Lyndon watched the referee watching the punter. Then he watched the punter watching the snake. The focus of both was intense. But his eyes kept getting drawn back to the snake, whose focus was now more intense than either man’s. The snake was preparing to attack. It reared up vertically, displaying its pale underbelly, tongue still flickering, neck coiling threateningly.

Although he wasn’t meeting the animal’s gaze himself, Lyndon was becoming as mesmerised as the man whose hand rested upon the glass and whose eyes were locked with those of the snake.

Then the black tongue stopped flickering, the mouth in the broad, bulbous head opened frighteningly wide, and in that split second the snake struck. In that same split second, the man’s hand was instinctively whipped from the glass, a self-preservation instinct beyond his control, or so it seemed to Lyndon.

‘Wow,’ he said, enthralled by the spectacle. He turned to Val. ‘Has anyone ever managed to win the bet?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes,’ she replied airily. A blatant lie, but sensing his interest, she longed to throw out a challenge. ‘There’s always a bloke who can stand the test. Course, they’re mainly blackfellas,’ she was forced to admit. ‘Why, Commander? Do you want to have a go?’

They eyeballed each other. He knew she was daring him. ‘I never have a go at anything I can’t win,’ he said.

She laughed, breaking the moment. ‘Wise man.’

‘G’day, Commander,’ a cocky voice called from the far end of the bar.

The door to the storage room had opened and Baz had appeared. He’d been unloading a fresh delivery of spirits that had just ‘fallen off the back of a truck’, to quote his favourite catchphrase.

He sauntered along to join them, standing beside Val, elbows lounging on the bar in a nonchalantly proprietorial manner designed to irritate. At least that was Lyndon’s interpretation.

‘Good morning, Mr Taylor,’ he replied stiffly.

‘How’d everything turn out with Stowers?’ Baz asked, flashing his friendliest grin, which was intended to further infuriate. ‘Hope I was able to be of some help.’

The insolence of the man, Lyndon thought, did he expect to be thanked? ‘I doubt you’ll be doing any further business with your former associate, Mr Taylor,’ he said icily, ‘Sergeant Stowers has been demoted.’

‘Oh dear me,’ Baz’s face bore an expression of the deepest concern, ‘dear me, dear me, he won’t like that.’

‘Bugger off, Baz,’ Val intervened. ‘You’re being fucking annoying, stop taking the piss. Excuse me, Commander,’ she said, moving off down the bar to serve two Aussie officers with empty glasses, ‘back in a tick.’