since departed whaling industry. A small museum inhabits what used to be the whaling station. Its collection of grainy photographs featuring bearded men astride the shapeless forms that whale carcasses assume when hauled from the water attracts few visitors. The dank ruins of a colonial prison attract even fewer and the seismography centre none at all. The town hugs a glacier-carved bay between two wide headlands. When the wind blows from the south it comes funnelled through the heads with an unspellable howl and brings word of the ice-locked continent across the water. Cormorant’s Bluff is the name given to the eastern-most headland and to the golf course that adorns its back.

The course was originally built by a wealthy local resident motivated more by the desire to have one nearby than any hope that it might ever turn a profit. His name was Donald Arthur and he was considered eccentric even before he decided to put an eighteen-hole golf course on top of a windy hill beside a town of barely two thousand people. He financed and designed it himself and though many at the time expected the result to be a disaster of idiosyncrasy made manifest it is largely unremarkable in playing style. There is no par above a five or below a three and most hazards adhere fairly strictly to links conventions. It does, however, have two noteworthy features. The first is the stark beauty of its views. The eastern headland is higher than the western one and extends further out into the ocean so that on days when the fog keeps away a player on the back nine can look out and see endless rocky projections stirring the grey sea to lather all the way down the tapering coastline.

The other is the eighth green. Among the locals its known as Don’s Deadfall and is spoken of with some pride by those who have played it. The eighth and ninth holes both extend onto a geological anomaly in the form of a wide overhang that juts out over a rock pool formation. Over the years this overhang has been worn on the under side by waves at high tide leaping up off the rocks below to the point where a small section has fallen through. For reasons unknown Mr. Arthur drew his designs such that the resulting two metre wide hole sits in the very centre of the eighth green. The rock pools beneath it are thus littered with lost golf balls and the children who come at low tide to look for crabs and the clinging molluscs that spit water when disturbed like to collect these strange additions to the biome and bounce them hard against the rocks so they sail high out to sea.

Andrew had never been much of a golfer but it was he who suggested they play a round. He’d seen the oversized sign at the driveway to the clubhouse and gotten an urge he couldn’t account for. Dylan wanted to visit the seismography centre.

It’s one of only two in the whole state, he said.

That’s because the last earthquake in this state was in about 1865, Andrew countered.

The last big one maybe but there are still all sorts of little tremors going on all the time that you can’t even feel but these machines manage to pick up. They let you actually see all the shifting of the earth as it moves under your feet. If volcanos are the tantrums of a volatile planet then these tremors are like its personal diary. It won’t take long and then we’d still have time to check out the whaling museum and the prison as well.

They both looked to Sean for the deciding vote and he rubbed his chin and squinted at nothing in particular while he deliberated.

Well, he said slowly. It has been a while since I hit the links.

The three of them were standing in the narrow street behind The Railway Hotel. Their bikes were parked around the corner in an alley than ran steeply down towards the docks.

Sean glanced at the sky. It was clear and the hotel sheltered them from the cold wind that had buffeted their bikes about as they rode across the ridges and into town the evening before and which was still blowing hard off the water. He turned to Dylan and raised his eyebrows in a kind of appeal.

There could be some pretty spectacular views up there, he said.

Dylan shrugged and rubbed his gloved hands together.

Golf it is then, he said. I might just use the facilities first though.

He headed back inside and Sean and Andrew hugged themselves and studied the ground at their feet as they waited. Neither spoke. Their itinerary had never included any sightseeing here but yesterday Sean had broken his clutch lever on the cliff-hewn road above town. A strong gust of wind caught his bike mid-corner and caused him to clip a small outcrop as he fought to avoid the sheer wall of rock rising up on his left. It was a simple job to fix but it was Sunday and the town’s only garage wasn’t open. Just twenty-four hours into a three-week trip they were set to lose a full day. It couldn’t be helped and from the beginning the trip had been planned more as an escape than an expedition but there was a schedule nonetheless and Andrew bridled at the delay. Sean sucked his teeth and studied the rear of the hotel. Like many buildings in the town its walls were of a roughly cut dark stone that held the sheen of damp even when there had been no rain.

After a few minutes the back door swung open and Dylan emerged and jogged up the set of concrete steps to the street. He nodded and the three of them headed around the corner to where the bikes stood close up against the side of the hotel. Sean walked around his familiar old machine and inspected the broken lever in the fresh light of day. The break had occurred halfway down its length and the stub that remained was bent sharply downwards. He’d managed to use it well enough to get into town and find the hotel but they’d all agreed it was too dangerous to ride with on the open road. He tested it now and could only grip it effectively with two fingers. Andrew and Dylan had both retrieved their helmets and Sean moved to unlock the large top box pannier fitted to the tail of his bike. As on Andrew and Dylan’s bikes there was also one attached to either side and on ride days the three panniers carried all they’d calculated they would need for three weeks. With a few clothes and toiletries removed to their rooms for the night their helmets just fitted into the top boxes. Andrew gave a strong kick and his sleek black BMW roared into life. Sean carefully squeezed onto the tiny seat between Andrew’s stocky frame and the top box while he was still buckling his helmet. It was a tight fit but Dylan’s bike had no pillion and was smaller anyway. Sean glanced over and saw Dylan kneeling down and performing a complicated ritual involving the fuel pump. He’d owned his antique machine for longer than either Sean or Andrew had known him and it had suffered repairs so often that most of the engine could claim to have been built in his garage. When he was satisfied he rose and climbed astride the bike. His second attempt at a kick-start brought the motor to a spluttering idle.

