CHAPTER 21

Richard stopped whatever she'd been saying. Her mouth frozen midword as fork drove his

damaged car into the pub car park. She was talking to Scott Whitlam on the pavement

as lucky played around her feet. In his mirror, Ford could see them staring as he parked.

Buggah. He said under his breath. There's only a few hundred metres from the police station

to the pub, but it had felt like a long journey through the centre of town. He got out of

the car. The silver scraping in the paint winking at him as he slammed the door.

Oh my God, when did that happen? Gretchen ran up with Locky in tow. The little boy waved

at Ford before turning his wide-eyed attention to the car. He reached out a stubby finger

to trace the carve letters, and to Ford's horror began sanding out the first word before

Gretchen hastily pulled him away. She sent him to play on the other side of the car park,

and he reluctantly sloped off to poke things down a drain.

Who's done this? She said turning back.

I don't know, Ford said. Whitlam gave a low sympathetic whistle as he walked slowly

around the car. Someone really went to town. What'd they use? Knife or screwdriver or something?

Yeah, I really don't know. Bunch of bastards, Whitlam said. This place is worse here than

in the city sometimes. Yeah, okay. Gretchen touched Ford's elbow.

Yeah, Ford said. Better than the car at any rate. He felt a stab of anger. He'd had that

car for more than six years. Nothing flashed, but it had never caused him any trouble.

Didn't deserve to be wrecked by some country moron.

We will skin you. Ford turned to Whitlam. It's about something from the past. This girl

we were friends with. It's okay, Whitlam gave a nod. I've heard the story.

...