‘We’ve been leading up to our Prisoners on the Run event for a bit now, so you blokes should be used to this speech, but I gotta give it again for the new blokes.’

The man Caleb had been speaking to the day before put his hand up and said, ‘You letting us all go then, mate?’

The governor’s voice rose above the din. ‘This is a special charity event we do each year. You only get to come if you’ve been on your best behaviour. We gotta be able to trust you. We take all of you out onto the road and go for a bit of a jog.’

Daryl, from the back: ‘Like to see you jog, copper.’

Nobody laughed this time.

The governor said, ‘Hear the lack of laughter there, Daryl? I can let one joke go, but you keep disrespecting me . . .’ He looked at the man. The governor shifty before them all, like he saw within them the makings of an uprising. Trying to muster his courage, plain for all to see. Hitching his pants up, sticking his neck out. ‘You won’t be going at this rate, yeah? You treat us with respect like you know how––you wouldn’t be here otherwise––and you’ll go.’

The governor let his eyes rest on Caleb a moment too long. Then he said, ‘Right. Finish your breakfast, everybody. We’ll do some exercise after.’

The men groaned, the wailing of cattle led to the slaughter.

‘Now, now,’ the governor shouted. ‘You be good about it we’ll let you play another game after, same as yesterday.’

The groaning soon subsided. As the governor reached the door he looked back at Caleb, his mouth gripped tight. Then he turned and let them be.

Later Caleb was on his bed, staring at the ceiling, doing his best to keep his thoughts at bay, focusing instead on the weatherboards, the sound of the plumbing in another room. Ignoring the sound of her in his mind.

The beating that had led to the bruise around his neck, the marks across his chest, his aching leg had happened over a week ago. Brendan Cahill had shown up one day out of the blue, striding into his room. Paid off or intimidated the governor. Brendan had never liked him at school, and was still acting like he owned the joint, the way Caleb remembered. Sauntering in with a cricket bat, though he hadn’t used it. Just threatened with it, shouting, thudding it against the walls. Asking Caleb if he knew why he’d come. Caleb still had no idea. Instead of the bat he’d used his fists, relishing the sound they made as they struck Caleb. Caleb wasn’t guessing; Brendan had told him, bragged about it.

Thing was, Caleb deserved it. Maybe Brendan was God striking him, pummelling him, making his flesh purple and yellow, green as it healed. Maybe it was God raising his cheeks up, swelling the left eye until it was just a slit through which he couldn’t see. Retribution from on high.