TWENTY-ONE

BRENDAN CAHILL

Brendan drove to Mel’s parents’ place, where he knew she was living. That bastard Moore. The bastard. The grass out the front overgrown, engulfing the pavement. He sat in his car and watched the house. Rubbed at his neck, his hands making the pain sharpen again.

He got out. He strode to the front door and stood there like an idiot, before knocking hurriedly. Noise from inside. Then she was at the door, dressed in a flannel shirt, tracky-dacks. The television behind her blaring. She squinted against the light.

He despaired at seeing her face up close. What that little bastard had written. There was an ugly scar, over her eyebrow. He must have really smacked her. Her nose was the worst of it. Not set properly. That mongrel Moore maybe never let her go to hospital to see about it. Too chicken-shit.

He felt vindicated.

‘Mel,’ he said, hoping he didn’t appear as awkward as he felt.

‘Brendan? What are you doing here?’

He fidgeted, and stopped himself. ‘I just thought I’d check in on you.’

‘Why?’

‘You seen Caleb recently?’

She stiffened, hugging her shirt around her. He immediately regretted saying his name.

‘No.’

‘You heard what I did?’

‘No. Brendan. What did you do?’

He looked around at the porch. Looked at the overgrown grass. Then back to her. ‘I did to him what he did to you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean I walloped him, Mel.’

Her eyes widened.

‘I just beat on him, same as he did to you.’

‘Oh, Brendan.’ She looked back inside the house, and when she turned again there were tears in her eyes. ‘I didn’t ask you to do that.’

‘I know. But I thought—’

‘I just wanted to be done with it. With him.’

‘He deserved what he got, Mel. Look at your face.’

‘I didn’t want you doing that. I didn’t want him hurt that way.’ She wiped at her eyes, then said angrily, ‘You leave him alone. I don’t want you hitting him anymore.’

‘But Mel––’

‘I told you, I didn’t ask you to do that!’

She shut the door. The sound of it like a smack to his jaw. Worse than having his head in the pig.

From inside she shouted, ‘If you wanted to do something for me you should’ve come round and mown the damn lawn!’

He walked back to his car, avoiding the grass. He collapsed inside and gripped the wheel so hard his fingers whitened. Then he struck it. Again and again. Thumped the roof, the dull sound of carpeted metal. He struck his own face. You are an idiot, he thought. That bastard Moore had him pegged. No brain cells.

He put the car in gear and drove to Boodyarn Prison.

TWENTY-TWO

PENELOPE MOORE

They travelled to the prison together, Penelope driving. On either side of the road, large paddocks filled with little besides grass. There were a few sheep, actually, in this one on the left. And just here, near this tree, was the spot she and Vernon had crashed years before. She remembered little of it, little of the person she’d been before the crash, and knew little, if she were honest, about the person who materialised afterwards. She remembered waking up and she remembered, too, the young policeman. And of course she remembered losing her baby. Mark. Of course. But that was all.