Manolis showered and dressed: shirt and trousers, no jacket or tie. He smoked his morning cigarette, calmly and methodically, down to his fingers, really made it count. He quaffed a mug of instant, avoiding the taste. Talked to himself, outlined his day, summoned his energy and willed his confidence.

Stepping onto the verandah, he walked headfirst into a wall of heat. The sun was barely up and already the air was starting to cook. The new light revealed the extent of the devastation, the wreck of the Val still smoking, the air acrid. It was hard to look at and made him queasy. He kicked around in the ashes in case there was something of value or interest. He found neither. Just charcoal and dust and bitter disappointment.

It was only as he walked to the office that he saw it, sitting in the gutter outside the Chinese laundry, shining like a beacon in the morning sun.

‘Why you glorious little fucker…’

An empty box of firelighters.

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

MANOLIS DROVE to the police station in Rex’s battered old pickup truck. It was unlicensed and unroadworthy. The gears crunched, the brakes felt spongy from lack of use, and none of the dashboard instruments worked. The cabin promptly filled with exhaust fumes – just as well there was no windscreen. The truck also emitted a strange, unnerving sound from under the chassis every time Manolis touched the brakes, like a copper pipe being rolled along a concrete floor.

On the drive to town, he must’ve counted a hundred kangaroos. Most of them stood by the roadside staring, others in the middle of the road, unflinching. He pressed the horn but it wasn’t working and emitted a dull whirr that only seemed to attract more roos the closer he got to town. It was an eerie feeling, zigzagging through such a large colony of ruggedly built roos.

When he wasn’t dodging wildlife, Manolis ruminated on the crumpled box of firelighters on the seat beside him. His fingers tensed on the steering wheel.

With the exception of a few more sombre-looking roos, Cobb’s main street was just as deserted as it had been the previous day. Shops remained closed, including the takeaway, which Manolis had hoped would be serving big country breakfasts. Ordinary business hours, it appeared, meant nothing in Cobb. That certainly wasn’t how Manolis remembered it; he remembered decorated shopfronts, crowded pavements, and his diligent father opening the milk bar at seven o’clock every morning without fail. Customers were arriving five minutes later.

Manolis pulled up at the station with dirt in his eyes and flies in his nostrils. Sparrow heard the loud backfiring outside, emerged. He flashed a pearly smile.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Now that car is a great cover.’