Now the men carried the things from the laneway to the street. They loaded them into a truck, swaddling everything with blankets. When they were done, the dealer gave her an envelope full of banknotes, completing the sale in the room with the family altar, under the gaze of her grandmother’s photo, but June felt no regret as she thanked the dealer. She watched the truck drive away, then she set off on her bicycle. The money was in her satchel, carefully counted.

As she rode through the city, snow started to fall. The flakes were soft and light and somehow never landed; hitting the warm air from the springs, they swirled up again, rising instead of falling.

She rode on to the seafront, to the dormant Tropicana, where she got off her bike. The owner was moving about inside, doing a final clean-up. Peering in, June saw him taking down a picture, and smiled to think of what might go up in its place. A poster of River Phoenix – Naomi would like that.

First order of business, she thought. And without stopping to lock the bike, she stepped into the bar.

Catch and release

It’s been a long day for Lee Prescott – busy, interrupted, fractious.

‘Oh, come on then,’ he tells the client who accosts him in reception.

The guy is pale-skinned, taller than he remembers, in his late teens. When he smiles he looks sly, but also bashful and excited. A hello mate was his opening gambit, his way of stopping Lee near the doors.

Darren Kemp. The name comes to Lee. It’s stuck with him from last time. Kemp is saying he needs his help, he’s in a bit of a situation. Lee’s heart sinks when he hears this. Kemp doesn’t have an appointment; he’s walked in off the street. He has the same jittery manner as when Lee last saw him, two, maybe three years ago, although the scar cutting through his left eyebrow and running slantwise across his cheek is new. He’s lucky to have the eye, Lee thinks. Kemp’s nervousness flays the air, leaping off him like electricity off a damaged power line.

What does it matter, Lee thinks, resigning himself. It’s one of those days already.

‘Four-thirty, they said.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘Walked.’

‘Right. We’ll take my car.’

Lee hasn’t even managed to get back to his desk. Since eight-thirty this morning, he has been, in no particular order, leaned on by his boss to take on still more cases, on top of those he’s already covering for colleagues; chewed out by a barrister in a courtroom for being ill-prepared; and forced to listen to various tall stories from his clients, all of whom think they should get a stay or have their case dismissed.