‘This whole island used to be a hunting ground,’ he said, keeping as little distance as possible between them and the car in front. ‘Aborigines would paddle over from the mainland to collect shellfish and swan eggs. Now look at the state of it.’

‘No offence, Ray, but I really can’t talk about shellfish and swan eggs right now.’ Her belly full of farts had settled into a state of nausea.

‘All I’m saying is, with the amount of money these people piss away each year, you could practically cure world hunger.’

The fact that Abby and Ray (along with the rest of the town) depended on tourist money to survive seemed to have temporarily escaped him.

Finally, the traffic eased enough for them to get a run. ‘Look at this,’ Ray said, gesturing to the cars lining the street. ‘Sports car, sports car, Benz, sports car. That’s a Blackhawk, for Christ’s sake. Do you have any idea how much a Blackhawk—’

The car shook madly for a moment, then filled with a sudden metallic crunch. Ray, who had gently pressed the brake to let a kid with a BMX over the zebra crossing, clenched his fingers around the wheel and clenched his teeth even tighter.

Abby – who wasn’t wearing a seatbelt because it felt like a boa constrictor around her pregnant belly – lurched forward. She let out a noise, something like a desperate, frightened whimper, and then wrapped her hands around her stomach.

They’d just been rear-ended.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ Ray muttered, breathing heavily through a burst of adrenalin. His hands were trembling. ‘Are you alright?’

‘I’m fine,’ Abby said.

‘He could have hurt you. He could have hurt the baby.’

He turned to look at her. His eyes were distant, set behind a fog of quickly growing rage. He glanced into the rear-view mirror, then shifted around in his seat to look through the rear windscreen.

‘Fucking tourists,’ he spat.

The car behind was a Benz. There was superficial damage to the front of the car, but nothing a little trust-fund money wouldn’t fix. The driver appeared to be in his early twenties, a sprinkling of peach fuzz on his chin. He leaned forward over the wheel, surveyed the damage, then turned to his girlfriend in the passenger seat and mouthed the word, oops.

‘He could have hurt you,’ Ray said again.

‘I’m okay, Ray.’

‘He would have hurt the baby.’

‘Ray, take a breath, don’t do anything—’

But it was too late. He had already stepped out of the Datsun, hands balled into fists, red-faced, head thrown forward. He left the driver’s-side door wide open and marched over to the Benz. The driver stepped out, a half-smile on his face, and Abby felt a wave of unease. With growing tension, she swivelled in her seat to watch.