He petted her. Her brown chook. The dull yellow of her talons. The dopey manner. He lowered her into the dust, the chook too stupid to try escaping. With a quick motion he raised the tomahawk and brought it down, almost softly. The head came free instantly, rolled over like a marble, gathering sticky dust. He held the body in the crook of his arm against his shirt. He stood. He turned the body upside down but as he did so the wings came loose and started flapping. His grip weakened. He grabbed at her but she was slipping, headless, dripping muck from the neck. Soon her wings were entirely free, flapping erratically, all sense to the motion gone with the head. Her father’s face slowly mottled with red. He held his arms out straight, having lost all hope of control. The headless bird swung free, kicking, throbbing, butting into the fence.

Sharon stepped back. The blood covering her father’s arms. Leaking like a tap turned on full blast. She watched, amazed at the amount. Daisy in her death painting her father his truer shade.

They looked like her chickens. When she’d been young, she would walk through the coop trailing pellets, letting them drip from her hand, and they had crowded around her ankles, bowling one another over in their haste. Her three police officers were milling in the same manner, bumping shoulders, laughing, wanting to get at the cake.

Sharon leaned over the cake, which she hadn’t made herself. She hadn’t had time to make anything, just bought it at Freddie’s. She looked at the other pub patrons, happily ignoring the policemen. She lowered the knife, sliced into the frosting.

Jack, the youngest by far, held out a napkin-covered hand, expecting the first slice.

‘Proper manners’d say Rob gets first piece, being the oldest,’ Sharon said. She levered the slice onto the blade.

‘I don’t mind, Sharon,’ Robert said, but accepted the proffered cake anyway. Jack kept on looking, waiting his turn.

Trevor, a middle-aged bloke with a huge gut, next to Jack, said, ‘Why’re we here again?’

‘We’re starting a new Easter tradition. We’re going to be busy the day of Prisoners on the Run and the Boolarra Festival. So we’re having chocolate cake and beer now.’

Trevor said, ‘Doesn’t sound like something we’d do.’

‘For Easter,’ she repeated, giving Trev his slice.

He started eating immediately. ‘What do you mean? We don’t normally do this stuff.’ Spitting crumbs.

‘Yeah,’ Jack said. ‘We don’t even celebrate Christmas together.’

‘Well, all that’s changing.’

‘We’ll hold you to that,’ Jack said, raising his piece of cake like he was toasting their good fortune.

‘So,’ she said, ‘you boys want a beer?’

She went to the bar, ordered four beers. Previously she’d managed to distract them from Ernie’s activities with callouts, assignments. Last time she’d had them sorting boxes of old files, putting them in a new filing cabinet she’d bought. Completely useless work. Made her anxious and guilty, conning them like that. This was better. At least this way they were happy. As she turned to carry the beers back Jack dashed up beside her, taking two from her crowded hands, offering his apologetic smile.