Ian says, ‘But she wasn’t assaulted. That was all a mistake by the paper.’

I nearly tell them about the first assault, my first visit to Elaine’s place, but it suddenly feels like too much to reveal. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I might be misreading her.’

When I’ve finished answering their questions, I thank them for the tea and biscuits, and tell them how tired I feel and that I need to be home. Mandy tries to insist that I stay the night, and then Ian adds his voice. I say the chat has helped, I really will be fine, and leave the room before they can lock the door or something.

At the ute, Ian tries one more time, but the conviction is lost, and before he finds the energy for threats, I am on my way home to where I don’t want to be, wondering who’ll come for me next.

I left a kitchen light on so I wouldn’t have to stumble in, in the dark, but when I walk in the back door I know immediately that something is different. I couldn’t say what. I look around, and think it’s not like someone could make a mess of the place. But someone has been here. Is here? I reach into the walk-in pantry for the .22, then I stand still and listen. Nothing. The house is as quiet as the creaking hulk ever gets. I stand still, and calm my breathing. There is only the thump of my heart, and then the distant scream of a vixen. It could be a plea from a woman in trouble. I tell myself it’s not. I’m sure it’s not. I’ve heard their horny call a thousand times, and every time I’ve hated them for their relentless procreation.

I step forward, rolling my feet one at a time, and then stop. Nothing.

‘All right. You can come out now.’ I say it coolly as I can, the man in control, the man with the gun.

No reply. So I walk through the house, the rifle at my shoulder, taking aim at every doorway and cupboard. No one reveals themselves or makes a break for the pitch-black night.

I lean the rifle against the couch, take my boots off, and lie down. Eventually I sleep, or I think I sleep. The line between being awake and not awake is blurred by dreams that lurch across the line of reality.

7

7

It is mail day, but I don’t get to the mailbox until well after lunch, when I’ve fed and watered the dogs and given them a run. In the mailbox is a rates notice, a mail-out from my local politician, a bank statement, a phone bill, and two more boxes. I have a good mind to put them all in a pile and burn them. I take them home, and take all of the boxes out of the ute and put them in the laundry. Whatever is in the new boxes, I don’t want to know. I will look at them another day when I am feeling more resilient. Now I don’t even know why I’m going to the trouble of checking my mail. It always turns out to be a disaster.