They came upon the remains of Vernon’s fire on the beach, like he’d said. Saw his tent through the trees. They walked in and from his tent, saw the clearing.

When they found the two fallen men the sun was in the middle of the sky. The big one looked like he was floating. There was muck, and red gunk, blood, around both their heads like halos.

‘Don’t touch them,’ the coroner said. ‘Let me take a look at them first.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

He went over to look at Sidney. Despite herself, Sharon crept forwards.

Judah lay flat on his back, arms out like a crucified Jesus. Vernon had said he’d been seated upright when he’d left him. He’d fallen back at some stage. His face empty of its eyes. Empty of its face. She bent lower, making sure not to touch anything. There should be more blood. Without a face, what is a man? Was there a moment when he was without a face but still alive when he was still himself? Or when the face was gone, did the man also go? There were little teeth marks lining the flesh of his neck. A fox’s, maybe. She felt bewilderment that the pain in her body was the doing of this faceless phantom before her.

Earlier, they’d found the body of Martin in the boot of the car out the front of Vernon Moore’s house. Where Brendan, through gritted teeth, had said he’d be. Both Melbourne men came to a similar end. And for what?’

‘Looks like everything lines up with Vernon’s story,’ she said to Garry, who had moved to stand beside her.

She waited until the coroner had finished with Sidney before going over. She’d always liked Sidney. Seemed to be a good dad. Wasn’t as rough as his father or his brother. He was lying with his arm up and his elbow pointed at the sky, which was maybe where he now rested. A flannelette shirt with jeans, not unlike how Peter dresses. The sleeves were rolled up, his elbow exposed. Sharon crouched. Sidney was face down, the back of his head gone. All the choices he’d made had led him here. An end he’d surely never wanted. And yet here he was.

THIRTY-SIX

VERNON MOORE

A few weeks later Vernon stood before William Kelly’s grave. He’d missed the funeral because he’d been in jail. He stood there with his wife, holding her hand. This cold concrete block told nothing of Bill Kelly. It bore his name and his wife’s name, and his son’s, and a bit about him being a reverend. A cold concrete slab of nothing. His mate buried beneath it, all skin now in a wooden box. Vernon’s unborn child buried here somewhere, too. Mark. Somewhere close. If what Bill had said was true, if what Penelope had said she hoped, about God and goodness and all that, then Bill was just not here. His spirit was free. Someplace better. But Vernon doubted his friend’s words so deeply he almost cried. Possible his friend had wasted his life preaching a false gospel and ended up a sack of flesh.