I can leave the money to Sarah in my will, but to do that I have to hang on to it. It will need to be put in a safe place, a place where she can find it. And I know where. This thought at least gets me off the ground. I get the boxes from the house and put them in the ute. I’m not thinking about anything more than boxes, ute, hiding tree. The hiding tree is a massive river gum in the centre of a thick copse of trees in the middle of our farm. The tree is hollowed out at the base, with a large-enough area for an adult to crawl in. My father played here as a child, as I did, and as James did. You have to know where it is to see it, and it is the perfect place to hide from cranky or demanding adults.

I drive, thinking practically about the end of days. My will needs updating. I’ll have to find someone who can manage the farm or get it in shape for sale. There needs to be a note for Sarah, and maybe even Elaine.

I park alongside the tree, and begin to carry the boxes in. There are seven of them, and I remember I never checked the contents of the final four. I reluctantly cut the tape, and lift the flaps on all four. No bricks of money. More bags of ash. None have rings, but two have tags. One reads ‘SvenGzhel’; the other, ‘BryanLomonsov’. I repack them, and take them to their place in the hiding tree. I hate to think what this all means. I have to look up those names to see if their deaths were recorded in the media.

I drive home in the dark, ignoring the beauty of the moon and the Milky Way, not bothering to stick my head out the window to luxuriate in the fresh, clean air. There is the faint sound of a motor in the distance. I walk into my house brain-dead and tired out, but still I pick up a different smell in the kitchen. I don’t have time to place it, because, as I open the back door and step through it, I feel a sudden brutal pain, and the day is finished.

11

11

‘My husband was being blackmailed.’

It is Elaine’s voice, but all I hear is, ‘Something, something was being hobnailed.’

I could be dead. I may have succeeded in killing myself. It is comforting to know that Elaine, or at least Elaine’s voice, has come with me. I attempt to open my eyes, but they are already open. I’m pretty sure I’m in a blurry hospital ward; the whites and greys in the simple room look the same, blurry or not. This suggests I’m alive, unless the afterlife is some sort of bargain-basement existence.

The voice says it again, and this time I get it.