On the train back to Launceston he stared out the window and watched the empty, damp yellow paddocks sweep by, crows lifting out of the scrawled gumtrees in the distance, the sky streaked with thin clouds.

Had John Myer come this way? Tait tried to imagine the man, head down and trudging the bristled bush, searching for the place where he might no longer be called to account for his existence.

WAITING

Gabriel Tait said, ‘You signed up?’

Wilson nodded, rolling a cigarette, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth.

Joseph had his eyes closed. ‘Yairp.’

The second bottle of whisky had about a third left. They passed it around and swigged straight from the neck. The hut glowed with amber light, warm like a promise; but soon the whisky would be drunk and the fire would burn down and then the light (this light) would be gone.

Gabriel Tait wanted to tell them about John Myer’s wife. That she was most likely his great-grandmother, Mary Myer, née Richardson, who died in childbirth. He believed it, knew it for sure when he saw the record. Mary Myer, whom the family never mentioned, because she’d married a convict and then died, her child taken away and raised by a sister. Mary Myer, gone to all but saved in the marriage register with pen and ink. And where was the child? Where had this other line run?

‘Go on, then,’ Gabriel Tait said and suddenly stood up. He wobbled a little on his feet and put his hands behind his back. ‘Arrest me.’

Joseph smiled, reached for the handcuffs on the floor and got to his feet.

‘Make sure they’re tight,’ Wilson said.

‘Yep.’

‘Maybe we should put the leg irons on, too.’

‘Yeah!’

Everybody awake. Second wind.

‘Do it,’ Gabriel Tait said.

THERE’S A WAR ON

The music box and the letter arrived from Hobart and Mrs Langridge gave it to her daughter and Evie saw the handwriting and knew straight off that it was from Gabriel.

‘Why is he writing to you?’ Mrs Langridge said. Instantly, she’d a bad feeling and she didn’t like this letter, not at all. ‘He’s supposed to be back in a few days.’

Evie smiled. ‘Mother! Have you never heard of romance?’ She took the letter to her room to read in private.

Of course, her mother’s instincts were right. The music box was too beautiful, the letter in the envelope was too thick: its effects were immediate.

When Jack Langridge came home, his daughter was weeping in her room. The door was locked and his wife was standing outside it, wringing her hands and pleading with their daughter.

‘Evie, open the door! My love, please, open the door!’

Langridge stomped down the dark hallway. Never a moment’s peace from these women. ‘What in God’s name?’

‘It’s that Tait boy!’ his wife said. ‘He’s written her a letter!’