In the middle of the park, a broken old bike and rusted shopping trolley lay on their sides in an empty, above-ground pool with a collapsed wall. At the picnic area, a dilapidated brick barbecue was overrun with stinging fire ants. Behind the cabins, a crumbling boardwalk offered panoramic views of the detention centre to the north. The long grey buildings sat like lumps of featureless plasticine behind high-wire fencing, their walls coated in dull paint, their windows small and prison-like.

Inspired by the town’s history, the tourist park’s cabins were from the Wild West. The men walked past the general store, the chemist, pub, bakery, bank and saddlery. The barber shop had a pole with a helix of red and white stripes. There was a hand-operated iron-frame mangle outside the Chinese laundry. Manolis touched it, felt its latent heat, accumulated during the day, and smudged the gritty oxide residue on his fingers.

Sparrow made a clinking sound at each step, like he was wearing spurs, striding down Main Street, looking for trouble and a draw. He had bottle caps in his pockets.

Rex spoke a little about each cabin, its history, and the longterm residents who lived in the adjoining caravan park. They were a combination of retired pensioners and leathered bikies.

‘Right then, Kojak, here’s your cabin,’ Rex said.

Manolis looked up. ‘Of course.’

The large five-pointed star and faux WANTED poster indicated they’d arrived at the sheriff’s office. A knee-high garden statue of bushranger Ned Kelly stood beside the entrance, tin shotgun extended. Rex unlocked the sliding glass door, wiggled it to make it glide properly, and showed them inside. The cabin was a main room with kitchenette, bar fridge and formica table, a bedroom with metal-frame bed and polyester quilt, and a small ensuite with cracked vanity mirror. The quilt cover was pockmarked with the signatures of forgotten cigarettes. The air hung thick and heavy.

‘I’ll turn on your gas and electricity now,’ said Rex. ‘And we’ve stocked your fridge and cupboards with the staples. Any questions, give us a hoy.’

‘I will,’ said Manolis. ‘And thanks again.’

They shook hands. Sparrow hung back on the verandah as Rex disappeared up the road. Manolis watched him, leaning against the doorframe.

‘So now you know what you’re up against,’ said Sparrow.

‘What we’re up against,’ said Manolis.

‘Bloody loonies. Why is it you reckon all whitefellas think they’re under siege?’

Manolis exhaled. ‘Probably because they are,’ he said in a defeated tone. ‘Always have been. I reckon it’s got to do with the brutality they faced trying to tame a wild land. They arrived from lovely green England, with most of them dragged here in chains.’