With no more crackers to eat, the possum turned its attention to Manolis’s revolver, which he’d absently left on the counter. Its sharp claws were surprisingly nimble across the grip, flirting with the trigger. With a swift clap of his hands, Manolis put an end to the possum’s inquisitiveness and reclaimed the weapon. The marsupial sniffed the air a final time and ran out the nearest window. Manolis sighed, switched off the light and lay back in bed.

A second disturbance, much louder than the first, woke him some time later. It was in the near distance – a series of loud bangs. Out of habit, his instant thought was of an illicit drug lab exploding. There was one every week in the city, usually methamphetamines, often a single big explosion that shook the immediate area, not several that echoed into the night. These bangs sounded more like kids letting off fireworks, or a car backfiring.

Manolis sat silent for a moment, listening, in case there were any more. There weren’t. He exhaled, lay back into his pillow and rolled over.

The third disruption was more like the first: closer to home. Manolis’s initial reaction was to wipe the dry drool from the side of his mouth and regret not closing the window. Bloody housemate, he thought. Raiding the cupboard again.

Then he heard it. Not just a bang. An explosion.

The bed shook.

And the unmistakable smell of smoke filled the air.

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

MANOLIS’S IMMEDIATE THOUGHT was the immigration detention centre. Another arson attempt, another revenge attack. But then he realised the sound of the flames crackling was too loud, and the smell of smoke couldn’t have travelled that quickly across such a distance.

The fire was close.

‘Gamoto…’

This time, he needed no light switch to see. A harsh glare eddied through the outline of the door, illuminating the room. Manolis felt the heat, considered his escape route. There was only one door, glowing hot-plate red. And the windows were built for possums, not people.

He snatched his gun and the first piece of clothing he could find, a shirt. Folding it tight across his hand, he reached tentatively for the doorhandle. The surging heat penetrated the cloth and seared a doubt in Manolis’s brain. What if there really was no escape? The wooden cabin was essentially a hollow box of kindling. A city coroner had once told him that being burnt alive was the most painful way to die. The process took several minutes and involved damage to millions of individual nerve endings. Manolis gave a fleeting thought to his furry flatmate and hoped that he – or she – was safe.