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Gary gave his ponytail a little tug to shift the elastic up firm at his head but didn't say anything.

The guy looked at Gary's samurai sword mounted on the wall. ‘Man, that sword! What a beauty. That's a
Pulp Fiction
sword. A
Kill Bill
fuckin' sword.' Ellis put on a voice. ‘Are you okay? No. I'm not okay. I'm very not okay. I'm fucked up.'

Gary crossed his big biceps over his tight pecs. ‘What kind of business?'

‘Aren't ya going to offer me a beer?'

‘I'm out.'

The guy blinked a couple of times trying to shake off the insult, but
still not taking any hints. ‘Oh. I shoulda bought something. I'm sorry. Been rushed off my feet. Lotta business to take care of.'

‘Look mate, I know we've met somewhere but I can't remember where and I don't want to be your friend, so, you wanna tell me what you want?'

He went empty. It was like he'd gone somewhere for a moment. When he came back there was a sparkle, like a little charge of electricity filling all of him. ‘I want your gun.'

‘My gun!'

‘See we got to remembering you bragging about having a revolver. I think it was some old revolver that a bikie asked you to mind.'

‘I haven't got it anymore.'

‘I just want to borrow it.'

‘Sorry man. I gave it back. You know, to all those bikie friends of mine.'

‘You never had a gun. You're a bullshit artist. You never had a gun.'

‘Yeah, right. Let me show you my gun to prove I'm telling the truth. Nyah nyah.'

‘You being mean to me, Gary?' He stood again. ‘I came here in friendship. With respect. To offer you a deal. And you're throwing it in my face.'

The guy was little, but not that little. He was skinny, but maybe it was all bone. He was working himself up. Gary said, ‘Now that's not what I meant, man. I just don't have a gun. What can I say?'

‘You're spitting in my face.' He started to come around the coffee table. ‘You're a fucking liar. You're lying to me.'

Gary stepped back against the kitchen bench, and grabbed up a steak knife from a dirty plate on the counter. ‘Enough now.'

The guy looked at the knife held out toward him like it was unjustified criticism. He looked at the mobile in his hand as if he might call someone to complain. ‘Oh man. This is uncalled for, Gary.'

He started to turn away, but suddenly slammed his mobile phone into Gary's forehead. It shattered, diodes clinging in a little trickle of blood. Gary wasn't hurt, but paused to blink it all back into focus. The guy was at the coffee table. He had the bong. He raised it like a club, spurting dirty water as he turned back. Gary raised the knife towards
the descending bong, but missed. The bong crashed into his shoulder, numbing his arm, and sending the steak knife to the floor. Gary tried to see the knife, which was a mistake because the guy kicked him in the balls, dropping him amongst the mobile phone bits and old bong water.

The guy kicked Gary in the shoulder. Gary was trying to hold his balls. Another kick glanced off his head. He had to save his head and he twisted around on the floor so his legs were all the guy could kick at which made him stop kicking.

He stood looking down trying to figure how he could get at Gary's head.

Gary rolled quickly and then crawled up under the coffee table. It was a big varnished slice of jarrah tree, put onto four legs. It was solid. Unbreachable.

The guy said, ‘You look like a big turtle there, Gary, hiding in your shell.' He heard the guy moving around.

Gary just needed to catch his breath. He needed to give himself some time for his balls to stop electrocuting him.

‘I wonder where Gary's hiding?'

There was a stab in his thigh. Gary gasped as his leg convulsed, banging his knee into the table. The guy had the steak knife. Gary tried to roll over a little but he was stuck under the table. He felt another stab, deep into his calf muscle.

‘Ahhhh. Enough man. I'm cut.' Gary reached his hand out to try to hold his leg. Stab, stab, stab. The guy stabbed quickly up his arm, like pecks from some bird.

‘Where's the gun, Gary?'

‘In the cupboard. The cupboard in the kitchen. And there's some bullets too.'

‘You insulted me, Gary.'

‘Sorry. I'm sorry.'

‘One in the bum.'

‘Ahhhh, orrr.' Gary tried to push himself further under the table, making it rise a little.

