‘Bit of a longshot.’

‘What other shot do we have?’

Before they visited Reverend Kelly, Brendan begged a moment from Martin and Judah to check in with his sister at the hospital about his dad and, after dropping them off at the pub, had found the doctors were now confident his father would pull through. This idea comforted him—he loved his father with a devotion known by few—but it also stabbed at the base of his neck. He knew the burning of his father’s skin had been his fault entirely. Nobody else’s. His father had told him to lay off and he hadn’t. That mongrel Moore getting under his skin. And so, if and when the man was back to his normal self, he would bear the brunt of his anger, far worse than the beating he’d already received. He’d cop far worse than the pig. As he watched the man breathe, wrapped in his bandages, he gave thought to unplugging the machine or smothering him with a pillow or simply taking the body, throwing it over his shoulder, and tossing it into the water at Port Napier. But he wouldn’t dare on account of his loyalty.

He passed by Sharon Wornkin’s room on his way out and wanted to go in and apologise but instead he walked out of the hospital and drove his car down the main street to the pub.

Martin and Judah were seated at a table eating chicken parmigianas. There were more people here than on a usual Saturday afternoon, no doubt due to the festival. Dan behind the bar was keeping an eye on the lot of them.

‘Your old man alright?’ Martin asked when Brendan sat down.

‘He will be, they reckon.’

‘Good,’ Martin said. He chewed. ‘How hard is it to find one bloke?’

Judah swallowed and added, ‘One old bloke.’

‘Right. One old bloke.’

Brendan said, ‘If we don’t find him we’re done here. In Newbury. You saw how Wornkin stood up to me. Without her under our thumb, we’re done. She knows everything about how we do things.’

‘If we make an example of this old bastard,’ Martin said, ‘Wornkin’ll come back onside. Women like her always do. You watch.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I give us tonight. If we don’t get him tonight, Wornkin’ll keep pushing back. And you’ll be done. Put Moore in the morgue by daylight and Wornkin will think twice before chucking you out. This town even have a morgue?’

Brendan said, ‘It’s in Trenton.’

‘So what happens when someone croaks?’

‘They get driven over.’

‘What if they’re old and nobody finds them and they get all rotten and drippy?’

Brendan did his best to shrug. He hadn’t thought they were aiming to kill Vernon Moore, and now that it had been said, and in such a flippant way, he found himself looking for a way out. His intention had never been to kill––hit, bludgeon, break, sure––and he wasn’t sure he was capable of it. While he hated Moore and his son and everything he was, Brendan had never considered crossing that threshold. He’d never murdered somebody.