‘We’re all just banging blind into the same furniture. It’s all the same damn thing.’

‘No,’ Kelly said, looking at his friend. ‘I don’t think it is. I hope it’s not. Without a yardstick against which to measure an act then I’d agree with you. That’s all it would be. An act. There would be no good, or evil. Just decisions. I don’t know about you, but I know evil exists. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen true goodness, too. I don’t live in a world where we’re all just accidentally bumping into the furniture, like you say. That’s not what this is. I don’t think even you think that. You need to think about why you’re doing what you’re about to do. Don’t just shrug it off with that furniture nonsense. You know better.’

‘Jeez, mate.’

Kelly smiled. ‘Give me a break. I’ve been having this argument with Weymouth since the war.’

NINE

SHARON WORNKIN

Her mother’s back pressed up against the glass in the kitchen. She was outside, but she could see it, hear the timber strain a little. Her moth-er’s dress forced into the lace curtains. Her head smacked back into the pane. A bit of muffled yelling from her father. They’d woken her up this morning with it, and now they were at it again.

Sharon turned back to her chooks. Daisy had been stuck under the hutch when Sharon came out, after their yelling startled her awake. This was safety to her. The familiarity of her chooks, their cage. She watched Daisy intently, wondering if the silly old thing had banged her head against something, grown somehow dumber. Next thing she’d stick her head through a hole in the fence, wrench it off with a flap of her wings.

Louder yelling now. The sound of her father’s voice through the walls sharper, the words clearer.

‘It was your bloody idea to get her the damn things!’

No trace of her mother. Her back was gone from the window but as Sharon watched the panes it returned, thumped in with more force this time. Surprising the glass didn’t break.

‘How else are we supposed to get the money?!’

Then her mother’s body slumped inward. No sound for a moment. Maybe they were talking.

The yelling had become so commonplace in their home that often Sharon no longer noticed. It had started when her father was laid off at the farm. Used to be she’d climb under her bed and stay there until he calmed down, his words dripping and impotent. She remembered once, barely, him chasing her around the backyard, the terror in her breathing so real she thought she had been running for her life. Crying, pleading. When he finally caught her he’d thrown her against the shed, her knees striking the support hard enough to make her gasp. When she looked up she saw her mother standing in the doorway of the house, looking over across the grass. A slow nod of sadness. Which was worthless, really. Might as well not have bothered.