‘He won’t use it. Just get me out.’

Ernie looked at Vernon and seemed to assess him, like he would assess cattle. He said, ‘You let me get my boy out.’

‘You asking? Or saying?’

He was already moving to the car door. ‘Saying.’

‘Don’t you bloody move, mate.’ And although Vernon had the gun trained on him, Ernie opened the car door and helped his son out. Sidney winced again as he was scooped out. He had an arm across his father’s shoulders. Fury in his eyes for Vernon.

They started to move to the house and Ernie said, ‘You better hope it was a bloody roo, old man.’

‘Wait on. Wait,’ Vernon said. Ernie kept moving. ‘Wait, damn it, would you?’

With his back to him, Ernie said, ‘Piss off.’

Vernon raised the shotgun to his shoulder and aimed and squeezed the trigger. This time it bucked truly and his arm flew back. He hit his mark––the pig on the verandah––the shot hitting the house as well. The sound the pig’s skin made as it was hit not so unlike a human’s. Not so unlike the roo’s skull. It made Ernie and his son stop dead. Before they could turn and look Vernon uncoupled the barrel, fished two shells out of his pocket and reloaded. He brought it up again, shaking.

‘Now you wait like I asked.’

On the verandah another light flicked on and out came a diminutive woman, young, hurried and sleepy. After her another young man––Brendan, Vernon assumed––came barging out, almost knocking her down.

‘What the hell’s going on here?’ he growled. Fists bunching, Vernon could see. Watching his brother, bleeding from the chest, his old man holding him up, and Vernon, behind, with a shotgun trained on the two of them.

‘You,’ Vernon said, doing his best to control his voice, ‘you’re the bloke I want to talk to.’

‘You put down that shotgun, old man, before I put you down.’

‘You come anywhere close to me and I’ll shoot.’

Vernon felt things spiralling further and further out of his control. Brendan appeared furious but didn’t move, just shifted his feet. The woman beside him, only just now recovered from her knock, shoved at him.

Vernon called out, ‘You know Caleb Moore?’

Brendan’s fists clenched at his sides. ‘That bastard who beat up on Mel? He deserves all he gets.’

Vernon watched Ernie’s head and noticed it rise up, maybe to look his eldest son in the eye. Brendan did not look at his father. Vernon said, ‘He’s suffered enough, alright? You need to quit.’

‘Or what?’

Vernon jiggled the shotgun. ‘You can’t see this?’

Brendan sneered. ‘You’re not going to shoot us.’

‘You tell me, Ernie,’ Vernon said, addressing the man’s back, ‘what you’d do for your kids. You imagine your boy in that prison getting beat and think on what you’d do to the bastards that hurt him.’

‘You mean like how you hurt my son here?’ Ernie said without turning. Sidney’s figure slumped lower.