They pulled out onto the empty street and Sean was pitched backwards as Andrew opened the throttle. Dylan responded in kind and as his little machine fought bravely to match the pace set by Andrew’s factory-tuned BMW the Sunday morning silence was rent by the roar and whine of duelling engines.

The clubhouse was open but seemingly empty when they arrived. They passed through the front doors and into a single vast room with plush blue carpeting and a high ceiling. At the far end was a counter guarding a small display of golfing equipment. The rest of the room was completely bare. Andrew headed straight for the counter while the others wandered towards the tall windows that lined the entire left side of the room. Outside was a tiled veranda bearing several large tables but no chairs. Beyond the veranda a gentle hill rose up to meet the sky and on its crest a copse of pines were offering deep bows against their will.

Andrew reached the counter and looked around for a bell. He found one and rang it twice. There was a glass door in the wall behind the counter but the room on the other side was dark and Andrew could see no movement there. He rang the bell again. From the next room came a noise like something falling to the floor from a great height and then the door opened to reveal a fat man sweating heavily in a shirt and tie. He beamed at Andrew and closed the door behind him.

Morning, he said. What can I do for you?

Party of three for eighteen holes, said Andrew.

The fat man nodded and started punching numbers into the cash register. He was balding and what strands of hair remained were plastered across his shining scalp.

You gents should have the course to yourselves this morning I reckon, he said. Good day for it too. Do you have your own clubs or were you looking to hire?

Hire, said Andrew.

Dylan and Sean had left the window to come and stand behind him.

The fat man read off a list of the various sets of clubs they had on offer and their prices. Andrew asked for three sets of the most expensive and felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw Dylan wearing a slightly worried expression.

I don’t need anything that fancy, he said. I only ever use five or six clubs in a whole round.

Don’t worry, said Andrew. It’s my shout.

Dylan knotted his brow and shook his head.

No, he said. I can’t let you do that.

It’s done. If it wasn’t for me you’d be waist deep in beeping machines right now and happy as a clam I’m sure. I gotta spend my money while I still can anyway.

He grinned and Dylan responded with a weak smile.

Well if you insist, he said.

The fat man had been watching this exchange carefully but as soon as Andrew turned back to face him he quickly resumed his business with the cash register.

Ok then, he said after punching in a few more numbers. Will that be cash or credit?

Credit, said Andrew as he struggled to tug his wallet free from his back pocket.

Sean had meanwhile wandered back to the window and he turned now with a puzzled look.

It doesn’t look like you get a whole lot of people through here, he said. No offence or anything.

The fat man looked over and gave a cheerful shrug.

None taken, he said. You’re right. You lot are the first we’ve had through since Friday. Suits me right down to the bone.

Then how do you stay afloat? This place must cost a fortune to maintain.

The bloke who built it died a very rich man and left it all to a trust that administers the club. Through investments and whatnot the trust makes more money than it can spend so this place will probably still be going strong long after we’re all dead and buried even if it never sees another player.

Sean nodded slowly and turned back to the window.

Huh, he said to the scene outside.

The fat man handed Andrew back his credit card.

All sorted, he said. Let me just get your clubs and you’re ready to go.

He disappeared back into the dark room beyond the glass door. A minute later he returned carrying a golf bag full of clubs.

Here’s one, he said and heaved the bag up onto the counter. He was panting heavily and stood bent at the waist with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

You gents from the city? he asked between wheezes.

We are, said Andrew.

Where you headed?

North.

Business or pleasure?

Andrew shrugged.

Pleasure I guess, he said.

The fat man nodded absently as though he hadn’t heard any of Andrew’s answers and straightened up with a sigh. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt then went to retrieve the next set of clubs.

From the moment they crested the hill that hid the first tee the day proved unpleasant. The sun shone bright in an empty sky but atop the exposed headland the wind bit bitter and carried shots well away from their intended target. Nobody mentioned the miserable conditions. Andrew’s few attempts to keep up a conversation were snatched away and lost in the gale and so they soon lapsed into a grim silence. They neither cursed at mistakes nor celebrated good shots but merely went about the business of completing the round with a stoic resolve.

Dylan was far and away the strongest player of the three. Sean had a longer drive but he sliced it more often than not and his short game was a mess while Andrew was limited to endless hooks and overhits and mullygrubbers only occasionally interspersed with unaccountable moments of brilliance. The fat man at the clubhouse had given them each a scorecard before they set out and they filled these in dutifully after each hole with fingers made numb by the cold. By the time they finished the seventh hole Dylan had an eight-stroke lead. Andrew was next with Sean a further three strokes back.

