‘Maybe it’s the uniform,’ he said, looking down at his embarrassingly red underpants.

‘Nah,’ said Rex. ‘You could just as well be wearing the Queen’s jewels. Even if they saw something, they’d still say bugger-all.’

‘Why’s that?’

He shrugged. ‘People are more scared now than ever. Can’t blame ’em, really. There’s a killer out there.’

‘What about you? You scared?’

Rex laughed. ‘Me? Nah, mate. The Lord could take me now and I wouldn’t give a toss. I’ve lived, loved, lost. Not much more left to do. Drink?’

At a safe distance from the flames, the men sat on two stolen milk crates. Alternating swigs from Rex’s hipflask, they watched the Australian sedan reduce to ash. As it reached the rear of the vehicle, the fire made the fuel tank go up with a flash and a woof. Manolis talked about his history with the car, and with the model. How it was the first new car his father had bought in the city. It was the car in which Con had taught Manolis to drive after much frustration and argument. Manolis would later steal the keys and cruise the streets with his dropkick mates, trying to intimidate local boys and impress local girls. Rex listened attentively, his face tiger-striped by the flickering flames. Patrick had once done the same, he said. Pestered his dad to teach him how to drive, then run off with the keys.

Rex understood the significance of the moment – a man was witnessing part of himself die. Both men smiled nostalgically, drank.

Finally, Rex asked, ‘So, no chance it was a mechanical fault?’

The thought had crossed Manolis’s mind. There was clearly a firebug at large in town, perhaps linked to the stoning of Molly Abbott. At the same time, the Val’s eight-cylinder engine, with its spaghetti mess of hoses, was a recipe for disaster. The car’s wiring was so complex that it came with its own consciousness. A pinhole in any one of the fuel injection lines was all that was needed for Carmageddon. There was also the accumulation of heat after driving so far through such temperatures, along with that strange rattling sound he’d heard from beneath the bonnet. A fault was certainly possible; he was no professional mechanic. But probable…?

Just as the wreck began to smoulder, the local police finally arrived: a single car with no siren or flashing lights. Rex had called them when he heard the first explosions.

‘If this had been the brown house, they’d have come in a flash,’ he grumbled.