Bowen’s hand rested on his shoulder. ‘We all have our secrets, Hunt, and now we know yours. The doctor who doesn’t want to be a doctor.’

Caleb lowered his hands and willed the demons to return to their places. ‘I’ll have a swig of your flask if you’ve got anything left, Bowen,’ he said.

The doctor handed a battered silver flask to him and he took a swallow, letting the rough liquor burn the back of his throat.

‘Now whose hand is shaking?’ Bowen observed.

Caleb held out his right hand and gave a snort of ironic laughter. ‘I haven’t practiced since the war.’ Caleb drained the dregs from Bowen’s flask. ‘You’ve been an army surgeon, Bowen. You understand?’

Bowen sat down beside him and took the flask back, shaking the last drops onto the floor. ‘Trouble was, I didn’t know any other trade, but the memories came and I drank to forget. Then I came to Australia to forget but the memories and the drink followed me.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘I’m not much of a doctor, Hunt, but until now I’ve been all that this town has and despite this—’ he held up the flask, ‘—I think I’ve saved more souls than I’ve lost. You did well today.’ He paused and studied Caleb with bright eyes. ‘You’ve a skill I never had.’

‘What’s that?’

‘An instinct for doctoring. You can deny it all you like, but that’s a calling that will keep nagging at your heels. Forget this bloody gold mine. The town needs more than just me.’

This time Caleb laughed as he shook his head. ‘I’m never going back to medicine, Bowen. I swore that the day I walked out of Elmira Prison. Haven’t thought about it for seven years, and I’m sure as hell not going to start thinking about it now.’

Bowen shrugged and pocketed his empty flask. ‘If that’s the way it is, Hunt, it’s a waste. Now let’s finish up here and see to Geordie.’

The two men set about clearing the room, sending the detritus to the boiler to burn. By the time they had finished, the shadows were long. In the town the picnic festivities had concluded and the good ladies were cleaning up the debris. The more jovial had moved to the pubs but no one, it seemed, patronised the Australis Hotel. Unlike other hostelries in town, it bore an air of neglect, the unpainted boards silvered and covered in moss in places. A rank smell of stale beer and overcooked cabbage issued from the open door.

Caleb glanced at Bowen as they passed. ‘You permitted this arrangement?’

‘Without an alternative, what choice did I have? There are not so many accidents at the mine and most survive.’

‘But not the last one.’