‘We’ve already given that neighbour of yours a seeing-to. And if you don’t cooperate, you’re next.’

He looks kind of satisfied with this. A man in control. Then he sees my gun barrel, and his cool disappears.

‘Drop your guns,’ I say.

‘You don’t need to get involved in this, man. It’s not your fight.’ He is almost wincing at the pain of having to say this instead of bolting out the door to his ute and his warm, safe home. ‘It’s more complex that it seems.’

‘Drop your fucking guns. Both of you.’ They do. They know I’m the dude who isn’t afraid to shoot.

I’m tempted to ask how their injured friend is doing, but that would be kind of obscene. I reach for the phone in my pocket. This time I’m calling the police. I hear a noise behind me, and Elaine slithers in next to me. She grabs at my hand, and holds it. It feels intimate.

‘No. Don’t call anyone. Just get rid of them.’

I don’t question her. I just obey. ‘Righto, you two, get out of here. If I see you in this area again, I’ll shoot you. No questions asked. That’s a promise.’

They turn and quickly leave. I stand and follow them, gun pointed. Elaine is at my side. The car leaves. We hug, and she says, ‘Wow. Who are you?’

Her flattering stops me asking why she didn’t want me to call the police. And now I don’t want to know because memory tells me the police aren’t on my side. Our side? I unload the rifle and lean it against the door. Elaine says, ‘Would you mind putting it away? It scares me.’ I put the rifle in my bag, zip it, and then pull up a stool. For a moment, we just sit taking it in, and maybe wondering, What’s next?

Elaine says, ‘I’m going to call the security company. Get someone in for the night.’ She walks to the other end of the room, picks up a phone, and punches in some numbers. After a short conversation, she returns.

And then I have to ask, ‘You killed your husband?’

Elaine takes a stool too, finds her wine glass, fills it, and then fills mine. ‘Not literally.’

This is a relief. We are both still breathing heavily.

‘I just pushed him too hard, way too hard. We had some tough times, which is why we bought the farm and moved out here. I was desperate for him to do something with his pottery — not just the popular stuff he had been making, but something significant. I knew he was capable of it.’ She slurps. I guzzle.

‘He was killed in a plane crash in Africa?’ I place the question carefully, letting her know it’s a topic she can avoid if she wants to.

‘What? No!’