They ate in silence, kept watching television until it was bedtime. Her father still hadn’t returned. She dreaded his coming home but knew now what she needed to be: subservient. She vowed she’d help her mother. She vowed she’d help herself. Don’t stand up, push back. Make life easier for all of them. Be small. Don’t argue.

Before she fell asleep she rose from her bed. Quietly padding down the hall, leaving the house, gumbooting her feet, treading into the chicken coop. Her father had shovelled the severed heads into one corner. Had told her he’d get to them later. He was out drinking, she knew.

The verandah light was dim, made the going difficult. She sorted through the heads, her fingers gentle, timid, until she found Daisy’s, with its distinctively coloured feathers near the eyes. One eye still open, staring.

She took it from the coop. In the shed, with the dangling light on, she found her father’s tomahawk. She placed Daisy’s head on the oil-soaked concrete floor. She twisted the tomahawk around, so the dull edge hovered over Daisy’s head. And then just lifted it a little, let it thunk down.The crunching of bone sounding for all the world like an egg cracking. She lifted the tomahawk, hammered quietly away. Daisy now completely forgotten. No part of her remained.

She used the dustpan and brush to sweep up the mess. Still a small smear of blood on the concrete. Let that remain. She threw the head into the oil-drum bin, took off her gumboots, walked inside, got back into bed. Waited for her father to return.

EIGHTEEN

PENELOPE MOORE

Her hands were on the dash. Vernon beside her, driving, looking dapper in his cap. She knew he only wore it to please her, and pleased she was. They’d been married seven years now, and she was still discovering things about him, little insecurities he kept so well hidden from everybody else. He kept fiddling with the hat, looking in the mirror when they’d stopped, checking it fit him right.

‘It looks fine,’ she said.

‘You’re biased.’

There were bags filled with camping supplies on the back seat. She turned to find the bag where the biscuits were stored and as she did so the seatbelt tightened against her stomach and she felt deathly afraid for the child inside her, like she’d squeezed him. The baby, she’d decided, was a boy; she’d started calling Mark in her prayers. She held her tummy with both hands.

‘You alright?’ Vernon asked.

She nodded. ‘Just hurts a bit.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

She smoothed her hands over her stomach, to calm her unborn child. She was wearing a loose dress with yellow flowers on the fabric.

‘What do you think of the prison they’re opening?’ Vernon asked, looking at her briefly.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘There’re a few people mad about it.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you?’

She huffed, arched her back a bit to relieve the pressure on her pelvis. ‘I told you I don’t know. I don’t think about it.’