Wiping his brow, he hung his head, sighed, felt the weight. He pocketed his weapon, stood before the wreck, eyed it with contempt. He imagined organising a tow truck, ambulance. The coroner would be involved. Not that there was any rush. The only imperative for him now was to drive, again.

The case had slipped away, through Manolis’s fingers. He’d failed his duty to the dead. All that remained was to minimise the damage. A life still hung in the balance.

And yet, his anger persisted. He wanted to unload his revolver into the grille of the station wagon, blast it like it was shooting practice at the firing range. But the forensics boys would eventually be all over the wreck, and questions would be asked. It was a headache he didn’t need, especially after the meticulous nature of the local investigation. He scuffed the earth with his boot, scattered dust, grimaced in pain. In the end, all he could do was raise his arm into the air and fire three pressure outlet shots into the big blue ether.

The impact was made with the third charge, as its echo continued to sound.

Manolis was re-holstering his weapon, beginning to limp away, when he heard a noise. Turning, he eyed the wreck, its two quiet occupants.

‘What the f…’

It was an arm; its position had changed. Hadn’t it…?

Manolis took a step, shielded his eyes from the glare, looked closer. The big black birds continued to loop overhead in threatening arcs.

Another step, a guarded hand on his revolver, finger twitchy. And then he saw it, for certain this time. Movement.

Cobb’s former mayor reared up languidly like a corpse rising from the grave, bloodied head first, heavy like a kettlebell. He appeared to hover a moment, unsteady, before slumping back into his seat. He did not move again, as if that one simple corrective action had sapped his entire stocks of energy.

But Manolis moved. Faster than he ever had, even with sore ankles, summoning some superhuman strength and restorative ability.

Launching himself at the car door, he nearly yanked it off its hinges. Rex looked across at him, deathly white eyes filling with blood, turning pink. He did not flinch, try to escape, lash out, or attempt to reach for an unseen weapon. Instead, his eyes and his whole face seemed to melt with welcomed relief.

‘Con,’ he said. ‘Con, ya bloody greaseball bastard. About time you turned up.’

Rex was concussed and had again mistaken Manolis for his dead father. Manolis paid little attention. At that moment, he was more interested in saving Rex’s life than whatever ethnic epithets he had to share.