‘Too hot for mozzies, mate,’ Sparrow said. ‘There’s nuthin’ to ’em. In this heat, they’d go up like lit matches.’

There was a long pause, insects chirping. ‘So what now?’ Manolis finally asked.

Sparrow retrieved a cigarette, made it glow. ‘Shower, sleep. We’ll regroup in the morning.’

Manolis checked his watch. ‘What time?’

‘Nine. Come by the station.’

‘Want a lift back?’

‘Nah, I’ll walk.’

‘All that way?’

‘Yair. Clears my head. My people have walked much longer distances over many thousands of years. And besides, it’s a nice evening.’

Manolis looked to the sky, the twinkling galaxy. ‘Certainly is. I haven’t seen this many stars in a long time.’

‘Not since you were a kid, eh.’

‘Well, no. I mean yeah, probably. What I’m trying to say is that this is just a regular night for you, right?’

Sparrow didn’t respond. He stepped from the verandah, landed on the dirt without a sound. Bending down, he removed his shoes and socks and let the earth’s warmth seep into the soles of his broad feet. He stretched his arms out wide, as if striking a Christ pose. For a moment, Manolis expected him to ascend into the night sky.

‘Catch ya tomorrow,’ Sparrow said without looking back.

‘See you.’

Manolis watched as the young constable dissolved into the distance like a tracker following prey.

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

MANOLIS CHECKED HIS phone; it had reception again, albeit a single bar. Who could he call, who should he call? His wife? His mum? Paul Bloody Porter…?

At that moment, the thought of more conversation tired him. What few close friends he once had had drifted, left the high-rises, been absorbed into a new world of their own families and children and sprawling suburban life. Manolis had hoped to join them, out there amid the glorious madness of overgrown backyards, broken lawnmowers and sticky play equipment. Instead, he now felt more like a bachelor than ever before.

He re-pocketed the phone. Reaching into his other pocket, he extracted a stout pouch of rich tobacco and delicate envelope of wafer-thin papers.

Taking his time, savouring the ritual, he prepared his nightly cigarette. He arranged the golden tobacco meticulously, rolled the paper methodically. He was trying to cut down and ultimately give up. It was a habit inherited from his father, who had smoked for decades until his lungs and liver turned into ash and soot. Manolis inhaled deeply, felt the coolness crawl through his veins. Silver smoke rose and climbed over his shoulder, a distinct nebula forming above his head.

‘Signomi, Baba. Mono ena.’