‘You can’t rig somethin’?’ Rube asks. ‘You can’t change it?’

‘No, and I don’t want to, either. The only good thing is that it’s gonna be here, at home.’

A shrug. ‘Well fair enough then.’ My brother looks at me. ‘You got a problem with it Cam?’

‘Not really.’

‘Good,’ Perry finishes. ‘I knew I could count on y’s.’

When everything’s packed up, Perry offers us our usual lift home. His voice hammers my mind, as I’m still in pretty bad shape from the beating I copped.

‘Nah,’ Rube tells him. ‘Not tonight, ay. I reckon we might walk tonight.’ He goes for my opinion. ‘Cam?’

‘Yeah, why not,’ even though I’m thinking, Are you bloody crazy? My head looks like it’s gone through a blender. However, I say nothing more. I think I’ll be happy to walk home with Rube tonight.

‘No worries.’ Perry states his position. ‘Next week boys?’

‘Certainly.’

We walk out the back door with our gear and tonight there is no one waiting. There’s no more Steph, no more anyone. There’s only city and sky, and clouds that twirl in the growing darkness.

At home, I hide my battle-bruised face. I have a black eye, swollen cheekbone and a torn, blood-rusted lip. I eat the pea soup in the sheltered corner of the lounge room.

The next few days fight their way past.

Rube lets his gruff grow a little.

Dad is on the employment trail, as usual.

Sarah goes to work and only goes around to her friend Kelly’s place once or twice. She comes home sober, and, on Wednesday, with overtime money jammed in her pocket.

Steve comes in once, to iron some shirts.

(‘Don’t you have an iron?’ Rube asks him.

‘What does it look like?’

‘It looks like you don’t have an iron.’

‘Well guess what — I don’t.’

‘Well maybe you should go and buy one, y’ tighty.’

‘Who y’ callin’ tight, boy? How ‘bout you go and have a shave …’

‘Can’t y’ afford an iron? This movin’ out thing can’t be too easy then.’

‘Damn right. It’s not.’

The thing is though, that as they argue, both Steve and Rube are pretty much laughing. Sarah laughs from the kitchen and I smirk in my own juvenile way. This is the sort of thing we specialise in.)

Mrs Wolfe has actually taken the day off work.

What this means is that she has time to notice that there are cuts and bruises healing on my face. As I eat some cornflakes that afternoon, she corners me in the kitchen. I watch her watching me.

She calls out.

One word.

It’s this:

‘Rube!’

Not too loud. Not panicked. Just a confident strain of voice that expects nothing less than his quick arrival.

She asks, ‘Is it the boxing training?’

Rube sits down. ‘No.’