Ernie made no motion to say he’d understood.

‘You hear me?’

‘We bloody hear you,’ Brendan said.

‘Good.’ The young man smiled. To Sidney, he said, ‘Hope your arm gets all better. You think it’s broken?’

Sidney grimaced. ‘Doubt it. Hurts to move, though.’

The young one nodded once. When nobody said anything further he said, ‘I want you to confirm to me you heard what I just said.’

‘I heard you,’ Ernie said.

‘You heard me say what?’

Ernie’s voice was lower, quieter. More awful. Somehow the Melbourne bloke still didn’t seem to care.

‘Two days.’

‘That’s right. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Judah and I will see you then. I’m Martin, by the way.’

He extended his hand and crossed some of the living room to reach Ernie, who shook it carefully. Sidney could see a pistol in the man’s belt. So the removing of their weapons outside had been a charade. Martin knew what he was doing, knew their father saw it, knew he wouldn’t say anything about it. That he held all the power.

Ernie followed them out to their car and Sidney heard it peel down the driveway.

Back inside once more, Ernie looked around the room then walked over to Brendan, who was still leaning against the wall. Brendan did not see it coming. His father’s fist swung and hit him hard in the throat. He went down coughing, scrabbling on his knees. Sidney sat up. Sharon looked stricken, scrambling away.

‘Dad, don’t,’ Sidney said.

‘Ernie,’ Sharon said.

Ernie was beyond hearing. He kicked at his son’s legs, stomped on his feet. Thudding against the carpet. Brendan scurried like some hunted mouse, whimpering. Sidney remembered a time he had ridden on Brendan’s back, at play in the front yard. Sidney did his best to stand. His mute wife was still sullen. He wobbled on his feet. Cassie had run. Brendan crawled out the front door, trailed by his enraged father. Sidney made it to the front door, his sore arm still pinned to his chest, sparing a look for Sharon, who had shuffled closer to the fireplace. Sidney followed his father and brother into the moonlight.

On the verandah Brendan, pitiful, went for the stairs leading down to the grass, blubbering like Amy. His father caught up quickly, grabbed his shoulders and wrenched him back onto the verandah. He kicked him in the arse—a move that looked like mockery to Sidney— and Brendan crawled forwards, then rolled over. The pig behind him swaying slightly.

‘Dad, Dad, please,’ he said. He was in a panic.

‘I haven’t even bloody hurt you yet. You know what you’ve done?’

Brendan stopped crawling the moment his father’s open hand rested on his face.

‘Dad,’ Sidney said from the doorway.

‘You shut up,’ he said. ‘And you,’ he said, turning back to Brendan, ‘you know what you’ve done to us?’

‘Dad. Please.’

‘Dad,’ Sidney said. ‘Come on.’

‘I won’t tell you again to mind your bloody business, messed up arm and all. Go back inside.’