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On the far side of that was a leafy vegetable garden with a few bare fruit trees, surrounded by a picket fence.
    Further along, on the same side as the stone house, was a series of sheds, their corrugated-iron cladding showing a range of shininess that indicated that they’d been built at different times. Near them towered a giant gum tree. Hanging from a high branch was a block and tackle, and with the ground underneath the tree black and bare except for the odd tuft of greasy wool, Mary speculated that this was the killing tree. A cloud of hovering flies supported this conclusion, and she held her breath as she walked past.
    She heard the rattle of a chain, the thread of a high-pitched whine: dogs. Of course a sheep farm would have dogs! Hidden under a cluster of peppercorn trees was a little colony of rusty half-rainwater tanks, each guarded by a dog on a chain just short enough to prevent it from tearing out the throat of its neighbour. A brown kelpie with blond eyebrows rolled over at Mary’s feet, tongue lolling, its tail sweeping half-circles in the grey dirt. Mary squatted on her haunches and offered her hand. ‘Hello, dog. What’s your name?’
    ‘Don’t touch that bloody dog!’
    Mary’s heart thumped and she looked up. The voice was coming from the green gloom under the trees.
    ‘Mustn’t pet working dogs.’ The voice was less fierce now, and Mary straightened and stepped away from the dog. It rolled over onto its feet, shaking the dust from its coat and following her as far as its chain allowed before flopping to the ground again, still watching her with yellow eyes.
    ‘I give you a fright?’ The words held the ghost of a chuckle; it was a man’s voice, not young.
    The feathery fronds of the peppercorns were blowing about, the lowest ones inscribing intricate patterns on the sandy ground. It was like being inside a great green tent, tugging at its guy ropes and swaying in response to the wind. Tucked under the shelter of the trees was a seat, cobbled together from bush timber. On it was a little old man, just as gnarled and weather-beaten as the seat, watching her with wicked leprechaun eyes.
    ‘Who might you be, then?’ he said.
    ‘I could ask you the same.’
    The old man held her gaze while he waited for her to answer.
    She conceded the point. ‘I’m Mary.’
    ‘Thought so.’ He grinned with satisfaction and nodded his head. ‘Young Gayleen said. Helping out.’ He cocked his grizzled head in the direction of the homestead.
    ‘Gayleen didn’t tell me who you were.’ Mary had never enjoyed guessing games.
    He cackled, his eyes almost vanishing in a nest of wrinkles. ‘Me? I’m Angus. Been here since before old Ellen passed on.’
    ‘Really!’
    He wriggled along to the end of the seat. ‘Come on, room for a little one. Park your bum.’
    Mary lowered herself, careful to keep a space between them. Through the fabric of her jeans she could feel the warm place on the wood where Angus had been sitting. It was a strangely intimate experience.
    Angus extracted a tobacco tin from the pocket of his shirt and started the business of rolling a cigarette. His face was brown as a walnut but marked with a network of broken veins; nutcracker jaw, white whiskers that matched the sparse bristly hair on his head. He was wearing a checked work shirt over a faded navy singlet and ancient gaberdine trousers, with scuffed elastic-sided leather boots. The folds of thick work socks were oozing over the tops of the boots, flecked with fragments of hay. He had a smell of tobacco and sheep and old sweat so strong that it was easy to imagine a cloud of it hanging over him. Mary found herself trying not to breathe any more of it than she could help.
    ‘Been having a bit of a squiz round the place, have you?’ he said. When the cigarette was rolled to his satisfaction, he passed a wet tongue along the gummed edge of the paper and sealed the joint with his thumbs.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What’ve you seen, then?’ He