‘For the fun run thing?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is that during the festival?’

‘We’re not in the parade. Bit scary having a bunch of crooks run in the parade with all the little kids down there,’ he said. ‘It’s just a fun run round here.’

‘Up and down the highway?’

‘Something like that. They don’t tell us where in advance.’

She looked about them, at the bullet hole in the wall. Swallowed. ‘I’m finding it hard, Caleb. I’ve found it hard for a very long time to forgive you for what you did. I’ve stayed away from here, when I knew deep down I should come. I just . . . I haven’t been able to until now. I’m not sorry for not being here, because you did this to yourself. But I’m . . . sad I haven’t been. And I’ll be here from now on.’

He only nodded to this. She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead and remembered doing that when he was just little. She would read him a bedtime story as he lay propped up in the crook of her arm, both of them with their back against the wooden bedhead. And then she’d lean over and kiss him on the forehead. He had never seemed to notice or return the affection in any way. A little boy being a little boy. But now, as she pulled away, she saw his eyes, and knew her kindness meant to him the world. Knew, too, that there was still hope. She never knew she’d been doubting it.

She shut the door behind her, careful to lock it. The hallway, now with the setting sun, had lost some of its luminence, the white walls and green doors like shades of their former selves. She ran a hand along the walls as she walked.

Margie, to Penelope, seemed fine. This did not stop the two of them entering the hospital, having Margie assessed and admitted, Margie holding her middle and groaning as though she had been slashed and her guts were distending. Penelope had to fill in the paperwork. They assessed her injuries too. Superficial cuts to the face but her wrist had regained its movement, though it was tender. And now they sat, the two of them, Margie upright in bed and Penelope in the chair beside her. They talked about what Brendan Cahill had done. Margie was infuriated by the injustice of it all.

‘Bloody Cahills have always been rotten,’ she said, over and over, with a shake of the head. ‘Drug dealers, you know? Oh yes, they grow marijuana, I heard, and ship it out to Melbourne. Bloody rotten Cahills, that Brendan the worst of them. He always was a dropkick. I heard from Tessa, you know her boy Phil? I heard from Tessa that Phil said that Brendan was smoking drugs in school. Right up at the back of the oval with some other boys. Can you believe it? Tessa said Phil said he had been a good boy and reported it and the school did nothing about it at all. Those bloody Cahills. I bet they had their hand in there as well, bribing the principal. I heard he was always no good, you know. I know, I know, Vernie knows him but still. Condescending, looking down on us small-town folk. Well. Those rotten mongrels better watch themselves now. I’ll be marching straight to Sharon Wornkin and reporting this whole mess. She can start caring about this town, start doing her job.’