Hirsch raised his hands and Yvonne backtracked. ‘If you do talk to him, go easy, okay?’

‘Okay.’

Hirsch’s default position, an amiable okay to everything.

A short time later, they joined Nan and the vet by the pony in the driveway. Squatting in the dirt, Duigan said, ‘Sorry, Nan, but this one’ll have to be put down.’

‘I know,’ Washburn said, tears flowing. Sitting cross-legged, she lifted the pony’s long neck onto her lap. ‘But it’s hard, they’re not just show ponies, they’re pets. They’re family.’

‘Of course they are, dear,’ Yvonne said, crouching with her.

The vet nodded, busy with a syringe. First a sedative, she explained, then an overdose of barbiturates.

Hirsch looked on, feeling helpless. Nan, stroking, crooning, watched askance as Duigan slid the needle into the pony’s neck and depressed the plunger. A shudder in the hide, then, quite soon, the legs grew still, the eyes less frightened. Nan continued to stroke, blink away her tears.

‘She’ll go quickly now, Nan, no pain,’ Duigan said, administering the kill shot.

But Hirsch was alarmed to see muscle tremors and leg movements. The pony took in a great breath.

‘It hasn’t worked,’ he blurted.

Duigan said gently, ‘What you’re seeing is involuntary. All part of the process.’

Quite soon after that, Hirsch experienced a curious sensation of loss, as if he’d been linked to a life that had suddenly drained away. He peered at the pony: simply a carcass now, all tension gone. It might never have been alive.

A hundred metres away, Radish screamed and whinnied. Tossed his head and wheeled around and dashed from end to end, kicking up paddock dust and divots.

Nan looked over at him, wretched. ‘He knows.’

‘Yes,’ Duigan said, also upset, ‘I think he does.’

Yvonne squeezed hard and Nan wept, and no one spoke for some time until Duigan, quietly packing her gear, said, ‘That’s it, Nan, she’s at rest now, you can let her go.’

‘I just want to be with her a while longer,’ Washburn said.

Duigan touched the blood-smeared forearm, got to her feet and walked to her Nissan. Hirsch, trailing her, asked, ‘What about the other horses?’

‘Superficial injuries, thank God. But they’re traumatised, so it’d be good if people could be kept away for the time being.’

Hirsch felt wrung out. How could he achieve that? CIB officers were on the way, and townspeople—ghouls and well-wishers—would soon hear what had happened. ‘And the bodies? A mass grave?’

‘Not here,’ Duigan said firmly. She blew a strand of hair away from her bottom lip. ‘The property’s too small, and it’s semi-urban.’

‘Dump them in the bush?’ Hirsch was improvising wildly.