I pass through town without stopping. Since it is mail day, I’m pretty sure I can catch the mailman on his run, but I haven’t seen him anywhere. My timing is right, but he is not about. It must be one of those days that he hasn’t bothered to come — hangover or something. I reach my own street, Wilson Road, without seeing him, and give up on the idea. At Elaine’s turn-off I remember the way I left her, and think of how the encounter with Dave showed me how paranoid I have become. I take the turn, feeling I have some explaining to do, and suffering the guilt of knowing I left her alone when there were crockery bandits about. I tootle in her driveway, rehearsing lines of apology and explanation, and a suggestion: ‘Maybe we could get together again some time?’

Her place is peaceful and green. There are no machines running and no action anywhere. I’m beginning to feel regret at my suspicions and for maybe ruining what might have been a friendship. If I need anything in the world, it is probably friendship. In the distance, I can see cotton pickers harvesting cotton, and the trucks and tractors in attendance. But here the butcher birds are whistling a popular tune, and the light sun suggests good times are possible.

As I near the place where I have parked several times in several days, I see something white through the garden gateway on the lush lawn. It is the bright white of cockatoos feeding in a group. If there are cockatoos in the garden, Elaine probably isn’t around, and I am wasting my time. But my time isn’t valuable, so I proceed.

At the gate, I clap my hands, but no cockatoos rise from the lawn. I step into the garden, and my eyes try to adjust to a picture of a white shirt, ripped and marked, next to jeans both worn by a body lying on the grass. Bloodied hair is matted at the other end of the body. Elaine is face down, not moving. She has died because of my craziness, because I couldn’t do what any normal man would have done.

I stumble to her, kneel, and understand that I am wrong: she is breathing, and may be conscious. Her mouth is swollen, and a hank of hair has been ripped out of the back of her head. One hand is bent at an angle at her side. I kneel, and she moans something like, ‘No, no,’ and I know she thinks I am one of her attackers returning. I shoosh her, and she turns her head a little, and I see her eyes, unfocused but flashing with hope. ‘Dave.’

I call the ambulance and wait, talking as soothingly as I can, saying that the ambulance is coming and that everything will be all right, without having any idea what this means.