The guy stepped up onto the table, yelling, ‘Whoooa, ride 'em cowboy. Earthquake.'

Gary could feel blood dribbling out of his anus. He had some deep stabs. His shoulders were wedged under now so he couldn't move. Couldn't breathe, even though his face was now out the other side of the coffee table.

‘Gary! Here you are.' The guy crouched over Gary's head, squatting on the coffee table edge like an eagle looking down at its dinner.

‘Take the gun. It's yours. Take it. You've beaten me man. I lose. Just stop.'

‘Hey, you're crying aren't you?' He slowly reached down. Gary couldn't move. Couldn't do anything. His finger touched Gary's face. He dabbed at Gary's tears.

‘I need to go to a hospital.'

The guy shook his head. ‘Can't go there. Bad idea. Witnesses.'

‘I won't tell. I won't tell anyone, ever man. I won't tell. Please.' Gary was having trouble breathing. He could hear gasps and whimpers and all kinds of bad noises coming from himself. He was hyperventilating and knew this was a bad time to not be able to talk. But he couldn't think of any words.

The guy wasn't doing anything. Maybe he'd had enough. Maybe he was gone. Gary got his breathing a little slower and looked up at the demented bird guy crouched above him. He wasn't looking at Gary. He was smiling up at the wall at Gary's samurai sword.

Ned was out of the taxi looking over it towards the motor home.

Simon said, ‘Now that was definitely screaming. You think Ellis is okay?'

Ned had his hand resting on the door, still unsure. ‘You'll stay here and wait for us?'

‘You got it.'

Ned nodded, as he shook the knife until it came free of the plastic bag. He trotted heavily towards the motor home, in shorts and singlet, his thongs thwacking on the bitumen.

Simon started his engine, put it in gear and gunned it. He headed straight up, hitting a speed bump, but not slowing as he looked for a way off the main caravan road. Old caravans and the occasional motor home flicked past. The road started to turn. It kept turning into a big
loop until Simon was headed back the way he came, the only way in and out.

‘Shit.'

The taxi took the bend and he was on the way back now, the road looping behind the caravan where he'd left Ellis and Ned. He could see the main road up ahead. The taxi shuddered as he hit another speed bump.

Ellis came out from between some caravans twenty metres ahead.

Simon kept his foot on the accelerator.

Ellis extended his arm, a gun in his hand.

Simon thought about swerving, weaving, soaring. The gun. Ten metres, five.

Simon braked. The taxi skidded left a little but came to rest next to Ellis where the gun was aimed at Simon's head. Ellis went around the front of the car, keeping the gun pointed at Simon. He tried the passenger door but it was locked. He tapped the barrel on the glass, and Simon unlocked the passenger door. Ellis got in front with Simon. There were great gouts of blood splashed across Ellis's jeans and t-shirt.

Simon said, ‘Hi Ellis.'

Ned hurried up to the car.

Ellis said to Ned, ‘Get in fuckwit.' And then to Simon, ‘Plant it. Go.'

Ned scrambled into the back just as Simon drove. Smoke was coming from Gary's mobile home.

‘I said stay with Simon.'

‘We thought you was in trouble.'

‘Ned?' Ellis signalled for Ned to lean forward a little. When he did, Ellis cracked him on the side of the head with the pistol. It made a woody clunk.

‘Oww.'

Ellis pointed the gun at Simon's chest. ‘Where were you off to?'

‘Turning around, while Ned checked on you.'

Ellis looked at Simon and Simon looked back.

Ellis smiled a complicated smile. It started like an angry kind of smile, but then it got nasty deep down before it bubbled back out as happy. It was a smile that did a lot of twists and turns. ‘See Ned. When
you got brains, you can make anything sound like it's okay.'

Ellis looked out the window at a pink sky.

The sun was setting at the coast where there was probably a breeze. But not here.

‘No need to worry about me boys. Whoooa. Will you look at all this fucking blood.'

Simon looked over at Ellis's lap where the pistol rested, still pointing at Simon's stomach. He looked up to see Ellis looking at him, flicking looks from one eye to the other and back.

Ellis settled on the blue one and said, ‘You do anything like that again, I'll kill you.'

