‘Boxes. Could have been accidentally sent here,’ the second-biggest of the three says, notes of panic making the words come out in fragments.

‘What’s supposed to be in the boxes?’

The big fella is whimpering on the ground, but there is hardly any blood.

‘Crockery.’

‘Crockery?’ I nearly drop the rifle.

‘Yeah, plates and mugs and shit.’

‘Plates and mugs and shit?’

The speaker looks at his big blond mate as if he might have the right answers, but Buzzcut is no help, so he looks back at me.

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Ah, yeah.’ He thinks I’m playing some sort of weird power game.

‘Righto. Get your mate, get in the car, and don’t ever come back.’ I wave the rifle barrel towards their car. ‘And when you get to the ramp, beep your horn twice so the sentries know you’re right to leave.’

He nods, and the two lean down to help their mate up and swing him to the car. I keep the rifle on them the whole time until their car is gone. I hear a car horn twice.

And then I am madly sucking air — the rush of shooting a man is surging through me. I can’t believe I did what I did. I have probably made things worse, but being able to fight back was fantastic. Next time they’ll come with the big guns. But what about the crockery? Is crockery a code word for something, or are their bosses afraid they’ll steal it if they know it’s money?

After all my big ideas of never returning to the house, collapsing on my couch in front of the TV with several beers feels like the best option, even if I won’t be able to calm down and sit for some while. But the fire is still going at my campsite, so I need to check on it, even if the risk of it getting away is very small. There is still enough adrenaline pumping through me to get me walking across the oats paddock towards the hill, thinking about Elaine and wondering what the hell it is with the crockery. They weren’t looking for the money — they were looking for ‘plates and shit’. It can only be a code word for something else. Nobody wants crockery that much. The various possibilities presented by Elaine revolve in my brain, hitting the sides as they turn.

My campsite seems further away in the dark, and the hill steeper than I remember. When I reach the site, the fire is burned to coals, and the place is dark, cold, and a bit desperate. I pour water on the fire, pack up the camp, and pull the tent down and put it with the other things in the ute.