She turned to face him. ‘So.’ She swiped a hand across her eyes. ‘What are you going to do?

He shook his head. Breathed in. ‘I’m sorry. You’re crying?’

‘I was being an idiot. Don’t . . .’ she said, and tried to smile. ‘I don’t hate you.’

He coughed, felt his back tighten. ‘I just know I have to do something.’

She put her hand to her mouth, maybe chewing on her fingers. ‘You have that look in your eyes like you decided something.’

‘There’s no way good way through it.’

‘What would Bill tell you to do?’

‘I already did what he said and look how that turned out.’

She went to the kettle and gathered their tea cups. He turned away then, to leave, to fix the mess of their lives he’d made. He opened the front door and was almost outside before he heard her say to his back, ‘You old fool. Get back in here.’

He turned to her. ‘There’s no use arguing about it. I have to do something.’

‘I know,’ she said. She sighed audibly. ‘No use you running off without something in your stomach. Come on.’

He shut the front door and walked back inside. ‘Maybe some of that ham?’

‘I told you, I didn’t get the ham.’

‘No, the regular ham.’

‘A sandwich?’

He seated himself on a stool at the counter, watching his wife move about the kitchen. ‘You could toast it,’ he said.

‘Fusspot.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You know, you look terrible.’

He rubbed his face, the makings of his grey and meagre beard. The cut on his face sore to the touch. ‘I don’t feel too good either.’

‘Ever since I met you, you’ve only liked about three different meals.’

He snorted. ‘That’s not true.’

She raised a hand and counted on her fingers. ‘Steak and mash and veg. Ham sandwiches, toasted. Sausages and mash and veg.’

He shook his head. ‘I like more than that.’

‘Beer?’

‘Yeah. Beer.’

She sighed. ‘That’s not a meal. You’re an old fool.’

‘I know.’

‘You’re my old fool, though.’

He returned her smile. ‘Yes. I am.’

The darkness surrounding Penelope’s car seemed thicker than usual. Maybe because of the street he was in. He was parked near the bridge running into Newbury, around twenty minutes from Port Napier, on the way to the Cahills’. He’d pulled off the road next to the bridge and driven down a slope to the side and parked his car and turned off the lights. It took him a while to solidify his plan. He sat staring at the bridge, the rusted hulk of it, and thought on the possibilities. No good options, just drastic ones.

He left the car, shutting the door quietly. He opened the back door and lifted his axe from the seat, the weight of it hurting his fingers. The police station was on Bedford Road, not five hundred metres from where he stood. He ambled up to the road and stared down it, trying to make out the shape of the station in the distance, and if there were any police cars out front, but for all the streetlamps he couldn’t see anything. He rubbed his old eyes, squinted, and kept walking.