They came upon a clearing and in the midst of the cloying trees before them a ways away a smouldering fire, just embers burning under charcoal. They marched through the clearing like soldiers, carrying their weapons. Soon Judah motioned them to be still.

He whispered, ‘Their tent’s just through there.’

Sidney saw it then, billowing slightly in the breeze. An army-green colour.

‘Now,’ Judah whispered, ‘we just walk right over this clearing and unload these into that tent there.’ His eyebrows motioned towards the tent. ‘Just destroy it. Then we take their bodies on that other boat and leave ’em somewhere in the centre of town. Nobody’ll be messing with your family again.’

He held the shotgun like others might hold a loaf of bread. Like it was nothing. Sidney thought about his daughter. Thought about the type of man he was, the example he’d set her. How he’d live with himself after this, look her in the eye, try to teach her the world was good, that there was kindness, that there were people who’d care for her, love her truly. Knew that if he did this—if he helped pull the trigger—he’d never be able to show her the world he wanted her to know.

He yelled out Moore’s name, almost unbidden. It seemed to come from his stomach, and then pulse through the trees. An animal roar. A warning for the old man. Brendan, upon hearing, must have seen the change in Judah’s eye, the way his shoulders shifted, because he leapt onto the larger man and shouldered him to the ground. Judah grunted like a pig. Sidney tried to run but struggled in the mud. He had time to turn and look when he heard the shotgun, and saw his brother’s wounded body fall from Judah and slap against the mud.

THIRTY-THREE

CALEB MOORE

The sound of voices woke him. He sat up quickly and saw how dark the night had become. The moon in the sky otherworldly. He saw another boat pulled into shore. Saw three figures huddled together, entering the overgrowth. The hint of whispers lost in the breeze. He also saw, with relief, how close he’d drifted to shore while he slept.

As his brain kicked back into gear and caught up with his situation he realised with deepening fear the three men were the Cahills of some description. Could pick out Brendan’s silhouette easily, the lumbering monolith. Knew too his father and mother were probably asleep and had no idea what was going to happen. So he picked up his oar and started rowing. The boat spun, his arms still pained, the broken wrist just about useless. He abandoned it quickly and hopped out and found the water over his head height and so he swam with all he could, broken wrist and all, the cast waterlogged, up to the surface, gulping air. He kept swimming. Bloody arms need to work. The shore his lighthouse. It was slow going with the arm and he felt he would drown. He reached out with his legs and found soft ground beneath them. He could walk, and did so. His body slowly emerged from the water and the cool breeze stuck the clothes to him. His arms in the fresh air, his hair cold. He was holding himself as he walked, trying to keep warm, and struggling. Soon he was entirely free of the ocean. He raced into the bush, over the gelatinous sand, trying to make his way to where his father used to camp on the other side of the island. He pried apart trees and soon found his fingers raw. Push on, push on. It was difficult going without a torch and he found his eyes were refusing to adjust.