With great effort, Manolis guided Rex out of the cabin, helped him stand on jelly legs. The old man came groggily, deep red blood oozing from an open head wound. His wife didn’t move; there was no bringing her back. Manolis checked his watch, noting the approximate time of death for future documentation.

He lifted Rex’s arm, draped it across his shoulders for support, took his full weight. Together, they hobbled to the car. Rex went voluntarily, without resistance, as if a friend, his designated driver, was escorting him home after a long night on the grog. Manolis eased him into the passenger seat, secured his seatbelt. Removing his shirt, tightening it, rolling it into a makeshift bandage, he wrapped it carefully around Rex’s head, stemmed the bleeding. He considered fixing handcuffs around Rex’s wrists and reading him his rights, but decided that both acts would be futile.

Rex continued jabbering as they drove, the car picking up speed briskly.

‘Con… Con, ya bastard…’

Manolis didn’t know whether to respond to the confused babblings of an individual suffering a severe brain injury. He wanted to ask about Molly, to confirm Fyfe’s story about how she was stoned. In the end, he stayed silent and drove faster.

The car was now travelling at drag-strip speed. Manolis squinted, eyes searing with the scouring wind. He kept one eye on the blurring road ahead and the other on Rex, eyelids heavy, head lolling, blood trickling. Keep him talking, Manolis told himself. Keep him awake. Keep the guilty hateful bastard alive.

‘What’s that, Rex, mate? Sorry I took so long. How are you feeling?’

His question went unanswered. Manolis looked across – Rex’s eyes were closed, lapsed into unconsciousness. Manolis shook Rex’s shoulder, returning his mind to his body, and repeated his query.

Another protracted pause filled the windswept cabin. Rex’s breathing was laboured, shallow. When he finally responded, it was with eyes closed, in a barely audible whisper through bloodied lips and shattered teeth.

‘Con… bastard…’

Manolis pressed his foot down harder.

‘Rexy? Mate, you okay?’

Rex became unresponsive, his breaths now depthless, lips turning blue.

Manolis locked eyes on the road. And drove.

Chapter 40

Chapter 40

HITTING A RECEPTION hotspot near town, Manolis’s phone buzzed to life with multiple messages. He didn’t stop to check but knew who they’d be from.

The hospital appeared like a billabong in the dry, perilous outback. Manolis left skid marks in the emergency bay, showed his badge. Two teenage paramedics appeared, stubbed out their smokes, hiked up their baggy trousers and stretchered Rex inside. Manolis bent forward, hands on knees, and exhaled a tight lungful of brown air. Rex’s injuries were extensive, his chances of survival slim, and even less behind the doors of Cobb Base Hospital.