The eighth was a right dogleg par 4. There was only a narrow rough along the left between the fairway and where the land fell away some six sheer metres to the water. A deep bunker and a thin copse of pines that obscured the green from view guarded the inside of the dogleg. From the tee they were driving straight into the wind. Sean was up first and he broke his pre-shot routine to sniff and wipe away the water streaming from his eyes then steadied himself and brought the club back with his distinctive long slow motion. He swung down hard and the ball flew off high and to the right. They watched it sail towards the pines and just skim the canopy before it dropped from view. Sean sniffed again and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Dylan was next and he executed a solid drive down the middle of the fairway while Sean and Andrew stood off to the side blowing into their hands. Andrew stepped up quickly and struck his drive low. It was a mishit but he got a lucky run on and ended up just a few metres short of Dylan’s lie. They hoisted their bags without a word and set off down the fairway. They had to lean hard into the wind to make any headway at all.

Once Andrew and Dylan had made their approach shots they all moved towards the green and scoured the ground for Sean’s ball as they went. Their eyes were fixed on the grass at their feet and so it wasn’t until they reached the very edge of the green where Sean’s ball had finally come to rest in the froghair that they looked up and saw the orifice sitting absurdly between themselves and the pin. The wind was blowing across the hole and drawing forth a low moan. They stared at one another for a moment then dropped their bags as one and moved forward with cautious steps. The hole dragged in the manicured ground around it like a blue star and by some marvel of engineering the groundskeepers had managed to maintain a putting surface all the way down to the almost vertical point where soil gave way to rock. With Andrew a step ahead of the other two they edged closer and stopped just where the earth began to slope away. It was high tide and by craning their necks they could peer down through the opening into the churning waters below.

What the actual fuck, said Andrew under his breath.

The others didn’t hear but Sean stood slowly shaking his head in apparent concurrence. Dylan caught Andrew’s eye and they shared a long look of disbelief before the latter broke into a grin that was lent a manic aspect by the shock of storm-tossed hair framing the face above it. It proved infectious and Dylan was soon grinning back at him in spite of the gale that flecked his cheek with sea foam.

Both Andrew and Dylan had landed their approach shots on the green. Dylan’s ball sat on a small raised ledge near the cliff edge while Andrew had landed midway between Sean’s lie and the hole and so as they eventually made their way back from the strange abyss Sean pulled out his putter and made ready to take his second stroke. His direct line to the cup was blocked by the hole so he aimed for a spot a little to the right to set up a second putt. He struck it cleanly but he’d miscalculated the extent of the gradient and the ball soon began to curve towards the hole. It slowly gathered pace as the ground became steeper until it was racing straight for oblivion. Sean leapt forward as though to catch it before it disappeared but it was already gone. He turned to his companions and such was his look of profound indignation that they both burst into laughter. He struggled with himself for a moment then grinned sheepishly and went to retrieve another ball from his bag.

By the time Andrew’s turn came round Sean had lost three balls to the hole and Dylan had lost two. Each was met with a pantomime of mock despair from whoever had taken the shot and enthusiastic cheers and applause from the other two. Once Sean and Dylan had both finally found the cup Andrew took his putter and made a careful survey of the lie. His position was much the same as Sean’s had been. It was a good forty feet from his ball to the cup and the hole sat squarely across the direct line. After studying the gradient from several angles he rose from his haunches and solemnly held up a single finger towards his spectators who were watching closely and grinning in anticipation. He took up his stance with careful precision and executed a few practice strokes then shuffled forward into position.

As soon as he made contact he knew it was good. The ball’s trajectory was slightly to the right of the hole and soon began to succumb to the gravitational pull and curve in to the left. Dylan and Sean started to cheer but quickly fell silent. Andrew had put plenty of pace into his shot and the ball slid past the hole and broke its orbit to keep travelling on a new trajectory straight for the cup. Andrew ran around the hole and followed his shot as his companions moved in closer. The ball seemed to be holding its line but at the last second took a slight deviation and rolled by on the lip of the cup. Dylan and Sean both groaned but Andrew held up the same solemn finger and kept his eyes fixed on the ball. It rolled a little way on past the cup and then stopped and after a second’s pause began to trickle slowly back down the most gradual of slopes. Dylan and Sean hurried forward and crowded in close to watch as it rolled steadily towards the cup. With barely two centimetres to go it began to slow down. Its line was taking it towards the centre of the cup but the closer it got the more it slowed until it perched on the very lip and stayed there. The three men all watched and waited for it to drop but as the seconds dragged by and it still refused to move Dylan and Sean began to sigh and mutter. Andrew remained stone still. Dylan gave him a pat on the back but he didn’t seem to notice. Sean sniffed and shook his head.

It’s a shit of a game sometimes, he said loud enough to be heard over the wind.

Andrew’s only response was to sit down where he was and cross his arms over his knees. His eyes never left the ball. The other two stood by on either side and exchanged gestures of bewilderment across the top of his head. After several minutes of this Dylan crouched down beside his friend. Andrew frowned but didn’t shift his gaze.

