‘Well a woman is dead,’ she said flatly, voice controlled. ‘And not just any woman – she was our lovely schoolteacher and daughter-in-law. Here, in our little town, stoned to her brutal death. And more will die. We’ve got a human bomb on our soil with this whatchamacallit, Sharia law. There’s absolutely nothin’ moderate about Islam; somebody needs to rewrite the Koran, write somethin’ more peaceful. Like the Bible.’

Sparrow laughed. ‘The Bible,’ he said, wiping his eyes, ‘as if. Fucking racists…’

The words had clearly been brewing in the young Aboriginal man’s throat for some time.

Rex turned, eyed him coldly. ‘Andrew,’ he said calmly, ‘criticism is not racism.’

The old man pushed away his empty plate and stood, turning his back on the dinner party and retreating into the confines of the office demountable, mumbling under his breath.

‘Pa’s right, yep,’ Vera said solemnly. ‘The word “racist” has lost its meaning nowadays. It’s just used to shut down free speech, you can’t say anything anymore without offending people.’

The table fell silent. Sparrow ignored their responses, turning sideways to stubbornly sip away at his beer and contemplate the vast nothingness of outback Australia. Vera watched him, unblinking, hateful. Manolis didn’t know where to look. On the one hand, his hosts had been hospitable and were entitled to their opinions, which at times made sense.

And on the other, young Sparrow had read his mind.

THE THREE OF them sat there for some time, listening to the sounds of early evening. In the near distance, a trash of currawongs cawed happily from the branches of a swaying gum. They fell comically from branch to branch, appearing inept, clumsy, even drunk, before something startled them and they shot into the air like tracer fire. Vera began clearing the table. Overhead, the bug zapper fizzed, claiming another victim in its deathly blue bulb.

Manolis prepared to excuse himself, the evening over, until Rex surprisingly reappeared in the doorway of the demountable. Sparrow, now smoking a slow cigarette, looked up languidly, then away again. Disregarding him, Rex approached the table and thrust an old photo into Manolis’s hand. ‘Your dad and me,’ he said. ‘At the migrant camp.’

Manolis raised his brows. ‘What migrant camp? You were with Dad at the camp here in Cobb?’

Rex looked surprised. ‘Thought you knew. I first met him there. We were all single men at the time, so the camp was it. Once you got married, you could leave. So when your mum arrived from Greece, your dad moved out, and they started the milk bar. The rest is history.’