Free Gunshot Road by Adrian Hyland

over the assembly. The other was Wireless. The bastards hadn’t even given him bail, shipping him off to the remand centre in Alice Springs after the most perfunctory of hearings.
    We seemed to be waiting for something. I stood at the back of the crowd, let my mind wander. Found myself contemplating the scenic wonders of the Rabble from the rear. Aside from your everyday sweat and diesel stains, there were the acid splashes and gelignite flashes of their trade, starbursts of crushed quartz and red ochre, smatters of ash and axle grease, goat shit and goulash from the roadhouse kitchen.
    Staring at the play of light on their patched and baggy clothes was like staring into lino on the toilet floor. Images emerged; among them a wobbly map of Antarctica, a galloping dog and, across Pissy Wilson’s broad arse, a Pieta. I was pondering what you’d get for that on eBay—apart from an intervention order—when I noticed that June Redman, the publican’s wife from Green Swamp, had put in an appearance. Her charming other two-thirds was nowhere in evidence. From what I’d seen of him Noel Redman would probably be billing Doc’s estate for her lost wages. She spotted me, nodded a greeting.
    She was wearing heavy sunglasses, but the corners of her mouth suggested strain. Couldn’t blame her: I’d be strained if I was married to that.
    Father Dal Santo was holding an umbrella over his head in a hopeless attempt to ward off the sun. He was looking particularly shrivelled today. God save us, I thought, even the imports are getting on. He must have been round here for twenty years. I wondered idly if there were more where he came from. Perhaps young Filipinos were beginning to see the dark.
    Two cars arrived a little after the others, pulled in behind my own. The first was a rugged white Holden Rodeo, from which two young men emerged.
    Probably eighteen, twenty years old, both lean, physically poised, slightly ill-at-ease at finding themselves in this geriatric assembly. They were fitted out in the ubiquitous moleskins and riding boots of their caste. The main distinction between them was that one RM Williams shirt was a slightly darker blue than the other.
    The second vehicle was a green Range Rover, the driver a solidly built older man in a suit, of all things. A black suit, the only one in sight. Even the undertakers hadn’t gone that far.
    He climbed out, stretched his back, walked across to join the boys—obviously his sons. He was clean shaven and dark eyed. Big hands, hairy knuckles; a gait somehow suggestive of a man accustomed to keeping a level head on rough terrain.
    The other occupants of the Rover effected a more chaotic exit. A languid woman in a dark blue dress wafted from the passenger seat, opened the back door in a manner that bespoke a need to conserve energy. The reason for that shortly became obvious: two flashes of blue and gold burst forth, tumbled over and picked themselves up. Honey-haired girls of seven or eight, twins.
    They darted around the other side of the car and scrambled back in; emerged moments later, vaguely pursued by a longsuffering older girl with a thin, pale face, dark hair and a sombre dress. The twins completed a circumnavigation of the car, stuttered to a halt when they ran into their mother, doubled back and disappeared into the rear door.
    The father, anticipating their next move, went round to the driver’s side and swept them into his arms as they leapt out. His family fell into an easy formation around him, and they headed in for the service together.
    They’d all done this before.
    â€˜Mate, it’s a bloody fun for all,’ muttered Jack, wryly amused by the performance. As they joined the crowd I got a closer look at the little girls. The nearest craned her neck, grinned and slipped me a wink.
    It was the wink that slotted them for me. The photo on Doc’s bedside dresser.
    I touched Jack’s sleeve. ‘Who are