Camouflaged against the dry backdrop, a second hazard soon loomed in the scrub. It was a pod of smoke-grey roos, boomers and joeys, foraging for food on an otherwise uneventful afternoon. Sensing the speeding vehicle, they scattered in all directions, darting and hopping like furry maniacs. Manolis dodged left and right, turning the wheel frantically. It was only by some miracle that he managed to avoid the mob; it would’ve been easier if they’d just stood still.

His final action was to turn the wheel hard left, which sent the car fishtailing to the right. Up on two wheels, it came close to tipping and running aground in the serrated tussock weeds that strangled the barren land. In retrospect, that would’ve been a preferable outcome over the car spiralling onwards and finally coming to rest when it concertinaed against the trunk of another gum tree.

The earth shook. A scatter of white cockatoos spread themselves across the sky like a throw of salt crystals. Dead branches dropped from the sky, small logs teased free, smacking against the metal roof and echoing around Manolis’s ears. Flung hard against the steering wheel, the detective heard a dull crack implode in his chest. His kneecaps instantly burned, lacerated from the underside of the dashboard.

Had he blacked out, even for a second or two? Manolis couldn’t be sure but he didn’t think so. He credited the missing windscreen for sparing his head. Looking across to the passenger side, he saw it folded back onto itself like a crushed paper cup. Silently, he expressed gratitude to whatever unseen force of physics had caused the car to drift a few merciful metres and spare his life.

Slumping back into his seat, he felt his body pounding. Unspent adrenaline pulsed through his head and limbs. The bonnet and engine were smashed beyond repair. This was a problem, he reasoned, not from the viewpoint of continued transport, but from the perspective of possible evidence. As he shook his head from side to side, hearing his neck vertebrae click and clack, the question gradually crystallised in his mind: was the pickup truck’s sudden lack of braking power a random accident or something more deliberate? The vehicle was old, practically falling apart, held together with chewing gum and electrical tape. And the brakes had always felt spongy. But for them to altogether fail over the course of half a day was worthy of suspicion.

Forcing the stubborn door open with two kicks, Manolis went to stand. But then the planet spun; he lost his balance and toppled to the ground with a hollow thud. He tried to stand again, but remaining vertical was a suddenly unexpected challenge. He rubbed his head, checking for signs of swelling or blood. But he was smooth and clean.

‘You’re fine,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Ola kala. Keep going.’