He nodded. Said, ‘Did you hear Dad beating on Brendan?’

‘I heard it, yeah. It sounded bad.’

‘It was bad. He hasn’t gone that far for a long while, not like that. Not since we were kids. Not sure I want Amy growing up around that.’ Even as he said it, it felt wrong. Like he’d betrayed his family, who he was.

‘We could do it, you know,’ she said. ‘We could just move away. Dad’d set you up in the shop or something. We’d make it work.’

Sidney nodded and looked at his wife. ‘Love you.’

‘I know.’

‘Wish you smoked less pot, though.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Hard to see you sometimes, with the cloud of smoke around your face.’

She laughed. For a moment he thought she was going to throw a pillow at him.

He came over to her, sat on the bed. ‘I don’t know, I keep trying to think what’s best for her. What she needs. And she doesn’t need all this. The future here is nothing good. Maybe in Devonshire she could have a shot at being a normal kid for a while.’

His wife cuddled into him. ‘You alright?’ she asked.

‘I sound alright, right?’

‘There’s free pot here, though.’

He nodded, didn’t laugh. He held her for a bit and watched their daughter’s crib. It wasn’t long before she woke up for her nightly feed. Sarah went to her, shushing her, lifting her, kissing her. He sat on the bed and watched his wife feed his daughter and wondered what things would be like someplace else.

FOURTEEN

VERNON MOORE

When he got home he turned the headlight off, the one that still worked, and sat in his driveway in the darkened car. The front of his house now seemed imposing. He knew his wife would be asleep but would wake as soon as he entered and ask questions. Which he’d evade until she pressed. And she’d press. He sighed.

Vernon turned around in his seat and levered a jar out of one of the cardboard boxes on the backseat. He shook it near his ear. No discernible noise. He manoeuvred himself so he could better see the backseat in its entirety. Pressed to the sides with boxes.

He twisted off the top of the jar and held it upside down. First a small amount of paste, then a few vacuum-sealed baggies fell into his palm. He held them up in the difficult light and squinted. Hard to see, but he guessed what it was. Weed. He’d heard the Cahills made their money this way. He’d never tried it, though he’d caught students smoking it a few times in his day. Mostly the non-academic ones that took his classes. He didn’t mind those kids. Preferred simple to stuck-up.

He put the baggies back into the bottle and the bottle back into the box. He sat again and looked at his front door and half expected his wife to be standing there like some unearthly spectre eyeing him, judging him in her pink fluffy bathrobe, her face all sunken as though from a dream. Her eyes shadowed, hard to fathom. He opened the door and stood a moment beside the car. Thought of his own car still parked out in the bush. He’d have to sort it out. Wouldn’t he? Could there be something made of this? A new bargaining chip. Do as I say or you won’t see the car again. Then they’re shooting his kneecaps and beating his son’s head in worse. No right way through it. He climbed back in and started the engine and looked to the doorway again for his wife. He thought of going inside to tell her his business but instead he backed out.