Sidney said no more but did not retreat. His father’s hands moved down his brother’s face and squeezed into his neck. Brendan made no attempt to remove the fingers. Just let them be, let them squeeze. Sidney saw his face turn red in the moonlight.

His father lifted Brendan from the verandah by his neck. Feet scrambling for purchase. He was choking, spluttering, pleading with his hands, pawing at his father’s like a kitten. His father pushed him backwards into the pig carcass. With his free hand he opened the gut and forced his oldest’s head inside.

‘Smell that, mate. You smell it?’

A muffled reply from inside the pig.

‘That’s the smell of a mongrel death. What you’ve invited on all of us with what you’ve done.’ He held him there. Brendan’s feet were wriggling, trying to take the pressure off his back. The pig bucked and swayed. Brendan’s head gone completely, like it had been lopped off. Sidney started forwards, thought better of it, stopped.

‘Dad, he’ll suffocate in there.’

His father relented. Brendan collapsed out of the pig, his head red and trembling. There were bits of flesh sticking to his beard and from his lips dangled a mixture of snot, saliva and blood, not his. He was crying, turning away from his brother, from his father, with the shame of it. Sidney wanted to tell him not to mind, but didn’t. Instead he looked at his father, who showed no remorse. He was sitting cross-legged on the verandah. He stayed that way, watching his oldest blubber.

Sidney walked back inside. His wife had moved and was now seated on the couch, staring vacantly. Sharon was still by the fire, her face to it, golden light licking her. She would not turn to Sidney as he shuffled in.

‘What was all that?’ Sarah finally asked.

‘Lot of help you are.’

‘It’s your family, Sidney.’

He looked at his wife, studied her eyes. ‘You’re high.’

She nodded slowly. ‘I am a bit.’

‘Lot of help, aren’t you?’ he repeated.

‘I’m not the one with the useless arm and the cuts across my chest.’

He had no reply to this and walked down the hallway to check on his daughter, to see if the noise had woken her.

She was still asleep. Would sleep through anything. She was lying on her side, one hand near her mouth, which was twitching like she was feeding. Her little ears covered by the pink beanie his mother had knitted and his wife had put on her. The room smelled like weed. With her hair covered by the cap, she could have been bald. She had kicked her rug off and it was bunched at the bottom of the cot. Her precious toy kangaroo in the corner.

That sticky smell in the air. He waved his good hand over her face. Kissed his fingertips and held them to her temple. There’d been men in the living room with weapons. His father talked a big game but he’d been the cause of all of it. Without him, who knew who Brendan would now be?