This wasn’t good, at all. Our odyssey had been predicated on one destination, one latitude and longitude, one cross on the map: the reef. Now, it seemed, he wasn’t so sure.

‘Whatever you do, don’t tell Ernie.’

Who was still at the bar, drinking, saying loudly, ‘You lot were sold down the river.’ Six or seven men were listening, others quietening, interested.

‘He’s more convinced than me,’ Pop said.

‘But you always reckoned you knew,’ I said.

‘I do!’ He studied the words. ‘But you’d be stupid to come all this way without a plan B.’

Ernie was getting louder. ‘Marx made it clear: profit comes from unpaid labour. Your mob let them bastards get away with it for far too long.’ As he emptied another schooner. ‘Now it’s cheaper to close the sheds, send the work away, somewhere cheaper.’

Cries of Rubbish, You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Who the hell are you, anyway?

‘So we just keep going?’ I asked Pop.

‘Exactly. I thought I might mention it, just in case.’

‘In case?’

‘You know, I’m wrong.’

Ernie said, ‘You lot deserve what you get.’

Now there were thirty or so, jeering, a few at the front pushing and shoving, the publican telling them to settle down.

‘The value or price of the labouring power takes the semblance …’

Then it was on: Ern disappearing into a scrum, feet, arms and fists flying around the front bar, the publican clearing the crowd, saying, ‘Go on, out of it, the lot of yers.’

We reclaimed Ern and left. He hadn’t been too badly injured. A small cut on his cheek and a few bruises that ripened on our walk back to the motel.

Pop said, ‘What were you thinking?’

‘Buncha idiots. Not the slightest clue.’

None of us knew what he meant. No one cared. But, to Ernie, it was his best speech yet. What he’d been missing, as Ida told him to stop cutting his toenails on the carpet.

At eleven, we were all settled. Pop and Ernie were snoring. Peter lay on his bed, thinking, and said, ‘Now he’s starting to doubt.’

There were long gaps. As the trains rolled past; as a couple argued and threw bottles next door.

‘He’s scared of what we might find,’ I said. ‘Cos we’re getting closer. Like, for the first time, he’ll actually know.’

Silence.

‘Perhaps he already does,’ Peter said.

September

Port Augusta hadn’t woken when we pulled out of town. ‘Fella tellin’ me about the ghost truck,’ Pop said, sitting in the passenger seat as I drove.

‘What’s that?’ Peter asked.

‘Said be careful if yer out at night. No driver. Up and down the highway, twenty-four hours a day.’