Brendan was sticking out his chest, urging Sidney to tackle him. Sidney looked down the hall, raising his eyebrows. ‘She’s asleep man, come on.’

‘Bloody hell, mate. I was just having a laugh.’ Brendan fell into the seat beside their mother, who didn’t move, transfixed by her oats. He clapped his hand on her back, making her spoon topple. He didn’t seem to notice. ‘You going, then?’

‘Sarah’s just getting me something to eat.’

‘You better eat fast. You see the time?’

‘I know what the time is. It’s just after dinner. We have hours yet.’

‘You know they’re early sometimes.’

‘Then they can be early.’

Brendan moved in his seat, the vinyl squeaking. ‘You don’t keep Melbourne waiting, Sid. You know what Dad says.’

‘I know, I know. We’ll be up the creek.’

Sarah handed him the sandwich she’d made.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and kissed her on the cheek, cupping his hand around her waist.

‘You be careful,’ Brendan said. His brother’s face changed with how serious he took all this.

‘I will.’

‘You taking the gun?’

‘Why would I need the gun?’

‘Just the shottie, I mean.’

‘I know what you mean. I don’t need it.’

‘Don’t be a dickhead. Take the gun. Put it in the glovebox.’

‘It won’t fit in the glovebox.’

‘You don’t know what they’re gonna do. You don’t always know how it’ll play out.’

Sidney looked at his brother’s face and then to the door of his bedroom, his daughter asleep within. At moments of indecision he seemed to turn more and more to one question: what would Amy think of him? Generally the answer didn’t matter. The question left him damned either way. Go sell pot to Melbourne drug-heads. Take a gun or not. No right course to chart. Amy’d think the same no matter what he did.

‘I’ll take it next time,’ he finally said.

‘Sid . . .’

‘We’ve done this heaps of times. I’ll be fine.’

Brendan sat back. ‘What do you think, Mum? Should he take the shottie?’ And he clapped her, too hard again, on the back, so that she spilled her last spoonful. It went down her front.

‘Brendan!’

‘Sorry, Mum.’

‘Get me the cloth.’

He stood and went to the sink. Sidney kissed his wife on the cheek again, pulled her close and whispered, ‘I really do love you.’ She shoved him off. He left the house before his brother could say another word, before his mother could echo the same sentiments. He let the flyscreen shut softly. The pig on its hook charcoal in the dark.

EIGHT

VERNON MOORE

The church sat like some behemoth amid the smaller houses dotting the main road. It towered over everything, imposing its religion on all who drove by. Was this its intent when it had been built? Vernon wondered about that, about the men who had toiled in the sun and the cold to build this monster. Who had designed the stained glass pieces, chosen the metallic salts for colour, cut them, assembled them, lined them with lead, waterproofed it? Would’ve taken months without proper machines. Who had chosen which saints to represent? And what had those saints actually done to warrant such regard?