Free Time's Long Ruin by Stephen Orr

standing at her front gate, crying. A man in a linen suit stood in front of her, waving a piece of paper in the air. His body moved closer to her as he raised his voice and used his finger to stab repeatedly at the air, occasionally poking Rosa’s shoulder and causing her to step back.
    â€˜Hey,’ Dad yelled, in his best copper’s voice.
    Rosa and the man in the linen suit turned to look at him. Dad shot across the road, straight into the path of a mud-splattered Austin that had to swerve to avoid him. I followed a few steps behind, looking across to our house to see if Mum had noticed.
    â€˜Detective Constable Bob Page,’ Dad began, presenting his charge card.
    The man in the linen suit refocussed his attention on my father. ‘Good,’ he said, attempting to smooth down his cropped hair. ‘Have a look at this.’ He led Dad over to his car, a near-new black Rover, perfectly maintained except for a large dent in the front fender. ‘That’s what her lot did,’ he explained, pointing to the dent.
    â€˜Who?’ Dad asked.
    â€˜Her lot, all those bloody dagos, parked from one end of Croydon to the other. I had my car out on the street. Next morning when I got up to go to work . . .’
    He presented the quote for repairs to my father. ‘Who does she think’s gonna pay, me?’
    Dad handed it back. ‘Yes.’
    â€˜No bloody fear.’ The man stepped towards Rosa and handed her the quote. She raised her hands and started waving them about.
    â€˜Come on,’ the man said, getting angrier.
    Rosa looked at Dad. ‘Please, Mister Page . . .’
    Dad tried to reason with him. ‘That’s enough.’
    Rosa took a small step back and the man closed the gap between them. He opened her apron pocket and forced the quote inside. Dad stepped between them. He took the quote from her pocket and said, ‘You go in, Rosa.’
    Rosa squeezed his hand in both of hers, turned and walked up towards her house, past the healing tree.
    Healing. The breath and smell of Alex Pedavoli venting from each pore. As Rosa took a deep breath she sensed him everywhere around her, blowing in her front window, resting on ledges, trapped in flywire and lemon-scented clothes hanging on the line. She could still hear him, or not hear him, as she stared out to sea, waiting for her two boys to surface. Con appeared, waving to her, as she cupped her hands: ‘Where is he?’ He couldn’t hear her. He looked around and then dived, and then came up for air. Again and again, for a full half-hour. He fought the current trying to drag him out to sea and eventually returned to shore. As he came up the beach Rosa’s legs collapsed beneath her, her body crumpling into a ball. He knelt down and held her. Then ran back into the water, checking his watch to see how long it had been. In and out of the ocean for an hour. The times written on the blackboard in his gatehouse.
    And when Dad had explained this to the man in the linen suit, the man closed his lips, lifted his eyebrows and breathed deeply through his nose. As if he was trying to help find Alex – to find a healing, a resolution, a setting-to-rights more tangible than a thirty pound quote.
    He got in his car and drove off.
    I looked at Dad, and smiled, but there was nothing to say.

Chapter Three
    It was a steamy morning. Black and purple clouds massed high above the Southern Ocean, promising a storm that never seemed to arrive. Thunder rolled across the city, shaking kegs in the basement of pubs and drops of water from the tips of magnolia leaves. Lightning struck at the ocean and then retreated, waiting, marking time like a live wire in a meter box. A confetti of light, warm rain fell and quickly evaporated from concrete driveways and slippery roads; it pock-marked sand at Semaphore beach and sent mums and kids, swimming in their undies, running for the cover of the jetty. On the plains it wet dead grass and