‘What for?’

‘For stealing.’

‘Stealing what?’

‘A car. Come on, Vernon, don’t make me cuff you.’

Vernon looked down at her. ‘You think that gun on your hip there scares me?’

Exasperation on her face now. ‘Come on, Vernon. Just get in the car.’

‘Alright, alright, let me get my jacket.’

He found his jacket, crumpled in a heap on the floor beside the bed, and shrugged it on. He put his keys in his pocket and went outside, deadlocking the front door. He walked to the cruiser and got in the passenger seat.

Sharon, following, opened the passenger door again. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘I’m in the car, like you asked.’

‘Not up there. Get in the back.’

‘Why?’

‘Prisoners sit in the back.’

‘Bloody hell. Get off your high horse a bit.’

She waited for him to lever himself out and get in the back before getting in herself. She started the ignition, backed down the driveway. As she looked out past Vernon’s head to the rear of the car he made sure his expression said nothing.

At the station, she showed him to a plastic chair for him to sit on. He was reminded of the prison chair in which he’d sat the previous day.

Sharon approached the counter, which looked like a kitchen bench. Sitting behind was a young policeman––judging by his face, the one who’d encountered the Melbourne thugs.

‘You okay, Jack?’ Sharon asked him, leaning forward awkwardly on the counter.

‘That Vernon Moore?’

‘I’m right bloody here,’ Vernon said. ‘Don’t need to talk about me like I’m not.’

The injured man looked at him. ‘Are you Vernon Moore?’

‘I just said that’s me.’

The cop turned back to Sharon. ‘Is he in trouble?’

‘Hand over your things,’ she said to Vernon. He grumbled, stood, and handed over the car keys and wallet. The injured bloke put them in a small, white basket, and said, ‘He need a room?’

‘Yeah.’

‘They’re all free. Take the end one.’

‘Sounds like I’m checking into a resort,’ Vernon said, and was ignored.

‘Good. Alright,’ Sharon said. ‘Can you help me get him in there?’

The two of them walked Vernon down a corridor. He couldn’t help but feel he was already manacled, a prisoner from a time past. They led him to a cell, iron bars, and sat him down. A strip of bench lined one side entirely and in the corner was a steel toilet. Sharon stood at the entrance while Jack helped him inside.

‘I was in the war, you know,’ Vernon said, and felt a git for doing so.

‘Yeah? Your legs hurt or something?’

‘Yeah. They do.’

‘Maybe you’re just old? Nothing to do with war?’

‘You speak to all your elders like that?’

‘Can I have your hand, please?’

Vernon offered him a hand, his wrinkled palm upright. Before Vernon could react he was handcuffed to the bench, through a small metal hoop. He shook the metal. Cold against his skin.