‘Can I get that tea now?’ Judah asked Sidney.

‘Any of you know how to do anything right?’ Martin said. He pointed at the shed. ‘That where you stored the plants?’

‘You don’t know that,’ Sidney said quickly.

Martin, without turning, held up a hand. ‘I can take a good guess, though. One of you smoking in there near some bloody petrol fumes or something? Country hicks, eh.’

Neither brother said anything.

‘How much of our product––the stuff we’ve paid you for––was in that shed?’ Martin looked at Judah and gave him a slight nod. The big man grinned, advanced on Sidney.

‘What’re you doing?’ Sidney said, back-pedalling.

‘Getting what we’re owed.’

‘Stop. Stop!’ Brendan said. ‘It wasn’t us started the fire.’

Judah stopped but kept grinning. Sidney looked at Brendan and in his heart knew what his brother would do. There was nothing Sidney could do to push him off his course and he knew, also, that this road led to their ruin. He saw it all before them. Bloodshed, either theirs or Moore’s. That old man with the shotgun across his lap, looking out for his son. His daughter’s crying, though it had stopped now, drifted through his mind like some ghostly premonition of tragedy to come.

Brendan said, ‘It was Moore. You look in that car you’ll see his shirt. He stole the car, probably intends on selling the product. The old bastard lit it up, trying to intimidate us.’

Martin sighed. ‘Ah. So Wornkin had it right. Still your fault though, isn’t it? You think anybody would try something like this in Melbourne?’ Martin looked at the sky and sighed dramatically, lurching his shoulders forward, lowering his head. Sidney stole a quick glance at the remains of the shed, hoping the car the old man had returned—or what was left of it—wasn’t easily noticeable. Martin got off the bonnet of Brendan’s car and turned from them. He unzipped. Soon a steady stream of piss splashed over Brendan’s car. The number plate seemed to be his main target. Martin wiggling his hips like he was at a urinal. Surprising he wasn’t whistling. Urine pooled near a tyre, bubbling. Brendan clenched his fists, but didn’t move otherwise.

He rezipped, turned back to them. Took a moment to compose himself. ‘Clearly, we need to teach you how to run this place. Moore needs to be the example you set for the rest of this town. Let him be a testimony about what happens when you cross the Cahills.’

‘I’ve been telling Dad . . .’ Brendan said, but instead of finishing this thought he looked at his brother.

‘Telling him what?’

Brendan shook his head. ‘Never mind.’

Martin sighed again, looked at Judah. ‘Are we coming in and helping you fix all this? Or are we having a different conversation?’

Sidney didn’t move for a moment, kept his arms crossed. He did not want to invite these two men into the home wherein his wife and daughter rested. The two of them stared at him, Martin tapping one foot, smiling, like he owned the world. The urine still dripping from Brendan’s number plate. Sidney knew he had no other option and so said, ‘Yeah. Brendan?’