Looking neither left nor right, they stepped out in the direction of the station, moving swiftly, Asquith carrying the picture of a Lucky’s restaurant. On the footpath boys played with shiny marbles and coins. In a building across the street a window flew open and a stream of piano melody burst out, beaming onto the road.

They made it to the station. Asquith gave Emily the painting, which she gripped with both hands. She asked her father if they were going home to Ipswich now, and how long it would take, but he wasn’t listening. His eyes had stalled on the station clock.

‘What did those men at the door want?’ Emily asked. ‘Does Mum know them?’

Asquith looked confused by the clock, by the strange aspect of time. Two policemen came towards them on the station platform.

‘This is not how I wanted to do it,’ Asquith said to Emily. He didn’t say another word nor look again at his daughter after he turned and made his way to the platform behind them. Emily had time to think: Wait, he’s about to hop on a train going the wrong way. He’s leaving without me. Asquith bent down and tumbled forwards onto the tracks and Emily, still holding the picture, saw the excruciations, watched his body broken up by the oncoming train.

Chapter 8: 2002

2002

1.

Certain former gambling addicts, including Lucky, still possessed the ability to see an intuitive or logical sequence of steps between, for example, the amounts of fifty dollars and fifty thousand. When the idea came to him, when one morning he gave in—after watching a comically topsy-turvy episode of Wheel of Fortune—he ironed his best shirt and rolled up the long white sleeves until they reached to his elbow, snug and sock-like. He filled his pockets, folded a newspaper under his arm. With little adjustments he fitted his environment to him. Lucky walked to Marrickville Road, entering the pub with his head bowed, because guilt weighed on his mind. Also: a little hope. Today felt like a holiday.

On this day gambling could be permitted. He went straight past the bar to a small room filled with twelve gaming machines, where he sat before a console called the Golden Pyramid. On the wall behind him hung a poster-sized black-and-white illustration of a bowl of prawns that imitated the sails of the Sydney Opera House; the CBD skyline comprised beer and champagne glasses; the Harbour Bridge a slice of watermelon balanced on a pyramid of donuts. The hedonism and stupidity of this city. The audacity to hang such a picture inside a pub gaming room. The blue light glowing from the machine covered one side of Lucky’s body and gave him a feeling of comfort, a warm buzz of recognition, as if here he was known; this place was made for his senses; his chemistry had been taken into account. For this feeling he inserted two twenty-dollar notes.