About the Author

BOXED

Richard Anderson is a farmer from northern New South Wales. He is the author of the rural-crime novel Retribution.

Title Page

Dedication

To Sue, Issie, and Matt, and the rest of the G.A.B.s. Every generation.

1

1

I don’t want to be me.

I don’t want to be Dave Martin, loser, parked at his mailbox under the river gum: two beers’ drive from Stony Creek Pub, half a state from Sarah, and at least eighteen months past useful.

But there’s only one way I can stop, and I’m not ready for that.

I step out of my ute into the heat, and notice, again, there is a faint organic stink on the air, like a whiff from a long-dead animal. I can’t place it, and don’t care to.

I know that summer is supposed to be finished, but no one told the sun and its mate, the wind that blisters off the plain, making me feel like a dry frog stranded between water points. But I see the plains grass is still green, the dust is holding low, and the kurrajong tree leaves are shaking their shiny vigour, so perhaps the last few months haven’t been that hot. Can’t say I’ve been paying attention.

To the east, a scattering of large eucalypts prevents me from seeing my running-down homestead, expansive and red-roofed, and its messed-up, park-sized garden, even though it would take a crow less than a minute to flap its ungainly way from here to there.

A police car cruises past on its way towards town, tyres scrabbling for authority in the loose gravel. The driver, a woman I feel I might know, does not wave, or raise a hand or an eyebrow in acknowledgement. That’s odd. Everybody around here waves, one way or another — especially strangers. I have only seen a police car on this road once. I hope it doesn’t mean someone has died. At least it won’t be someone I care about.

But that is not important.

What is important is that the mailman is supposed to deliver three times a week — Monday, Wednesday, Friday — even if there are floods, fires, or public holidays. But our current mailman couldn’t give a proverbial. If the weather on the TV says bad storms or even good storms are likely, he stays in the pub, his bedroom, at his gaming desk, or wherever he dwells when he is not delivering the mail. It’s not right.