You two go on, he said. I’ll catch up.

Dylan nodded slowly.

How long are you going to wait? he asked.

Til it drops.

What if it doesn’t?

It will.

Dylan stood up again and he and Sean shared a worried look. Far out to sea a heavy bank of clouds was gathering. Sean scratched his chin as he figured the wind and the distance then bent towards Andrew’s ear.

Listen mate, he said. She’ll be raining in an hour or so and we don’t want to be riding back in that. All the wet weather gear’s back at the hotel.

Andrew gave a tiny shake of his head as though flicking away a fly or some errant strand of hair.

I don’t mind, he said. If I’m not back in time just go and I’ll meet you at the hotel.

I won’t fit on Dylan’s bike.

Take mine. The keys are in my golf bag. I’ll ride Dylan’s back.

Sean took a deep breath and straightened up then he and Dylan moved a little way apart to speak amongst themselves. After much discussion and many concerned glances at the unmoving figure behind them they eventually came to some consensus and Dylan returned to crouch beside Andrew again.

Alright, he said. We’re going to head off. Just make sure you get back to the clubhouse before dark. We’ll tell the bloke to drive out and pick you up if you’re not back by dusk. You don’t want to be stumbling blind around these cliffs. I’ll put the keys to my bike in your golf bag.

Andrew gave a small nod and then hesitated for a moment before speaking.

You don’t need to worry, he said. It’ll drop. I just need to see it.

Dylan looked towards the ball poised on the brink of the cup and then back at Andrew.

Fair enough I guess, he said.

He stood up and he and Sean walked off towards the golf bags. At the edge of the green they had one last look back and saw framed against the sky a figure sitting like some Buddha of the occident, utterly still but for the mane of dark hair that scrabbled about his head in the wind.

As soon as he sat down Andrew was no longer troubled by the gale coming up off the water. He found a sort of comfort in the way it drowned all other sounds in a howling silence. Once Sean and Dylan had left he refocused on the ball still hovering on the lip of the cup. The longer he stared at it the more he became convinced that it hadn’t stopped at all but was still rolling towards the hole at an exponentially decreasing rate like a curve approaching its asymptote. He thought he might detect evidence of its glacial progress if he could only stop his eyes watering for long enough. This proved impossible and he eventually relaxed and sat back with a small sigh to wait.

Time went by with only the slow shrinking of the sun before the gathering storm for a measure of its passage. The cloudbank moved steadily towards the land and the air grew chill and Andrew hugged his knees to his chest to keep warm. He kept one eye on the ball while the other kept drifting towards the hole away to his left. From where he sat he could see only the ground sloping away and then rising again on the other side such that it just looked like a deep depression but in his mind he saw straight down to the sea roiling on the rocks below. His backside became numb and he began rocking backwards and forwards in time to a song in his head to get the blood flowing.

The ball still hadn’t dropped and the clouds were almost overhead when he heard a faint cry come over the wind. He glanced up and saw a lone bird hovering above the cliff not far away. It faced into the gale and its pinions thrummed wildly though it achieved no forward movement. Andrew was no bird watcher but he knew by its black plumage and long neck that it wasn’t a gull and he figured it must be a cormorant since the golf course was named for them. It hung in the air a moment longer then cocked its head to one side and suddenly tucked its wings in close to its body and dived out of sight. When he turned back to resume his vigil the ball was gone. For almost a minute he sat blinking at the spot where it had been and then slowly crawled forwards on hands and knees to peer into the cup. Though it was growing dark under the storm he could clearly see his ball sitting there at the bottom.

He stood up and stretched and then began the long walk back to the clubhouse. As he picked up his golf bag there was a clap of thunder and he gave the leaden sky an ironic look. He whistled a little tune to himself as it started to rain.

Andrew was the last person ever to play the eighth green. They had Sean’s bike repaired early the next morning and were winding through rainforest on their way to a campsite high in the mountains when the overhang collapsed. Seven children playing in the rock pools below were crushed to death. It took them several days to retrieve all the bodies and in that time the local authorities launched an investigation. They soon discovered that the seismography centre had recorded a tremor of 3.2 on the Richter scale the afternoon before. At the subsequent coroner’s enquiry several geologists testified that the tremor likely caused a small fissure and the overhang then collapsed under the weight of the rain that soaked the town all that night and well into the following day. After several weeks the coroner found that nobody was to blame and no charges were ever laid.

The tragedy made the evening news but neither Sean nor Dylan nor Andrew heard about it as they spent the next few nights camping in the wilderness. It wasn’t until well after they’d returned home and Andrew’s divorce had been finalised that they heard the story of the disaster but it was only mentioned by way of the name of the town and none of them had noted this detail when they passed through. The three of them were at a barbeque to celebrate Sean’s recent promotion and they were watching Sean’s youngest going about with a lighter and reaching up with great difficulty to light the Tiki torches spaced around the yard against the descending night. A friend of Dylan’s from Chile had taken up a guitar and was sitting over by the swimming pool picking a few notes. The group at the table included Andrew, Dylan, Sean, Sean’s wife Helen and a friend of hers she’d met in Croatia while they were both traveling whose name was Sarah. When Helen had told them the story she’d seen on the news and couldn’t get out of her head there’d been a short and deeply respectful silence from all.

