For the next hour, we alternate between deafening argument and steely silence. Abby hits me in the arm again, smacks my ear. I kick her dashboard with my muddy sandshoes.

‘Do you understand what you’ve done?’ she shouts.

‘How many times do I have to tell you it was an accident? Do you think I wanted this to happen? There’s no point going to the police. And no matter where we took that woman she’d still be dead – and her baby would be as well, if it isn’t already.’

Abby gasps at this and the car slows. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s too much even for the words to be in the air.

‘Listen.’ I lower my voice. ‘If we went to the police I’d end up in jail because I have had a few beers. Which I will regret for the rest of my life. I’d be locked up for years, never get out of this shithole country. My whole life would be wrecked and you know what – nothing I do and no amount of jail time will change anything.’ I pause. ‘I’ll make my amends some other way.’

‘Amends, Charlie? Amends?’

‘Stop, okay?’

‘You’re not the only one in trouble, you know. I was in the car, too. It’s my car. And what about the ring? Either she’s a thief or Dad knows her.’

‘Or a thief and Dad knows her.’

She scowls at me. ‘Yes, this is the time for semantics.’

‘That’s not – never mind.’ I watch our headlight beams on the rainy road, the light seeming to move both forward and back. ‘Are you sure you know how to get us to that town?’

‘Yes. And it’s called Chinchilla.’

‘But why? Drive us to Dad’s. We’ll sort it out.’

‘We’re wet, and covered in mud and blood. How would we explain that?’

And right then I know my sister won’t turn me – us – in, or tell Dad the truth. She’s angry at me, and scared and upset. But she’ll fix this, somehow. It’s what she does.

I stay awake. Rumbling thunder threatens us from all sides. From time to time, a gust of wind shakes the car, or lightning cuts a jagged gash into the sky. The rain keeps coming. The first sign I see, where dirt changes to bitumen, says five miles till Chinchilla. Abby pulls the car to the side of the road.

‘We need to change our clothes.’ Bum-up like a duck, she climbs over the seat to reach into the rear of the station wagon. The styrofoam esky makes mouse-like squeaks each time she bangs against it. She pulls a towel from her bag and throws it at me. ‘Here.’

I wind down the window and let rain soak the towel till it’s heavy and my arm is wet to the elbow. I rub the towel across my arms and face. Abby finds two more towels and clothes for both of us and gets dressed in the back seat, while I do the same in the front, pulling jeans and a tight t-shirt over clammy skin.