MANOLIS CLUTCHED AT his ribs, winced in pain. It especially hurt to climb stairs, which left him short of breath. But as the hospital lift was still stuck between floors, he had no choice.

With the local community keen for closure, Molly’s funeral had been planned for some time and able to happen swiftly. The church ceremony was sparsely attended; word had spread of what had happened. Principal Ian Searle delivered a short eulogy in the echoing nave of Saint Matthew’s, repeating almost verbatim his witness testimony to police. The pine coffin was painted a bright sunshiny yellow. Manolis was a pallbearer along with Searle and two detention centre guards, their imposing bulk finally put to good use. Onions didn’t attend, which Manolis noted. Joe Shrewsbury sat in the last pew and took regular swigs from a paper bag bottle of whisky.

Molly was buried in the family plot in the adjoining cemetery, next to her parents Graham, the war hero and alderman, and Edith, the housewife. It was less than a hundred metres from where her life had ended ten days prior. There were no roses – Molly hated those. Wearing a corn-yellow tie loaned to him, Lee Francis Cook tossed a red gerbera into the grave instead. The guards shovelled dirt on top, tiny rocks raining down on the coffin like hailstones.

Pushing through the heavy double doors, Manolis entered the intensive care unit. It looked more like an ordinary ward, such was the level of understaffing and lack of resources. Jaundiced yellow light pooled across the linoleum floor. Machines beeped mournfully, as if needing their own beeping machines. He’d tried to visit earlier but had not been allowed by staff due to the extent of the injuries.

He found a nurse, asked politely. She had a surgical mask around her neck held in place with rubber bands and wore smudged red lipstick. Coughing, she consulted the various scraps of paper in her pocket, and then pointed to a blue curtain hanging in the furthest corner.

Clutching the curtain’s rumpled edge, Manolis braced himself for what was on the other side. He flung it open with a single, decisive motion.

The constable lay in traction, swollen eyes closed tight. Sparrow breathed steadily, chest barely moving. A slow digital beeping echoed from a nearby machine. His neck was fixed in a medieval brace.

Manolis stood beside the bed, folded his hands respectfully in front of his waist, and exhaled heavily. He looked down on Sparrow like a loving parent would a sick child. Feeling a presence, the young Aboriginal man stirred, flicked his eyes open. A slow but reassuring smile crawled across his blue lips.

‘Serves you right for jumping from moving vehicles, Constable Smith,’ Manolis said.

‘Yair,’ Sparrow croaked. ‘But they were driving like bloody loonies. I felt safer taking my chances with the road instead of a tree or roo.’