‘It doesn’t matter where you came from,’ breathed Sparrow. ‘You’re all bloody invaders. Nobody asked us what we blackfellas thought when you all started turnin’ up.’

‘Why, what would you have said?’

Sparrow smiled broadly. ‘Fuck off, we’re full.’

A man appeared on the road ahead, limping, crossing the burning asphalt in bare feet. Recognising the approaching car, he lingered in the middle of the street, and Sparrow slowed down. The man had a broad nose and a goatee and was wearing a fraying T-shirt, drainpipe jeans and a black baseball cap turned backwards. He leant down to Sparrow’s open window and bumped fists. A short volley of mumbled exchanges followed in a language Manolis didn’t understand. He traded glances with the man, who appeared to be in his late teens or early twenties. They laughed. Manolis knew he was the topic of conversation. A second fist bump ended the discussion.

‘Who was that?’ asked Manolis.

‘No one. Just a mate.’

‘Just a mate saying hi, eh.’

‘Yair.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Eddie.’

‘Eddie who?’

‘Eddie Rogers.’

‘Thought you said all your people considered you a sellout?’

‘Guess I lied. Some don’t.’

‘And what’s that you were speaking?’

‘What, the language?’

‘Yes.’

‘Australian. I’m like you, mate, English is my second language.’

The sedan took the corner at speed. The black outline of a roo skipping along the hot asphalt appeared in the middle of the windscreen. The Ford accelerated. Manolis assumed Sparrow was trying to shoo the animal away, or backed the kangaroo to be agile enough to escape. But he wasn’t, and nor was the roo. It zigzagged down the centre of the road but lost ground with every desperate stride. Sparrow had the roo in his crosshairs and a grin on his face. It grew ever larger in the windscreen and was just about to disappear beneath the bonnet when Manolis cried, ‘Hey!’ and reefed on the steering wheel. The car veered left, the roo shot right. Sparrow planted his foot, smashed the brakes, slamming sideways into the gutter. It took a few seconds before the car came to a skidding stop beneath the shade of a drooping birch.

‘What the hell?’ Sparrow shouted. ‘What was that for?’

With the sting of burning rubber in his nostrils, Manolis looked up. In the near distance, the roo was frantically skipping away.

‘You wanna kill us or something?’ Sparrow went on. In the background, the engine idled with a harsh vibration.

‘No,’ Manolis finally said. ‘But running down helpless animals is not okay.’

Sparrow’s breathing was stolid. ‘Helpless my arse. They’re pests. They rip up crops, tear down fences, attack locals and spread disease.’

Manolis paused. ‘I don’t remember them being so bad.’

‘Not when you lived here. Plague proportions now, mate.’

Manolis considered the empty road ahead, remembered the journey to town that morning. ‘I doubt that,’ he lied.