‘You fucked up my life, and now you’re back in business. It doesn’t mean a thing to you, does it?’

‘You don’t have children. You don’t understand.’

‘I understand, mate. And let’s talk about families, since you love your kids so much. I’m going to break your nose and when your children ask what happened to your face, you tell them I busted it because you love them so much.’

He launched forward and grabbed the shoulder of Alexander’s jumper, and with his free hand he punched the traitor in the nose. They swung at each other, they wrestled: Alexander was the larger man, more experienced in violence, and only Lucky’s halo of rage closed this advantage, leading them finally to a stoppage, an impasse, both men bleeding from the mouth, and Alexander, gratifyingly, from the nose.

‘Stop! I’ve lost my wedding ring,’ he said. ‘It was my father’s ring. And my pappou’s.’

In near total darkness, Alexander dropped to his hands and knees and felt his way over the patch of road where they’d been wrestling. If Lucky had wished, he could have taken a run-up and kicked Alexander full in the face. The option appealed to him for a moment. Then he decided it would be cowardly. He bent over and, squinting in the dark, Lucky too looked for the lost heirloom, yet with a strong sense of impatience, a stopwatch in his heart. After the ring turns up, he told himself, we’ll return to the task of breaking Alexander’s nose.

‘Found it,’ said Alexander after several minutes. ‘Now what?’

He got to his feet, clutching the ring inside his fist. When Lucky heard these words he turned and, hunched and drained, his mouth numb from the blows, shuffled back to his car and drove away. They did not meet again. For years, when unexpectedly possessed by the Alexander-related sadness and rage he did not nurse but could not escape, Lucky imagined what might happen if he bumped into him on the street, in a pub or at a wedding. Came the time, decades later, that Lucky wondered whether they’d recognise each other and, if they did, whether he’d stop to acknowledge Alexander at all.

Chapter 20: 2002

2002

1.

Shirley and Sam proposed they conduct the interview in Drummoyne, at one of their pubs—busy, expensive, recently renovated—where the kitchen served Isan food. The pre-World War II building was called the Ashenden and stood on the corner like a stately home, the balconies brisk and ornamental, the downstairs windows touched with a dark tint. They sat in an upstairs dining room: pinewood panels on the walls, tables separated by stone urns, vines overhead, surf music. Shirley apologised for the slow service. Emily didn’t see any problem. While a waiter refilled their wineglasses, Shirley turned to Sam and mentioned the recent closing of a hard cargo dock in Sydney Harbour.