‘Only if we get to shoot them as they go!’ a voice rings out. There’s a quick smattering of laughter which is quickly self-regulated. Nobody risks a raised hand.

‘Yes! Over there, lady in the white shirt. Jeannie, ain’t it?’ The compère squints. ‘Eyesight ain’t what it used to be,’ he apologizes. ‘Jeannie Steves? That you?’

‘Bob,’ the woman acknowledges. She stands up and looks beseechingly round the audience. ‘I have two boys,’ she begins, barely louder than a whisper, ‘Ray and Terry.’

‘Speak up, Jeannie,’ Bob shouts. ‘We all need to hear what you got to say.’

Jeannie nods; a big woman with pretty features concealed by sun-aged skin, her fingers flutter at the turquoise belt buckle of her jeans.

‘My sons, Terry and Ray, well they’re good boys . . . real good boys and, as some of you know, they ain’t always had it easy. Thing is, they’re teenagers now and they’re growing up real quick.’ Her voice deepens with confidence. ‘Now y’all remember what happened to my sister’s eldest.’ She looks around, acknowledging the collective murmur of the room. One or two people shake their heads and look at the floor. ‘All our kids are at risk like Stanton was. I don’t want my boys hanging around the border. Bars and clubs on the other side, they don’t card the kids like they should. They’ll serve ‘em till they’re stupid with liquor. Our kids can go into Mexican drugstores and get anything they want, twenty-four hours a day, no prescription, no ID and, Lord knows, the drugs over there are cheaper than candy. So what I want to know is what are the customs people doing about that, Mr Chavez?’

‘Yes, sir!’ Bob points from the stage. ‘You have something to say about this?’

The hand waving from mid-field goes down and a jowled man stands up. ‘I lived in Phoenix for forty-seven years till I came down here. Had ‘em practically in my backyard. They lived like pigs. Didn’t even bother to learn English.’

The hall is becoming hot and testy with emotion. Bottoms shuffle uncomfortably on seats.

‘What about you, Doug?’

A whippet-thin cowboy with a long-boned face and eyes that have been beaten back to slits by grit and wind, stands slowly. Up on the stage, Bob strokes the air in a crowd-quietening motion.