The firemen had nearly stopped the fire completely. They’d had to run a pump down to the waterhole and gush the muddy water over the shed, which had slowly diminished the blaze. The smoke from it still billowed into the sky and the firemen continued their stream, a few of them surrounding the pyre. Sidney only watched, his arms folded.

It was hard to tell what all this would mean for them. Sidney didn’t know whether he should mention seeing the old man Moore or not. It would probably only lead to more grief. Maybe now it was done.

Brendan called out, shattering his thoughts. ‘It was that old bastard!’

So he’d figured it. ‘Bloody hell,’ Sidney said. He ran back to the verandah, where his brother was storming out with a shotgun in his hands.

‘Wait, just wait, Brendan! You don’t know that.’ He grappled with him but was immediately thrown to the wooden floorboards, his sewn-together chest aching.

‘Of course it was bloody him! Look!’

Brendan in his fists held the old man’s shirt. Blackened, wrecked.

‘Who else would it be?’

His daughter crying inside. Brendan kept right on walking, bunching the shirt, and rounded the corner of the house. Sidney heard Brendan’s car starting up. The tyres kicked up gravel as Brendan tore down the driveway but before he reached the end another car was there, blocking his exit. The Melbourne car, Sidney saw.

Brendan did nothing for a moment, both cars staring each other down. Then he reversed, too quickly. He turned the car around before he collided with the house. He opened his door and slammed it shut and stood there, arms folded, waiting for Melbourne to come up the driveway.

Sidney strained to see through the Melbourne car’s tinted windows. When the car parked behind Brendan’s both doors opened at the same time but no one got out for a moment. Brendan seemed slighted by this and stamped his foot down. Then Martin and Judah appeared, the latter’s moustache like smeared-on paint. Martin cast a hand over his eyes like a visor and stared up at the verandah, ignoring Brendan completely. His attention then turned to the charred remains of the shed, still surrounded by firemen. Finally, smiling, he nodded at Brendan.

‘Your face looks a bit rough there, mate.’

Brendan glared at him.

‘So,’ Martin said to Sidney, who was on the verandah, ‘how’s the arm?’

Sidney had forgotten it hurt. At this mention he noticed the dull throb in the shoulder.

‘It’s alright.’

Brendan said sharply, ‘You need something?’

Martin spread his arms. ‘What sort of welcome is that?’

Judah snorted, scuffed his feet in the gravel. ‘You got something to drink in there? What’s your name again?’

‘Sidney.’

‘Make us some tea?’

Brendan, his voice quieter, sterner, said, ‘I asked you if you wanted something.’

Martin walked towards him and Brendan stepped back, but Martin only sat on the bonnet of Brendan’s car and stared at the smouldering remains of the shed, studying the firemen.