A loud crack from behind kicked up mud at his heels, and Leon launched sideways, diving like a goalkeeper into the bush. He churned uphill, windmilling as he shoved aside shrubs. Wire grass tore at his skin and caught round his legs, slowing him like fishing line.

Twenty metres uphill he hid in a patch of daisy bushes, buying time and breath. At first he could only hear his own rasping inhalations and the patter of raindrops on leaves. The downpour provided cover of sorts and he was thankful for it, but how long would it last? He had no idea how far he was from the Toyota, twenty metres or two hundred. And now he’d stopped, the cold began to eat into him and the shivers took hold. He was wet, torn and bleeding, bits of bush in his hair, leaves down his back, bracken in his boots, a leech in his eye. He plucked it out: swollen and oozing blood.

Kurt must still be on the track. Shouldn’t he have appeared by now? But time had become strangely warped since Kurt had first shot at him, and Leon couldn’t tell how long that lunatic had been chasing him.

As he waited, he had a feeling of being outside himself. He was an eagle up in the canopy, looking down at his filthy tattered self, hunched on the ground. He saw his own terror as if it belonged to someone else, right down to the blanched look on his face and the spots of blood from the leech bites. Visions spiralled and flashed in his head. He was sea-kayaking on the calm channel near Bruny Island, dipping his paddle and weaving between swans. He was riding the ferry across the water—no, he was a cormorant skimming low over waves. He was fishing off the rocks below Fluted Cape. He was sprawled on a blanket on the Cape, losing his virginity to a young woman, her kisses like butterflies on his face. He was kicking footballs on the beach with his dad. He was at the lighthouse looking out over the great Southern Ocean. He was up on the cliffs, yelling into the wind.

Then a flash of red snapped him back into his body—Kurt was creeping along, far too close. Slowly, Leon eased through the bushes, wiping water from his eyes. Branches pulled back, dousing him as they recoiled. He stopped. Between bundles of grass, he watched Kurt searching the forest. Then Kurt swung his way, and Leon breathed through his teeth, telling himself to hold, hold …

A racket came from upslope, directly in line with his hiding place. Probably a wallaby. Such rotten bad luck. Kurt trained the rifle and took a shot. It smacked into a tree. ‘Move again, you bastard,’ Kurt yelled. ‘I’m going to get you.’