I get out and walk the paddock for a while, and actually pay attention — like I used to. The summer grasses are holding their green, because there still hasn’t been a frost, while the winter grasses are shooting up, sticking their optimistic heads in the air. The landscape is rich and diverse, probably because I haven’t pushed it in the last few years. All good signs. I should have oats in. I should have steers grazing. I should have wheat in, and up. I should … I am clear-headed enough to know that this is bullshit. The paddocks are not prepared —they’re thick with weeds, which means that moisture hasn’t been retained and that anything planted will struggle. So the seedbed is full of weed seeds waiting for their chance. And weeds take their chance better than anything. My farm is a mess. But for a moment I am not thinking about Elaine and Ben, or James. It’s a good feeling.

And then I remember I have to tidy up James’s area, and weed the garden bed. So I drive home, and walk past the disorder of my garden to the fastidiously looked-after plot. There really isn’t anything for me to do. A weed never gets a chance in this garden bed, and the lawn is clipped, even, and clearly marked out. In two months he would have been eighteen. That one sentence has enough pain in it to last me for a thousand sleeps.

At lunchtime, I ring Elaine, and ask her if she’s all right.

‘I’m fine. That’s the question I should be asking you. Is your head okay?’

‘Back to normal.’

‘I should put you on to the company that hires my security guard.’

‘Is he around all the time?’

‘Twenty-four/seven, except when I give him the night off, which I don’t do much, because it makes me feel insecure.’

‘Yeah, I bet it would. By the way, I saw Ben’s ute driving in to your place.’ When the words come out, I realise how odd they sound — how odd I sound.

‘I did warn you about spying on me, didn’t I?’ The tone is jokey.

‘I just saw the ute go in. That’s not spying. That’s just driving past.’

‘Okay.’

‘He’s a nasty bit of work, though.’

‘You think?’

‘I know.’

‘I think he’s kinda sweet.’

Here’s an answer that bowls me over. Even if I hadn’t seen him hit her, I would struggle to believe she could think Ben was ‘sweet’. Now I know for sure she’s being dishonest with me. There is something significant she’s hiding. Even so, I can’t stop the word ‘Sweet?’ slipping out on its own as a question. She laughs that laugh. I can picture it tinkling up out of her throat.