As the car began to inch its way along the dirt he felt it: it was closer to the road, moving like a slug. He got out and looked at the tyres. All four were deflated. He looked closer, hunching down on his legs, but in the dark couldn’t see for sure what had happened. But he knew. He’d seen students do it. All four flat meant it wasn’t some accident; they’d been slashed. The rubber like it had been melted. He kicked at them, swore, looked skyward. He’d have to take Cahill’s car. Nothing for it. No walking that distance, and nobody else’d be coming out this way. He’d have to explain. However many Melbourne was, the slashed tyres suggested they’d been and gone.

It was all useless. He’d done nothing right. Kelly had no clue what he was talking about. Ideals seemed to die in the arse when they were acted on. Despite his intentions he’d just made a mess of it. He wandered back to the busted car with the headlight, climbed in, and headed home.

TWELVE

SHARON WORNKIN

Sharon was seated in the same chair she had been the night previous, for her son’s eighteenth. Jack was still opposite her, but the others had left long ago. That was alright, though. The pickup time was an hour ago now, so even if they’d managed to stumble in the direction of the weed being sold, they wouldn’t have seen it. Sharon knew Jack had a baby on the way, with a wife he didn’t much care for, and assumed that the pub was his shelter. Maybe he’d end up too dependent on it, the drink, and this wife he didn’t like—Ruth?—would threaten to leave him if he didn’t sober up and fly straight. Think of the kids, she’d tell him, they look up to you now. And he’d sober up or he’d descend.

Could she look at herself with such bitter judgement? Maybe it would do her good.

She and Jack hadn’t spoken much since Robert and Trevor left. It was a little odd, being out with a bloke not her husband. She’d seen a few of the locals look at her twice. Didn’t spare a second glance at Jack, though. Roger wasn’t at home. He hadn’t said where he’d be. Just mumbled something as he’d walked out the door.

‘Well,’ Jack said finally. ‘Should be getting home, I guess.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Your old man alright, you staying out like this?’

Sharon nodded. ‘He doesn’t really care what I do.’

‘I’d care. I mean, if you were Ruth, I’d care you were out with some other bloke.’

‘You’re not some other bloke. You work with me, Jack. And twenty years too young to boot. Don’t get ideas.’

He laughed. ‘I’m sure he cares.’

‘He does, he does,’ she said, afraid she’d implied too much.

‘What’s he up to tonight?’

‘Off at a party.’

‘Living it up, hey? Good to be married to a sergeant’s wage, I guess.’