What were they doing out there anyway? asked Andrew.

They didn’t say, said Helen. Does it matter?

No, not really.

Sarah opened a fresh bottle of wine and topped off their glasses then set it next to the five empties occupying the middle of the table. She raised her glass.

To what never was and what never will be, she said.

Here, here, they all said softly and drank.

Speaking of what never was, said Dylan. Did Helen ever tell you about Andrew’s putt of legend?

Sarah glanced at Andrew and smiled and shook her head.

Well, said Dylan and he sat back in his chair with his glass resting against his cheek and turned to Andrew. Shall I?

Andrew shrugged and looked out over the toxic sunset as Dylan began to tell the tale in indulgent detail while Sean and Helen shared a few private words. When he was done Helen clucked her tongue at Andrew.

So not a single witness, she said.

Well, said Andrew. There was this bird you see. Now, if I ever met the bird again I don’t quite know how I’d go getting it to tell anyone anything so I don’t go down there looking for it more than once a year or so but it saw the whole business right enough.

Helen threw her head back and laughed and even the man from Chile stopped his aimless plucking to listen at the richness of it. She was still laughing when she stood up from the table.

Give me a shout next time you go hunting for it, she said. I have a bit of a way with birds. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have a date with the salad bar.

She walked off still smiling and shaking her head.

Andrew turned to Helen.

What’d she mean? he asked. Does she keep parrots or something?

Not that I know of, said Helen. I know her girlfriend works at the zoo though.

Oh, said Dylan. Didn’t you say she used to be married?

She was once but it didn’t last that long apparently.

Andrew was listening with half an ear while he watched the skin above Sarah’s skirt disappear and reappear as she bent over the various bowls and plates spread out on the buffet table.

You don’t suppose I could get her number do you? he asked.

Sean paused in the act of raising his glass to his lips and gave him a suspicious look.

You can’t be serious, he said.

Where there’s a will there’s a way, said Andrew and winked

It was the second day of summer and the second to last day of the school term and and as the ten or so tons of bus gingered itself into the small dirt patch of car park the grumbling thunderheads overhead gave up under their weight and finally cracked open. This was rain of the sort that seemed not to fall but rather bloom in the air all around and at once. Thirsty as it was the ground had soon had its fill and more and with a lurching forwards and an inching backwards and a sinking and grinding left then right of its tires the bus guttered to a halt with its backside still half hanging out into the country road. They were some twenty minutes early. Even so, the face peering through the pluvial curtains had been sat as a fixture at the window for some time already.

Clarence had driven up just as the sun started glaring between the paperbark trunks on the hill to the west and showing up bright and cheerful the smeared insect remains on the windscreen. Since Val was killed he couldn’t stay in bed past when he woke up. Squinting, he almost missed the turnoff and swung in hard and at quite a clip, getting a bit sideways as he hit the dirt. He jumped on the breaks, switched off the ignition and sat for a moment to listen to the engine clicking as it cooled and roll his second cigarette of the morning. One before breakfast and one before work. After that it worked out at whenever the urge took him and circumstance allowed. He blew the smoke out the window and watched it eddy in the still air, showing up here and there the sunbeams slipping through the trees. Despite the light at its back he could make out the pale face of the Butterfly Farm from across the tiny car park. The only thing to mark it out as a place of business rather than the home of an impoverished retiree or maybe some reticent naturalist was a modest wooden sign beside the front steps that read Welcome to The Butterfly Farm. He’d stencilled the letters in chalkboard font and dark green paint.

The door of the Hilux slammed shut with a weary creak and an unconvincing clunk and he gave it a thump with his hip to make sure it was closed then turned his eyes to the ground. Whenever he walked about anywhere outdoors, and particularly in the vicinity of the Butterfly Farm, he almost always watched the ground for spiders. The funnel-webs were often out at this time of year and he’d once sent one scurrying into the leaf litter on the edge of the car park. His caution was part rational self-preservation and part violent dislike for the Araneae order in general. He had a healthy respect, verging on awe, for the remarkable success of their particularly extraordinary evolutionary odyssey and the uniquely lethal anatomy it had provided them with, but he found the way they moved distasteful. His bi-weekly excursions into National Parks to collect new specimens for the farm often brought him into much closer contact with those undergrowth assassins than he would have liked.

