The guards had offered the woman dope in exchange for sex. When she said no, they offered her extra shower time. When she said no again, there was nothing more they could offer, so they raped her. They then told her that rape was very common in Australia and that perpetrators didn’t get punished, so there was no point reporting it.

‘The same thing happened in the town a while ago,’ Fyfe said. ‘With some truckies flyin’ through.’

Manolis nodded again. ‘Sparrow mentioned that. His sister.’

Fyfe coughed hard, avoiding his hand. He said ‘that military fuckwit Onions’ had given him seemingly sincere assurances that ‘all complaints would be thoroughly investigated in a timely and sensitive manner’. In every instance, the end result was assured: ‘Insufficient evidence to warrant further investigation’.

‘Onions reckons the incidents are cooked up,’ said Fyfe. ‘That they’re all just hype.’

‘And what do you think?’

Scoffing, Fyfe waved a dismissive hand. ‘Mate, I gave up listenin’ yonks ago, gave up carin’.’ He breathed, heavy. ‘Grew immune to the horror, like in war.’

Manolis considered his colleague. And Fyfe was still his colleague, even with a gun between them. They were all one force, fighting the good fight. But this was an unfair fight, rigged from the outset.

‘What about the Bowie knife?’ Manolis asked.

‘My little touch. Wasn’t sure the plan would work, so it was insurance. If it all went to shit, we could just pin it on that lowlife scumbag Joe.’

‘Did Onions know who killed Molly when I was summoned to Cobb?’

‘Nah. He genuinely wanted some outside help after the arson attack.’

Manolis rubbed the bristles on his chin. ‘Omari. They stuck him in solitary.’

‘Fuck Omari.’ Fyfe’s eyes grew wild. ‘Fuck all reffos. They’re no angels either. They lie, steal, riot – we’re called to clean up fifty shades of shit. Guards do bugger-all, only fan the flames.’

He described detention centre workers who’d been caught robbing local shops, starting pub fights, crashing cars, all with impunity.

‘Ya can’t touch ’em, can’t do nuthin’,’ Fyfe spat. ‘They get sent home on medical advice or compassionate grounds or stress leave or some bullshit before we can get to ’em.’

He leant forward, menacingly.

‘Can’t blame the reffos. They’re desperate, only fightin’ back. Can’t blame the guards, they’re idiots, boys pretendin’ to be men. So what was I s’posed to do? This is where Rex’s stupid idiotic plan actually started to make sense.’

Manolis furrowed his brow. ‘Made sense…?’

Fyfe was tugging an ear, a dried apricot. ‘I tried to do things by the book. Fuck the book. It all adds up to a pint of warm piss. Better to take care of business yourself.’

His gunmetal eyes smiled. Manipulating his fat clumsy fingers, he cocked the weapon.