Onions looked at him with cement-grey eyes. ‘The fire meant we had to evacuate the entire block. They’re crammed in like sardines now because someone decided it must have been a detainee.’

‘Lucky for you the hopper was only half full.’

‘Lucky for you, you mean,’ said Onions, voice thick. ‘It’s bushfire season.’

‘It’s always bushfire season ‘round here.’

‘You want the whole town to go up?’

Fyfe whacked the bonnet with a callused palm. ‘Jesus Christ, Frank. How many times have we come out here in recent memory cos one of your detainees decided to burn down this hellhole in protest?’

‘Those were different.’

‘My arse they were. It’s usually bins and mattresses. Then it’s makeshift weapons with whatever they can get their hands on, rocks and sticks and branches. The last time we came out here, Kerr copped a bottle in the head. She had concussion, was seeing double. You forget that?’

Onions let out a laugh. ‘Get your hand off it, Bill. This here tonight is clearly different and clearly an outside job. It’s the townsfolk getting revenge for what they think happened today.’

Fyfe gave his poker face. ‘What happened today? Dunno what you’re talkin’ about.’

‘Please. Everyone knows.’ A pause. ‘You hear that?’

They listened.

‘Hear what?’ Fyfe asked.

‘Listen. From inside.’

Another pause. ‘I hear nuthin’,’ Fyfe said.

‘Exactly. Silence. We’ve been out here an hour now, and there hasn’t been a peep from inside the centre. That’s cos the detainees are all scared to death after what happened last night.’

‘Why, what happened last night?’ Fyfe asked. ‘Nightmares, sleepwalking? More rapes by your goon guards in the women’s dunnies? Or was there just more bedwetting to avoid running the gauntlet to the loos?’

Onions waved a hand in dismissal. ‘Pah. That’s kindergarten compared to being effectively decapitated with rocks.’

‘Mate, if this ’ere fire was an outside job done by someone in the town, then what happened last night to that poor woman was a bloody inside job done by someone from the centre.’

The low rumble of a diesel engine announced the arrival of the Rural Fire Service: a single truck with two overworked volunteers from the nearest town. The firies were father and son, shared their first and last names. On this particular night, their role was limited to dousing a smouldering black wreck with a low-pressure hose. Brilliant sparks and orange-yellow embers floated gently overhead, coating the crowd in a glowing red dust.

Onions looked across at Fyfe, met his gaze.

‘I’ve had enough. Expect a call from the city.’

Chapter 2

Chapter 2