He escaped any unwanted encounter this morning and let himself into the front room that was notable in the almost pitch dark only for the faint scents of leather, dust and Mortein. The thick trees to the west and north let little light inside til late afternoon and so without electrical assistance the building housed only darkness in the morning and nothing but vague silhouettes til evening. He felt along the wall until he found the switch and the Butterfly Farm burst into colour. Every wall of the front room, the only part of the building open to visitors, was covered by large glass display cases containing a fair, if not entirely comprehensive in regards to the 14 000 species of moths, cross-section of Australia’s native Lepidoptera, along with a sizeable smattering of introduced and overseas specimens. They were arranged by family and genus, with spaces left for the native species still missing. He’d experimented with prettier arrangements based on size and colour but this had often left him at a loss to find a particular specimen while discussing its morphology and habits with a rare inquisitive visitor and so he’d returned to the scientific pattern that he could trace like the veins on the back of his hand. Beside some of the display cases were brief information boards and in one corner hung a television. Clarence switched it on and an ancient Englishman with a tweed jacket and a lisp began explaining the basics of a butterfly’s life cycle. The same documentary played on a loop constantly. It was the first video they’d found that had anything to do with butterflies and there had never seemed to be time to go searching for another one. In the opposite corner, closest to the front door, a cash register sat on a counter guarding the few overpriced plastic butterflies that served as the gift shop and alone in the middle of the room stood a long wooden table, covered as far as physics would allow with a cluttered display of any serious Lepidopterist’s stock paraphernalia. While the English lisp narrated the emergence of a moth from its chrysalis, he unlocked and exited through a door in the back corner of the room.

The hallway led from the front room along the back of the building, with two doors on the right and one at the end. It was windowless and lit sort of charity like by a single energy saving bulb. When he and Val had bought the place the first room on the right had been a combined kitchen and dining room with a split bench separating the two areas and large windows overlooking the bush. Val’s idea had been to convert the space into some sort of interactive activity centre with hands-on displays and butterfly themed games and a whole host of other excitements of that sort, all of which she’d conceived herself and designed down to the smallest detail. The second room on the right was the only indoor bathroom on the property, closed to visitors. Both doors were shut and he passed them by and unlocked the last door at the end of the hallway and slipped inside. So familiar were the resident odours here that they no longer registered save from in the form of a warm sort of sensation. He’d accidentally left his desk lamp on and the low light through its moss green hood lent an aqueous aspect to the precarious architecture of his labours. Stepping carefully between the waist high stacks of papers, books, boxed remains and specimen cases, he reached the cleared space at the centre and eased himself into his chair. There was nothing on his desk but a single book sitting open in the middle. His work of late, such as it had been, had been stuck in a tight slow orbit around a singularly rare and subtly beautiful American specimen. The St. Francis’ Satyr was the gravitational force that had drawn he and Val towards one another by consequence of its pull on each of them towards itself. They collided one night almost a quarter century ago, huddled beneath a cheap tent and three inches of rare North Carolina snow. They were nearing the sadly anticlimactic culmination of some six years of dedication to a certain professor’s obsession and they were cold. Not that there hadn’t been an attraction between them before that time. When they met at university they had quickly become close and on more than one occasion spent a drunken night together. But in the years since her death Clarence had begun more and more to try to dissect what they’d had to find out how much of it was love and how much was simply an intimately shared sense of vacant nostalgia. The book lying open in front of him now was written by their professor and published not long after their expedition concluded unsuccessfully. It described hopes of finding evidence of some interbreeding between the scattered populations of the Mitchell’s Satyr and its fellow subspecies of Neonympha mitchellii the St. Francis’ Satyr and the inconclusiveness of what little evidence was found. Until he’d discovered the book at the bottom of a box in the back of a cupboard in the spare room a week ago Clarence hadn’t even been able to recall the purpose of the study. In the years following their expedition the St. Francis’ Satyr had been pronounced extinct due to over collecting. Though a tiny isolated population was later found, Clarence still kept the three specimens he and Val had collected and preserved hidden deep in the refuse of his office and out of the public displays.

There was still a good six hours til the school group was due to arrive. He’d forgotten which one it was today, but he was sure it was one of the regular four. Most schools in the area booked a tour of the bird sanctuary for their syllabus-mandated native natural science excursion, but it was over thirty dollars a head and so the poorer schools generally came to him instead. Sometimes a teacher from one of the more well off institutions would leave it too late to book the bird sanctuary but they rarely returned. He decided to put aside the book for today. The day before he’d collected a few new specimens and although they weren’t new species, they were good specimens and he needed to pin them sooner rather than later if they were to remain as such. This part of the process always required a supreme act of will on his part in order to overcome is apathy towards it. Once a specimen had been captured in the field his enthusiasm evaporated. Something about a butterfly in flight moved him. The frenetically fluttering pair of wings only just held together by a tiny body describing seemingly desperate but somehow precise trajectories through the foliage was, to his mind, the most eloquent convergence of chaos and grace to be found in all creation. But simply sitting and watching such a spectacle was no form of work. With minimal effort he’d dug himself out a credible space in the academic niche of taxonomy. The couple of published articles bearing his name had hardly shaken the foundations of the discipline but he could say with modesty well intact that his voice was a respected one in the field. Recently, however, he’d had little to say. With a small sigh he reached for the esky beside his desk.

