The building he was aiming for was on his right. It was lit dimly by one bulb behind a plastic casing over the front door. He crept up, the dull sound of whirring machinery within. There was nobody about. The axe head, in the dull light, showed the dried pelican blood. He hadn’t cleaned it well at all. He wondered if there was an alarm, but had no idea how to check for such a thing. There was a Neighbourhood Watch sign in the front window, the white people shapes against the diamond green, but there was no indication, anywhere, of anybody watching.

Vernon swung the axe lightly against the door handle, blade up, but the handle did not break. He looked around, lifted the axe once more and dropped it down, putting his aching shoulder into it. The handle sprung free and clattered to the concrete, loud in the dark. He shouldered into the door before he could doubt himself and tensed for an alarm to sound. He waited. Nothing.

He walked through this building he had never been in before. There were plastic strips dangling over certain doorways, air conditioning pumping throughout. He entered a room and saw the barrels he wanted near the doorway. Big bastards. He put the axe down on the floor and got his shoulder into one, trying to lift it. It was heavier than he’d expected. There was liquid inside, sloshing about, and as he lifted, it hit one of the sides and the weight sent the barrel toppling to the ground. He braced for the impact, the sound of it, but the plastic barrel on the linoleum floor was almost silent.

With a lot of effort he managed to get two barrels to the front door—a combination of carrying, kicking and rolling, the barrels constantly banging into the walls, every part of him sore and aching. He was breathing hard and sweating by the time he made it outside. He stood with his hands on his hips and let the breeze cool him. A car motored down Bedford Road, its lights traversing the bitumen. He looked down at the barrels, estimated the travel time to his car.

Leaving them where they were he walked back to the bridge, down the slope to the car. Gunning the engine, the old thing struggling back up the slope. Throwing his earlier precaution aside, he backed up to the front door of the building and popped the boot. He was soon driving with the two barrels of liquid secured within, the axe next to the shotgun across the back seat.

As he drew closer to the farmhouse he started to curse his lack of fore-thought. He slowed the car to a crawl and stopped in the dirt at the side of the road. None of the lights were on at the farm, not even in the shed. There were clouds overhead. He stepped out of the car and sat on the bonnet and put his arms around himself. His ribs ached dully. He hadn’t brought a jacket, either. He swore and looked back at the house. No way to approach quietly in the car. They’d be sure to hear and stop him before he started. And no way to lug the barrels up by hand, old as he was.