Turning towards the door, Manolis was about to approach the farmer, tell him to go away, come back later to make his report, when he felt a sharp whack against his wrist and arm. It had been preceded by a near-instantaneous rumble, too quick to register. The impact of the hurtling shopping trolley made Manolis drop his weapon. It was seized upon by Fyfe, who now stood, barrel pointed squarely at Manolis’s broad target of a chest.

‘Yeah no worries, Geoff, mate,’ Fyfe called out. ‘Er, just a bit busy right now. I’ll come by later on, see for myself.’ He sneered at his new bunny with undisguised satisfaction.

Old Geoff the chicken farmer stood silently a moment, grey cogs creaking inside his brain, before ultimately shifting his weight and shuffling outside.

Chapter 36

Chapter 36

THE STATION DOOR clicked closed, a sombre sound, desolate and solitary. Fyfe motioned with the gun barrel, directing his new prisoner to the tearoom. On their way, he turned the knob, locking the station entrance.

The back of Manolis’s neck began to sweat. His stomach felt greasy. He fell voluntarily into a garden chair.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Now what?’

Fyfe took up position a metre away, handgun still drawn. He stared blankly into the space behind Manolis’s head.

‘To be honest with you, city mouse, haven’t given it much thought. I never pictured us here. You were s’posed to be Rexy’s assignment.’

Manolis couldn’t help but smile painfully.

‘He burnt your car, cut your brakes,’ Fyfe added. ‘But Rexy was only tryin’ to scare ya off. Not kill ya. He’s no killer.’

Pressing his hands together, Manolis interlocked his fingers, breathed. ‘Either way, this has gone far enough, don’t you think…? Don’t make it worse by acting irrationally against an officer of the law.’

Fyfe looked down at his steeled hand, the weight, admired it. ‘Mate. I don’t think you’re currently in any position to tell me what to do.’

He added a light whistle of approval.

‘Nice. Solid, cold. So this what they give you in the city, eh? Bugger me. Stop a bull with this. Stop a truck. Out here, we’re still usin’ muskets.’

He aimed it above Manolis’s head and pretended to pull the trigger.

‘Bang!’

He laughed, a demented kookaburra, the pink fat under his chin wobbling uncontrollably.

They sat for a moment, tense silence, listening to each other breathe. Manolis couldn’t tell whose respirations were shallower.

He thought again about the tourist park, about young Sparrow. His arse was on the line too, a situation of Manolis’s engineering. It would be the wrong way to die, so impotent, so inconsequential. Being beaten to death was more worthy – abiding by his true self. Christ, the kid’s bruises hadn’t even healed yet.

‘So how’d you get the detention centre to go along with it?’ Manolis asked.