Three hours and six cigarettes later he set the last pinned specimen inside the Tupperware container and closed the lid, taking care that it was airtight. He marked the date on the lid and found a place for it atop a stack of empty display cases. As he sat back down at his desk he noticed for the first time the dry metallic din of cicadas that was coming through the room’s single window and filling the air. Often he hated the bush and the way it crowded up against the building. Val had planned to clear an area to the west and build a fully naturalised butterfly enclosure that would have become their main attraction. The building itself was to be extended to house a nocturama for moths. The plans were still there but he’d never been good with finance and couldn’t get the numbers to work well enough for the bank. He couldn’t say when the cicadas had started up but now that he’d become aware of the sound it nagged incessantly, pulsing steadily without rhythm. He thought about going outside for a smoke to clear his head but his mouth was still dry from the last one so instead he reached again for the professor’s book.

Before the driver had cut the engine, and with little regard for her shoes, a woman jumped down from the bus into the mud carrying a small backpack and a golf umbrella. Within a few moments the deluge had her light yellow spaghetti-strapped summer dress turning almost see-through and clinging about her hips. She struggled to open her umbrella while at the same time keeping an eye on the feet edging slowly down the steps behind her. Clarence watched her movements with no little interest. She looked to be in her early thirties and though her hair was dark with moisture it hung full and loose in the rain. Her sodden dress showed a dancer’s body and a large tattoo across her left shoulder blade. She was apparently the only teacher assigned to the excursion and the stresses of keeping some fifty little balls of energy in line were eventually unleashed upon the uncooperative umbrella. She flung it away, bent all out of shape and the crowd on the bus grew still and then slowly filed down the steps. Clarence took himself away from the window as the class spilled out into the wet, moving to stand by the open door. He checked his watch. It was eleven minutes to two. When he glanced back outside the rain had eased, and then it stopped, like a child who’s grown bored with tormenting some insect and wanders off to find more rewarding entertainment. The children themselves looked up in surprise, and then all of a sudden the car park erupted with shrieks and splashes as almost as one they discovered the mud puddles they were standing in. While the teacher moved quickly to restore order with a few sharp words, Clarence watched one young boy with dark curly hair bending down near a far corner of the veranda. The boy was squatting on his haunches and peering intensely at something on or very near the ground. He looked around for a stick and when he’d found one he picked it up and began poking at the thing gently at first but with a persistent savagery that gathered momentum and lit up his face. The teacher was busy coaxing a group out from under the bus and hadn’t noticed the ensuing mischief. Clarence hesitated for just a moment, then strode out onto the veranda.

Oi! he bellowed. Don’t even think about it son!

The boy looked up, startled. Clarence shouted again and started towards him but in his haste he missed the veranda steps, stumbled and nearly fell. In the second it took him to regain his balance the boy had slipped away from his victim and disappeared. All the children had fallen silent at the sound of an unfamiliar voice raised in anger and were watching him wide-eyed and curious. Their teacher too had turned with raised eyebrows and a little smile. The silence stretched on while Clarence scanned the crowd for the boy. Finally, having no luck, he cleared his throat.

Welcome to the Butterfly Farm, he said as though it was all he’d ever meant to say. Please remember to wipe your feet when you come in.

Without waiting to see if they were following, he turned and went back inside.

He stood under the television as the class filed in, damp and dishevelled. A few scuffed their shoes on the thin mat by the door that had once upon a time offered up an ironic greeting but it made little difference and the carpet was soon tracked all over with muddy little footprints. The teacher was the last through the door and she came leading by the hand a little blonde girl. The child’s eyes were red and her lower lip quivered ominously. Clarence tried to catch the teacher’s eye as she bent down to whisper a word in the girl’s ear but she didn’t seem to notice. He couldn’t hear what was said but as the teacher stood up the child giggled, sniffed and wiped her eyes. With the full complement of the school group now indoors there was little spare space to be had and muffled arguments over who should be standing where could be heard. Despite some having to stand on one another’s toes and keep their hands deep in their pockets in order to keep them to themselves all the children kept a respectable distance from the cluttered table in the middle of the room and from Clarence himself. They looked younger than the groups that normally came through. They may have been only seven or eight. The teacher closed the door gently behind her and stood with her hair dripping onto her shoulders and breasts. It was unlikely to dry any time soon in the close humidity.

Good afternoon, he began. I’m Mr. Reddan and I take care of the Butterfly Farm. It’s good to have you all here today and I hope you’ll learn a thing or two and have a bit of fun at the same time. Excuse me. Please don’t touch that.

A girl standing near the table had grown curious about some of the equipment piled up on it and her fingers were about to brush against a large glass jar but she quickly withdrew them at Clarence’s words.

That big jar right there’s got poison in it, he explained. It’s a Killing Jar. You don’t want to break it or even open it for that matter unless you know what you’re doing. Now, as you can see on the walls all around you there are a lot of different types of butterflies and moths.

