OLDE COBBE TOWNE’S rickety wooden archway threatened to topple over with the velocity at which Manolis drove beneath it. Slowing his final approach, idling to a stop, he surreptitiously parked behind a thick gum tree not visible from the office, then advanced on foot.

The tourist park was deserted. Not a soul amid the rack and ruin. A stray newspaper blew about in the hot wind, scattering sheets like flyaway dandelion seeds. No sign of Sparrow.

With gun poised by his thigh, Manolis first checked the laundry. It was empty. Rex’s load was still spinning, humming like a centrifuge. Good, thought Manolis. Exiting the laundry, he heard a noise and drew his gun before he was suddenly greeted by a stray dog, a blue heeler, all yaps and yips. It jumped up to greet him, paws prodding his knees, dry nose sniffing his crotch. Startled, he nearly unloaded his weapon on the innocent beast, which hastily scurried away, whimpering, tail turned inwards.

‘Shit,’ he breathed. ‘Sorry, boy.’

The canine’s enthusiastic bark alerted Manolis to the likelihood that his cover was now blown. He needed to move speedily and decisively. He felt his ribs, still a dull ache.

This was the first time he’d seen the office building with door closed, curtains drawn. Knees cracking, he crouch-ran to the demountable, circumnavigated it once. Peering into tiny windows, past sheer curtains and multiple Australian flags, he saw only slivers of ordinary domesticity: floral-patterned furniture, used newspapers, uncapped sauce bottles. No sign of movement or life. The boxy white station wagon normally parked under the carport awning was absent, deep tyre tracks in the dry dirt.

Returning to the sliding door, Manolis steadied his breathing, raised his gun to his ear, and with his other hand knocked firmly, twice.

‘Police,’ he said. ‘Rex, Vera, c’mon now, open up.’

No response.

He tried again, firmer, a steeled knuckle.

‘Open up. Police.’

The sound of wind in the surrounding bushes and trees, a magpie warbling.

‘Sparrow…? Andrew, you there?’

The carport flapped.

Manolis briefly considered the time it would take to execute a search warrant, before drawing back his hand and shattering the glass door with the butt of his revolver. Careful to avoid the angular glass shards, he reached inside, flicked the lock, flung the door open and entered through the multicoloured plastic strip curtains.

Gun first, finger poised, twitchy, he searched the rooms one by one, moving swiftly, precisely. The outdated front office, the messy back room and overcrowded storage room. Then the cabin with its pokey kitchenette, airless bedrooms and musty bathroom. The whole space had an interrupted feel, with opened clothes drawers and half-drunk coffee cups and uncooked slices of white bread still resting in the toaster.

Stopping at the fridge, Manolis lowered his gun. He rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and felt the weight of the new world absorb into his bones.

‘Gamoto,’ he grumbled. Then, after a beat, ‘Right.’