‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I ask, standing as still and straight as I can.

‘I want my boxes.’

‘They’re not yours.’

‘Yes, they are. There’s a lot of money tied up in those boxes.’

I can’t think clearly enough to come up with a strategy. I should just give him what he wants. I will give him what he wants.

‘They’re in the back. They’re all yours.’

‘Walk back over the ramp, and get away from the vehicle.’ He motions to the paddock. I do as he says and make my way, hand-over-hand, back across the ramp and down the road. I turn, and slump down into the gravel. My head hurts something fierce, and my eyesight is a bit blurry, but I can clearly still see him begin to lift the boxes out, one by one, and put them in the back of his car. My aching head is saying, Let it go, let it go. It’s not your fight. When he lets you go, you can head straight to the police. But still I lean back on one arm, and let my hand find the largest stone I can. Then I stand up, and when he turns to ask, ‘Where’s the seventh box?’ I pelt the rock at him. It catches him just below the eye, and he staggers, one leg giving way for a moment. He pulls himself back up, and begins a loud, crazy roar, and runs at me, stumbling across the bars and then sprinting over the gravel at me. I wait for him. I am stronger and younger. I know that I can take him. But he hits me hard with his shoulder, and as I pull him away, we go down. He is hard-muscled and I am soft-headed, and we wrestle onto the grass, flailing at each other. I try to choke him, and then punch him with as much force as I can in the stomach. It doesn’t stop him finding the rock, which he brings up and smashes into the side of my head.

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