Several hands had been raised but he asked them to save their questions for the end. Their natural reticence in new surroundings was beginning to wear off and many were becoming restless, tapping on the display cases and chatting amongst themselves. Somewhere in the crowd was a smack followed by a cry, which drew a sharp look from the teacher. Clarence hurried on with his spiel. He began by setting out the basic life cycle of moths and butterflies, explaining the unique part each stage has to play from the perpetually gorging larvae in the form of caterpillars to the amorous winged imago. He described the process of metamorphosis as best he could without becoming too technical. He then told them about the differences between butterflies and moths; how one’s brightly coloured and the other’s not, how one has a small, delicate body and the other has a solid, furry body, how one rests with it’s wings held together above its back and the other rests with them held straight out to the side, how one comes out during the day and the other comes out at night, how one has straight antennae with lumps on the end and the other has feathery antennae, how one forms a chrysalis and the other forms a cocoon and then he told them about all the exceptions to these rules. He told them how in Australia there were more than thirty times more species of moth than species of butterfly, despite the latter seeming more prominent since they come out mostly during the day. He referred to the habit moths have of flying towards artificial sources of light, even to their deaths, and mentioned that most people considered this a result of them using the moon and stars for navigation though nobody could prove it for certain. He pointed out some of the more common species in the display cases that they might have seen in their own backyards and told them about their feeding habits and what sort of flowers they should grow if they wanted to attract them. He touched on why butterflies display such brilliant colouring patterns and how the effects are produced and finally detailed the many ways butterflies and moths interact with their ecosystems, from symbiotic relationships between some caterpillars and ants to the pollinating role of adult butterflies. When he was finished he asked if they had any questions and four or five hands shot straight up. He nodded at the closest one, which belonged to a pale girl with carrot hair and a receding chin.

What’s a Killing Jar? she asked and the other raised hands all disappeared.

Well, a Killing Jar is what we use to kill a butterfly or moth after we catch it. It prevents the specimen from becoming damaged in the process. Any other questions?

The children were quiet for a moment and Clarence was about to unmute the television when a boy’s voice piped up from the back of the class.

Why do you have to kill the butterflies? Are they all dead?

We need to kill them so that we can study them. If you try and get up close to a butterfly while its still alive then it mostly just flies away. If you restrain it then it hurts itself trying to escape and you end up with a damaged specimen. Butterflies are beautiful to look at in the wild but if you want to study them in detail you need to kill some. Not many, just a few. They don’t suffer. They just go to sleep. And yes, I’m afraid the only butterflies we have here are the ones you see on the walls. There are a few in my office but they’re dead too.

But why do you have to kill the butterflies? This time it was the little blonde girl from outside who spoke. Her tiny fists were clenched full of the teacher’s dress and her voice was small and close to tears again. Why do you have to study them?

Because, Clarence began and he was ready to launch into his rehearsed explanation of the important role of research in the conservation effort when the unbidden image of three St. Francis’ Satyrs sitting in desiccated stasis in a box deep in his office took the words away from him.

Because that’s what I do, he said eventually.

But why don’t you have any alive butterflies?

Well, it’s very

I want to see the alive ones.

expensive…

They don’t move or anything.

I need to go to the toilet.

They’re boring all dead.

We get little yellow butterflies in

This is a big one.

my backyard that look like the little yellow flowers.

Jacob poked his tongue out

Miss, I really need

at me.

to go.

The chatter welled up until Clarence stopped trying to follow it and instead busied himself adjusting the volume on the television while he waited for the teacher to restore order so he could get them all watching the documentary and then step out for a cigarette. But the seconds passed and the chatter got louder and no sharp clapping of hands or barked commands broke the rising racket and when he turned back around the door was open and he could see the teacher standing outside with her back to him talking on her mobile phone. With his heart beginning to thump hard in his chest he turned the volume right up on the television and threaded his way through the crush of children. He was almost to the door when he caught side of the young boy with the curls again. He was standing next to the little blonde girl and whispering something hard into her her and Clarence watched the girl’s eyes grow wide and her mouth form a little ‘o’ of fear. He changed course and the boy saw his approach and his lips snapped shut.

Here, Clarence said to the girl took her gently by the shoulder and steered her outside. He sidled up behind the teacher with the girl close by him but she was speaking quietly and with some heat into her phone and didn’t notice. Her hair had dried a little and hinted at a natural hue towards dirty blonde. He hesitated a moment unsure of whether, or how, to interrupt. He was still undecided when she suddenly pressed the phone against her chest and turned on him with eyebrows raised and lips pursed a little. Even out here the commotion of her charges ruffled up the air and the seconds ticked by without a word between them as Clarence waited with what he hoped was a beseeching look for some sort of reaction on her part to the hubbub inside but all that came was a slight raising of her eyebrows.

Well? What?

Clarence never answered. Before he could get a single word out there came from inside the sound of shattering glass. He and the teacher both turned in time to see the boy with dark curly hair sway and then stumble to the ground beside the remains of a lidless jar. For what seemed like a very long time there was no sound but the drilling of cicadas and it was this stretch of seconds that Clarence cradled carefully with an unfamiliar thrill that he imagined was much like a person would feel at the discovery of a new species.