Finally, the outskirts of Cobb appeared. It was a town of several dozen streets spread over an area of six kilometres and accessible by only two roads at opposite ends of the compass. Manolis approached along the southern route with the noonday sun in his eyes. Crosses and floral wreaths littered the roadside, slowing his final approach. A big yellow sign said: No gambling, No grog, No humbug. Next to it, a fire danger sign had the needle in the red ‘extreme’ region; only black remained, for ‘catastrophic’.

Cobb’s main street was deserted. Discarded newspapers, plastic bags, hollowed-out cartons of booze. Manolis decelerated, scanning the street and shopfronts. He muttered to himself, voicing his disappointment. He drove past a church, then another. The majority of houses flew Australian flags in their front yards, all of which were at half-mast. In such a small community, Manolis imagined this was out of respect for the murder victim. He lingered outside a takeaway shop, the motor idling, eyeballing the grimy glass window with faded photos of enlarged hamburgers, pizzas and hot chips. He couldn’t work out if the business had ceased to trade or was simply closed. He was about to engage the handbrake and investigate when a red light lit up on his dashboard. The petrol tank was nearing empty. He passed two more churches and even more mournful flags before pulling into the first servo he found.

Heat billowed from the thirsty Val’s bonnet, the air shimmering before Manolis’s eyes. A group of kids mosquitoed around the petrol station toilets. They were instantly curious about the stranger and his shiny machine and gave both their undivided attention. They wore sleeveless footy jumpers and basketball singlets or no shirt at all. One had a bike. They smoked cigarettes and ignored signs that said not to.

‘Nice car, mister!’ Wolf-whistles added their approval.

Manolis smiled and stepped from his vehicle. The outside heat hit him like a blast of dragon’s breath. There was only one working bowser, and the cost per litre was outrageous, more expensive than he’d ever seen in the city. He filled up listening to the tick-tock of cooling metal beneath the stove-hot bonnet. Entering the shop, he eyed the empty shelves as he waited for the proprietor to appear. He called out, searched the aisles, but after five minutes just left cash on the counter and walked out.

In his absence, Manolis’s car had been modified. The Val’s antenna was bent at a painful angle, the circular hood ornament absent, souvenired. He looked up to see the kids laughing and slapping each other on the back.

‘Shit car, mister!’

‘We made it better for you!’

‘Get an Aussie car, a Commodore or Falcon, a real donk with some chrome spillin’ out the front!’