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that sorta talk here.’
    â€˜In this reshpecable eshtablissment,’ said Hose, whose tongue wasn’t quite up to the ambition of his brain, modest though it was.
    â€˜How would anyone know, anyway?’ asked Chook. ‘Don’t they wear a dirty great muzzle over their faces?’
    â€˜It’s called a burqa,’ said Baz. ‘And not all women wear them. Hardly any from Afghanistan, actually. Mostly they come here to get away from that sort of thing.’
    â€˜So she’s a bit of alright, is she?’
    Baz shrugged. ‘Yeah, she’s pretty. I wouldn’t like to cross her boyfriend, though; a somewhat scary son-of-a-gun, he is.’
    â€˜Did he escape too?’ asked Chook.
    â€˜Yeah.’
    â€˜I’d better keep me hands to meself, then, if I find her in me bed.’
    â€˜Might be a good idea, you old stud.’
    Chook showed us his dirty teeth, picked up his drink and headed back to the pool table, where one of his mates, Ritten, had just racked the balls and was lining up a break.
    â€˜As far as I’m concerned they’re welcome ta each uvver,’ said Hose. ‘I only wish they’d go fuck ’emselves somewhere else.’
    Two men babysitting their beers in the corner caught my eye. They were turned slightly away from each other so that between them they had a good view of the room, and they were surveying it with the subtlety of searchlights in a concentration camp. The older of the two sat upright and wore a grey haircut and a moustache as neatly trimmed as a retiree’s lawn. He was handsome in a jaded sort of way and could have been military or ex-military or even ex-Hollywood. The younger one slouched and had longer hair by half an inch. He had a thin, juvenile moustache, the kind that teenagers sometimes wear to prove they’ve reached puberty. He seemed to be studying me, so I studied him back.
    Rabbit had come over and was ordering a beer for himself and a Coke for his wife. He had black hair and mid-brown skin, and quiet eyes that watched the world with practised wariness. He wore a pale-blue t-shirt and a pair of shorts that were pulled up just a little too high.
    â€˜What’s up, Westie?’ he asked.
    â€˜Not much, Rabbit. What’s up with you? Haven’t seen you for a while. How’s the clan?’
    â€˜Clan’s good, mate. Missus is ’spectin’ again.’
    â€˜Again? Jesus, Rabbit, you’re giving rabbits a bad name.’
    He grinned, a sudden flash of brilliance.
    â€˜Can’t help meself, mate.’
    â€˜You are helping yourself, that’s the problem.’
    He laughed.
    â€˜This one’s on me,’ I said, as Spud delivered the drinks. ‘Good work.’
    â€˜Thanks, Westie,’ said Rabbit. ‘We’ll see ya.’ He took the drinks and headed back to his wife, who smiled at him as he approached, and he smiled back. They’d been married for more than ten years and had five kids. They were brave smiles. Rabbit said a few words to Doreen, who looked up at me and waved.
    â€˜You know they’re organising a posse,’ said Baz.
    â€˜Who are?’
    â€˜Chook and his mates.’
    â€˜Yeah?’
    â€˜Corrections Australia has offered ten thousand for information leading to the arrest of any of the escapees. I think they’re planning to go out in Ritten’s Jackeroo after they’ve had a few more beers.’
    â€˜A few more beers is just what they need.’
    Ritten was taking a shot at the yellow, cigarette between his lips. He was a hustler; he and Chook often double-teamed on the pool table to relieve the innocent of their gold coins. He lived in Pimba with a woman who was ten years older than him. She was a cleaner at the detention centre and he worked casually – very casually, I’d been informed – on some of the local properties. He was wearing a flannelette shirt with the sleeves ripped off. He had a