On a small TV behind him, a young woman inexpertly reports a shooting incident in the village of Willi. ‘See this?’ he says, indicating the screen with his head. ‘Didn’t think there’d be enough people in Willi for a shooting incident. You know that saying about shooting a rifle down the main street, and not hitting anyone? That’s Willi for you.’ The primitive nature of other western towns is terribly amusing for Kent.

‘Yeah, crazy.’ I check that the vision has nothing of me, or my ute, or Shiflon. It doesn’t. It is simply shots of the main street, the post office, and the stiff-limbed young reporter. At least someone in Willi thought shooting in the street was unacceptable.

‘Thanks, mate,’ I say, taking my card back, keeping a tight rein on myself. I would like to bolt, out to my ute, get in, lock the doors, and gun it.

He says, ‘Have a good one,’ in a happy way, and I walk out calmly. I turn my phone back on but it is out of service.

I am driving again, breathing, leaving the quiet streets of Bogan behind. I am calming down, but wondering if the Vasilievs will see the report on Willi. It is on a regional station, and the city stations don’t always pick up regional stories. A shooting in Willi where no one got hurt and no one was robbed probably isn’t hot enough to make it to the next level.

My phone returns to service with a voice message on it. It is Elaine, claiming to be ‘just checking in’. But this time, despite the extra throb I get in my blood when I hear her voice, I am circumspect. I don’t know what is going on, but something definitely is, and Shiflon has just confirmed she is part of it.

The phone rings as soon I click off voice messages. It is Marko, and I nearly say that if he’s going to ring all the time I’m going to change my number, but he jumps in.

‘Where are you?’

‘On my way home.’

‘From where?’

‘Just a little trip to clear my head.’

‘Right. There’s an article in the media about the Costello family burying Fatboy, or at least having a memorial service for him. It was supposed to be private, a secret, but some journalist got wind of it. The family did a DNA test on the ashes, and someone in the clinic leaked the information.’

‘That’s no good.’ I’m feeling like an intrusion from the media is probably the least of Frank’s concerns.

‘Mate, don’t you see? If I know about it, the Vasilievs will have known about it the minute it happened.’

I’m still not really with what he’s on about, and I nearly say, Got to go.