He took a long drink from his water-bag, dampened his handkerchief to mop his face and neck and put his hat back on. The miles of emptiness stretched away from beneath those rolling thunderous clouds, the distant waterhole a dry clay pan, the bleached bones of long-dead cattle gleaming against the unforgiving red of the earth.

Algernon shivered despite the heat. A man could die out here if he wasn’t well prepared with enough fuel and water to see him home.

He adjusted his hat against the glare and went to unlock the boot. There was a strong smell of petrol in that hot, enclosed space, and congratulating himself on being a wise traveller he reached for the can.

He experienced a rush of terror. The can was light – much too light.

With trembling hands he drew it from where it was wedged in beside a spade, a coil of rope and the spare tyre and unscrewed the cap, which he let fall to the ground. Muttering a passionate prayer, he looked inside. It was empty.

He stared at it in disbelief. He remembered filling it only the other day. And then he noticed the rust on the bottom – and the tiny holes. He ran his fingers over them, detecting the unmistakable oily dampness – and then he knew why the boot had smelled so strongly. Everything was soaked in the precious, lifesaving fuel.

The fear was a living thing squirming in the pit of his stomach. With a cry of anguish he threw the useless can into the field and watched it bounce away until it settled beneath a clump of mulga scrub. He kicked the metal cap after it, looked in despair at his surroundings and stepped out into the road in the faint but desperate hope that someone might appear.

But the heavy stillness seemed to wrap itself around him, the leaden skies pressing down with ominous intent as the heat hummed in the gravel beneath his feet.

Algernon stood in the middle of the deserted track as the thunder growled ever nearer. He had no idea where he was, only that Morgan’s Reach was many miles to the north, and the only way he had to get there was on foot.

He was muttering feverishly, half-prayer, half-curse, as he returned to the car and fetched his jacket, pocket watch and the two water-bags. One was only quarter full, but surely, surely he’d be rescued before they were both empty?

He checked the time. It was just past noon, but fortunately the sun was masked by the clouds, the half-light murky in the eerie silence. Tying his jacket round his waist, he hitched the bags over his shoulder and turned his back on the car. There was little point in locking it, and the open boot would allow the stink of petrol to disperse.