Grace had changed out of her dress into a skirt and cool blouse. She sat in the caravan looking at two plates of grilled lamb chops and overcooked vegetables. JJ wasn't there. Nor was his mobile phone.

The door opened and he stepped up, making the caravan tilt a moment.

‘Where have you been?'

‘Out. For a walk.'

‘JJ,' she said with a mixture of pleading and impatience.

‘I know. It's dark. No one saw me.' He looked down at the food. ‘This looks like a marriage doesn't it? Where have you been and dinner cold on the table. We still don't get to eat in the big house huh?'

Grace let it go. She took up her knife and fork and started eating, but looked to the table where his mobile wasn't. Finally, she said, ‘I'll try and get a job tomorrow. Lisa said there's lots of salons looking for people. It's a boom. People like to look nice.'

‘You think I like hanging here like a shag on a rock?'

‘Sitting.'

‘What?'

‘A shag doesn't hang. It sits or stands. Kind of alone and feeling stupid.'

JJ studied her in a way he'd got when he thought she was being
sarcastic but couldn't quite be sure. ‘Did you know what I meant?'

‘It doesn't hang?'

‘Sitting, hanging, doing headstands for all I fucking care. Did you know what I meant when I said it?'

Grace didn't answer. Didn't look up.

‘You think I like hiding in a caravan in your sister's backyard while you have to go back to hairdressing? You think I deserve all this after what I've been? Done?'

‘No, I don't, but...'

‘Well maybe I'm not going to hang around on the rock anymore. How about that?'

‘You called him, didn't you?'

‘Maybe I flew off the rock? Shags fly don't they? Is it all right if a shag flies?'

‘JJ, we decided.'

‘Maybe I changed my mind.' JJ thumped his left breast. ‘Maybe I'm back in charge.'

Grace was reading
What Darwin Meant.
She'd found a stack of old books in the shelves either side of the window in the front room of the boarding house overlooking the coast in the south of England. There was also
What Freud Really Said
and
The Great Ideas of the Great Minds.
Each idea was a chapter of about two pages which meant it was easy to read and think about. She wore a thick jumper and sipped her cup of tea as she looked out the window at the wonder of snow falling on the beach. Her hair was still red, but she'd lost some weight since the Four Seasons Hotel London through some sobriety and solitary walks along the stony shore. She thought she might be evolving, changing into something new and better. She hoped that maybe she might be in a kind of pupa stage, gathering her energies for when she would come out a butterfly.

JJ came in, talking before he arrived. ‘He's changed phones again.'

Grace didn't look at him, even when he tossed his mobile at a lounge chair in the corner and it bounced off and clattered under the table.

‘He's fucking dodging me.' JJ was in a tracksuit, rounder than ever. He waved a glass of scotch and coke and slurred his words. ‘He's out of jail
and he has to take care of business or I'll take care of him. Or he'll be right back in there.'

‘And.'

‘And what?'

Grace still didn't look up from her book. ‘And he'll be right back in there. You want to make him mad?'

‘Who's fucking mad here? Me. I'm mad. What we supposed to do?'

‘Let's go back to Australia. Move over East somewhere. Start again.'

‘How would we get back – swim?'

Grace put her book down, thinking this might be a good time.

JJ stared out at the snow, or possibly at his own reflection in the big window.

‘I could ask my sister. She'd lend us some money for plane tickets.'

And now here they were in a caravan outside her sister's house having the same conversation, déjà vu forever. éternité. Perpétuité?

JJ spoke through some half-chewed chop. ‘I can't ride. My name is shit. The only thing I'm any good for now is star witness for the cops.'

‘You didn't ring the police. JJ, you didn't ring the police.'

‘Don't be fucking stupid. Of course not. Fucking death sentence.'

‘Okay. But you were never going to be a jockey forever.'

JJ smiled, pushing away his plate. ‘That's exactly what I was thinking. New start. Become a horse trainer. Owner. Mr Foster is a businessman. He knows I need a little something in the swag. And he knows he's already invested in me. He understands that if he doesn't look after me...'

‘You didn't put it like that?'

‘Course I put it like that. So he understands.'

‘You didn't tell him where we are, did you?'