The boys stretched their hands toward the newborn flame as it reluctantly drew up into the apex of the sticks, teasing at warmth. There were six of them. Aboriginal teens. City boys. Three from Launceston, three from Hobart. Fair split, north and south, according to the organization that had won the black money.

‘As long as they’re true mob, I don’t care where they’re from,’ I’d said, when the two in charge made contact. ‘But it’s fifteen hundred a day and you supply the gear. Take it or leave it.’ I’d shrugged as they eyeballed each other, like a husband and wife after opening the winter power bill. But, in this case, there was nobody to pin the blame on for overusing the clothes dryer or running a fridge in the garage. This was specialized work. And who else was going to do the job? Sure, there were other blackfellas in the game. But these people would ask around — whitefellas always did. Consulting the community, they called it. What it would come down to was reliability — in their eyes anyway. And I’d been getting the lion’s share of the heritage work for years. Plus, this group had been sitting on the money for a while. That was on the public record. Aboriginal survival camp — Clarke Island. State government grant from the previous year. With the acquittal looming, they had to roll it out, and they needed someone. Quick.

When the letter arrived saying, Congratulations, I slapped my side. Piss weak. Fancy taking your hat off to someone holding you over a barrel like that. They did throw in a catch, though, and insisted on one of their people going along.

‘Occupational health and safety,’ they said. ‘Can’t avoid it nowadays.’ Chris Foster, their man, had all the certification, and a goddamned ‘Working with Children’ card too. I almost pulled out, but jobs like this were my bread and butter — and they were getting more and more infrequent.

~

‘You fellas want to get some firewood together, ay.’ The boys were still huddled around the fire. ‘Don’t just stand around. Lance, you’re helping me with dinner tonight. Over here, matey, please.’

Lance left the fire and rummaged through some of the bags half-heartedly.

‘Can’t find the abalone, Uncle Ben.’

‘Fuck off, you can’t?’

The boys turned at my raised voice.

‘I told you fellas to grab ’em, didn’t I?’ I pointed to each one in turn. ‘Don’t tell me youse left ’em back on that beach?’

‘All good. They’re in my pack,’ said Chris, coming to the rescue again, like the white knight he was. I visualized myself punching him to the ground.