I stop and sit, looking at the mailbox, thinking about what I know and what I’m about to do. It is a small mailbox. The boxes will not fit inside it. One box will not fit. I take a box out and put it on the ground, and look at it. It is a plain brown box that has been taped and re-taped. I have handled it so many times it probably has my sweat, the smell of my breath, and the imprint of my memories on it. If someone comes along and sees six boxes sitting in the weather, they might pick them up. They might even check inside them. I don’t want that to happen. I put the box back in the ute, and turn into Ben’s long driveway.

On a flat area close to the road, a white-faced heron stands, neck extended, looking at me. I slow down, because I know they sometimes like to feed on the recently dead. Maybe an animal has died on the side of the road. But then it spreads its wings and beats them downwards, pushing its great body into the air. Nothing happens quickly, but the bird is soon gone. There is no dead animal, and I wonder why I was even concerned.

The country flattens out in a broad plain all of its own. When Ben chose this farm, he chose well. It is soft country, with deep soils and little rock. I could be jealous if I cared about such things any more. I pass lush paddocks of oats and wheat, with faultless fencing that meets shiny ramps. I’d forgotten the kind of hard-driven perfectionist he is. The road winds its way across a creek, past a huge set of cattle yards and up onto a slight rise where Ben’s house and the main sheds sit. His wife, Glenda, spends most of her time in the city. No one knows or probably cares whether they still are a genuine couple. I am certain she will not be at the house. I would not have seen her, even in the distance, for years.

I drive slowly towards the sheds, watching for vehicles parked nearby, where men might be fixing machinery in the sheds, or in the distance, where men could be returning to pick something up or swap machines. There are no vehicles. Nobody about. I don’t even know why I’m here. Except that I need to get rid of these boxes, and I know Ben is a bad guy and there is bad stuff going on that he is somehow involved in. I take a run past the front of the large open sheds, and see nothing unusual: tractors, trucks, spray rigs, generators, and gear associated with planting and grain moving. There is nothing to see here, and I wonder what I thought I might find. Bodies hanging from a tree? Buzzcut and his mates having morning tea?