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is a tap on his window. Reluctantly he rolls down the glass.
    ‘Everything okay?’ The beam of a flashlight dances inside the ute.
    Martin nods, unwilling to trust his voice. He glances nervously at the glove compartment. For years he has been careless in keeping the revolver there.
    ‘Sure?’
    ‘Yes,’ he whispers.
    The stranger looks at him with obvious scepticism. ‘I’m an off-duty policeman.’
    ‘I…I just lost control,’ Martin explains clumsily. ‘Thanks for stopping.’
    ‘I thought those blokes in the car parked in front of you were being a nuisance,’ the policeman persists. ‘You didn’t get their registration number by any chance?’
    ‘No. It’s my fault. I nearly ran into them. A mild case of vehicle aggressivity.’ Martin laughs nervously. ‘Isn’t that the term? I’m fine.’
    The policeman switches off the flashlight. ‘Take care.’ He heads back to his car and pulls out from behind the ute.
    Apprehensively Martin turns the ignition key. The ute coughs into life. There is a heavy noise in his ears. Fear is the most exhausting of all emotions, he concludes. A life-long adversary that people are compelled to shelter inside themselves.
    He drives slowly and slides onto a grassy strip off the road. The ground is dry. The beginning of winter has not broughtany rain yet. The streetlights give him the confidence to get out of the ute. He sits on the grass, wishing for a cigarette. It is a longing for an abandoned habit. He can hear the crickets. A car pulls out of a driveway on the opposite side of the road.
    Martin leans back on the palm of his hand and looks up. The night is like a gigantic umbrella that has opened slowly into an arc of darkness. He grabs a handful of dust. There were strange words that Colin would sometimes quote when they went on patrol. Something about fear in a fistful of dust. Martin lets the earth trickle down between his fingers. It all makes sense to him now.

TWO
    The compulsion to eat in large quantities is often indicative of stress, the doctor keeps telling Martin. It suggests lack of harmony between the body and the inner self. Bruce Campbell is a new-age medico, keen on prevention rather than cure. He is an advocate of herbal therapy, open-minded about the merits of naturopathy, reluctant to prescribe antibiotics too readily, enthusiastic about meditation and interested in Oriental philosophy.
    Martin pops an antacid tablet in his mouth. On the way back home, he had stopped to gorge himself mindlessly on a hamburger, a bucket of chips and a quarter of barbecued chicken, washed down with a couple of beers. He topped off the meal with a double scoop of vanilla ice cream in a chocolate-coated cone. He imagines Bruce admonishing him in his mild-mannered way with another lecture on weight control. More rice and vegetables, fruits and bread. Fish, at least twice a week. Fewer takeaways and no more than two standard drinks of alcohol per day. All this information is, ofcourse, laced with details about the damage that can be caused by trans-fatty acid, the necessity of avoiding hydrogenated oil and the benefits of HDL, the good cholesterol.
    Martin feels bloated but unrepentant about the ‘overindulgence’—in his mind, an acceptable euphemism for gluttony. So he occasionally shortens his life by a few hours perhaps. Mortality on the fast track. He should never have taken his son’s advice and changed doctors. Old Doctor Richardson had the right ideas. Plenty of pills and few restrictions on eating and drinking. Martin chews another tablet, pleased about the absence of guilt. After all, he had merely rewarded himself for what had been an exceptionally difficult day.
    HE HAD SPENT THE morning in the house in a state of heightened nervousness, mumbling what he might say to Melanie Charles. And even before the road rage incident, the afternoon had not passed without incidents. On his way to see the tutor, the ute had stalled twice. Then Martin was delayed by the lift