Back home, Roger still in bed. He’d been in bed asleep when she’d returned home the night before. Still asleep now. She clenched her fists and winced at the sores on the back of them reopening as she stood in the bedroom. Had she struck the old man with her fists? She took off her clothes, returned to her pyjamas, put on her slippers, dressing gown, and went into the kitchen. No Aerobics Oz Style for her today.

She put bread in the toaster, spread the butter thick, the Vegemite thin. She was about to start eating when she heard a loud knock on the door. She hurried to open it.

Jack was on her doorstep. He was still in his dressing gown, though his face had changed. His eyes were rid-rimmed.

‘I got something I need to say to you.’

‘Keep your voice down, okay?’ she said, worried they’d be overheard. She heard Peter shuffling from his bedroom. Then his lethargic figure appeared.

‘Who’s at the door?’

‘It’s just Jack.’

‘You know your mum’s a liar?’ Jack asked, craning over to project his voice around Sharon’s body.

‘What?’ Peter’s eyes lost their lethargy as he focused on the man on the doorstep.

Having her son stand beside her gave Sharon no comfort. ‘He’s just joking,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you, Jack? Come on, let’s go for a drive and talk about it.’

‘No, I’ve been thinking, Sarge. I’m done. I didn’t know it for sure before, but I know it for sure now. That was Cahill’s car we collected. You think I didn’t see you looking at the little baggies in the jars?’

She felt her shoulders slumping.

Peter said, ‘What are you on about?’

‘You don’t have anything to say then?’ Jack asked. A wonder Roger wasn’t up with the noise. ‘I won’t dob you in, because I don’t dob on people. I’m not that sort of bloke. But I’m bloody tempted. I really am.’

She didn’t know how to respond to that.

‘Those blokes the other night making me spew on myself were part of it too, weren’t they. The blokes that did this.’ He pointed a finger at his purpled cheek.

So. He’d been made to feel powerless, too.

‘Let’s go for a drive,’ she said quietly.

But Jack just walked away. He had left his car running in front of the picket fence. He opened the gate and walked to it.

Sharon shouted, ‘Wait. Aren’t you working later today? It’s Good Friday, it’s all hands on deck.’

‘Do it yourself.’

Jack slammed his door and made a lazy half-circle. Sharon watched the car go, not daring to turn to her son. Jack had to stop at the end of the street to give way and in that moment she wanted to go after him, justify herself to him. But there was nothing to justify what she’d done. She could only watch as the car turned right.

Sharon shut the door. Peter was seated in his customary spot at the kitchen bench. Her forgotten toast cold nearby. She grabbed the plate, upended it into the bin, turned on the tap to wash it clean of crumbs.