Here’s the thing. I’m not doing any thinking at this point, I’m just doing. I don’t know where it comes from. I take my right hand and cross my body, and pat underneath my left arm at that gun holster. Somehow it has just the right amount of bulk. Suddenly they lose some of their cool, and have to stop themselves taking a reflexive step back. I get the rush of someone who has just had his ridiculous shtick believed. These guys aren’t hard men; they’re dopes from the city who thought they could play tough with a bunch of yokels in the bush. I have their mark, and it feels like cocaine is supposed to.

‘You want to play?’ I give the impression of moving in on their territory.

Now they back away.

‘No, man, we’re cool.’

‘We’ll see you around.’

I am about to celebrate, except I feel Mick panting at my elbow. Back to Augie Doggie and Doggie Daddy.

‘What are you up to? Trying to get yourself killed?’

‘Your race is about to start.’

‘I know. I just thought I’d check you weren’t getting your head bashed in.’

‘Thank you.’

I let Mick cheer his horse at the rail while I watch the TV sets. Kinky, with a jockey in purple polka-dot colours, is a stumbler and a bumbler. He could easily be my mount. He’s not cut out for racing. That is, until the 1,500-metre mark, when one of the other horses or jockeys must have sledged him, and he decides that this running thing can’t be that hard. He takes the pack on the outside. Mick appears at my side, disappointed at his narrow loss in the last. He’s had a good day, though — or so he says — and watches the TV with me. Kinky has the look of an animal that has been pumped with rocket fuel as he sprints round the mob and draws level with the leader. There is an excited noise from the small crowd. Kinky, oblivious to the romance, pushes out in front, and wins by maybe two lengths. I’m guessing the fix was in, but it doesn’t matter. I have the betting tickets, and the big winnings are mine. The bookies frown at me when I come to collect and they have to send runners off to pick up more cash. One of them asks me if he can get the money to me next week. Seems I’m not the only one who had money on Kinky. I tell him it’s fine, but that I know where he lives. It’s a joke, but he looks at me with a confused look, knowing anyone who throws cash around like I do might well know how to call in a debt. Miraculously, he finds the money he owes me.