‘When this place wears you down,’ he added, ‘and it will, come visit.’

Kerr scanned his face for sincerity. He tried to make his eyes clear, calm, his forehead released of tension.

‘Same for the city,’ she replied, ‘and you.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not finished here yet.’

THE DETENTION CENTRE was quiet; business as usual. Manolis summoned Onions from the front gate. He was again forced to sit and wait, watched like a bug under a magnifying glass by a trio of sunburnt guards who whispered and sneered. Deacon had a fresh black eye and mocked Manolis with his cut-down knife, holding it up and dangling it back and forth. The guards all had a good, hearty laugh. Manolis pitied them. These men were drunks, addicts, gamblers, perverts. They emerged from the fringes and ghettos, the slums and shadowlands. They’d been raised by television and befriended by Catholic priests. They spent hours in prison yards and before parole boards. And yet these were the same men who were now judging him. Manolis wanted to pulverise them with bare and bloodied fists, to string them up by their red and blue intestines.

He knew that Ahmed Omari’s memory would haunt him like those of so many others he’d been unable to save. They all became ghosts who hovered above his bed when he slept, who crawled into his ear and appeared in his dreams, his nightmares. He was often trying to save them there too, his conscience conspiring to somehow place them in further jeopardy. And when he failed them a second time, he woke breathless and gasping for air.

Onions arrived, black leather shoes polished to within an inch. He apologised for missing Molly’s funeral, explained that he’d had other important business to attend to.

‘It was unfortunate timing,’ he said.

Manolis approached the facility manager, stood in his personal space, their chests threatening to touch. The sum total of his message was three words, delivered with quiet and clinical precision.

‘Expect an investigation.’

Onions stared back coldly and breathed hot air from his nostrils.

MANOLIS RETURNED TO his car, reached into his pocket, and retrieved his tobacco and papers. He eyed them a moment, then screwed them into a tight ball and hurled them onto the floor.

Reaching into his other pocket, he found his phone. One bar of reception. It was enough.

‘Hello? Hello, Em…? Hi. Sorry it’s been a few weeks, and thanks for answering.’

They spoke a while. When Manolis finally hung up, he’d organised a weekend playdate at a suburban park, and had soft tears in his eyes.