Through the trees he saw the governor on the roadside. He unzipped with difficulty and streamed onto a tree. The urge to shit had been a ruse but he did need to piss. The procession a distance from him now. To the right he could see the house. He glanced back at the governor, who had his arms crossed and was tapping his foot, looking this way and that. Caleb yelled out, ‘You can go on, if you like’.

A chortle. ‘Get stuffed. Hurry up!’

‘Can’t rush things, governor.’ He started to move through the trees in the direction of the house.

‘You’ve got one more minute.’

‘Or what?’ he said, stopping briefly.

‘Or I’ll come and pull your pants up regardless.’

‘I’m not some kid,’ Caleb shouted. ‘Anyway, nearly done.’ He moved quickly then and reached the tree line. The house before him had a carport and in it was a mustard-coloured car.

He stumbled into the open and ran for the car, not daring to look for the governor’s position. He expected to soon hear the sound of gunfire, but heard only the sound of his feet on the driveway.

At the car he grinned broadly. The keys were in the ignition. His parents still did the same thing, too trusting for their own good. He got in and started the engine, gunned it up the driveway.

The governor watched as the car pulled onto the road. At first he just stood there, but when he saw who was at the wheel he yelled out and ran towards the car. He couldn’t reach it. Caleb drove away, checking his rear-view mirror to see if the governor would draw his pistol. He didn’t. As Caleb passed the gawking prisoners he honked a few times, to show his support.

TWENTY-SEVEN

SHARON WORNKIN

Sharon lay still, listening to Roger’s breathing. He was on his stomach, near the edge of the bed. He never snored, not deeply. Maybe after a night on the piss. She, on the other hand, apparently snored like a rhino. She’d never really believed this. Before they had Peter, her protests at this claim would result in holding him down, tickling him, both of them laughing, his laugh sounding like he was choking. She realised they hadn’t played like that since. Was it just them? Or was this all marriages?

She looked at the alarm clock. It was only six o’clock. Saturday. The Boolarra Festival was on today, Newbury’s annual parade of hay and cattle. Clowns. Those guys on their huge unicycles. Did those have a name? Unicyclists? The festival was the one moment in the year Newbury became a tourist attraction. The entirety of the main street shut down as the utes with their displays sauntered by. She’d put Jack and Robert on to keep an eye on things this year—help cordon off the street, direct traffic, make sure people weren’t drinking heavily in public—but it dawned on her they were now down a man. Jack. Nothing much happened most years, but Robert couldn’t handle it on his own, not at his age. The Prisoners on the Run event was something else to bear in mind. Trevor was handling that. Not only was she going to have to work, it was set to be a long day.