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instead.’
    The two cops emerged from the pub, the acne-covered one giving us a little salute.
    â€˜Where’s your lady friend?’ he asked.
    â€˜She wasn’t a friend,’ I replied. ‘Actually, I’m not even sure she was a lady.’
    â€˜Do you know where she went?’ asked the other cop. He was heavily built and sported a moustache like Pancho Villa.
    â€˜She said she was walking back to Woomera to find somewhere to stay.’
    â€˜She could’ve stayed here.’
    â€˜Yeah, but she likes the bright lights. City girl.’
    â€˜Let’s go offer her a lift into town,’ said the acne-faced one to Pancho Villa.
    â€˜I heard she was with the protesters today,’ said Pancho to me.
    â€˜I believe so.’
    â€˜Did she say anything about that?’
    â€˜Not to me.’
    â€˜What did you talk about, then?’
    â€˜I was telling her how much rock we’re taking out of Olympic Dam these days.’
    He stared at me for a few seconds. ‘That must have been fascinating for her.’
    â€˜Yeah, but she left before I got to the really interesting stuff.’
    â€˜Well, if she comes back, tell her we’d like to talk to her.’
    â€˜Sure.’
    The two cops swaggered off to their car, accessories jangling.
    â€˜What are you up to, Westie?’ asked Col. I was in the process of telling him when Chook, Ritten and Trent emerged from the tavern, all clutching beers, Chook also carrying a case of Southwark Draught on his shoulder. They were laughing. They spotted us and leered in our direction.
    â€˜We’re goin’ spotlightin’ for sum towel ’eads, said Ritten, grinning through a missing front tooth. ‘Wanna come?’
    â€˜Don’t call ’em that,’ said Col. ‘Most of the Afghan blokes wear caps, anyway, not turbans.’
    â€˜How about san’ niggas? Okay if we call ’em that?’
    â€˜Aw, come on fellas. No need to show us your ignorance.’
    â€˜Well, lemme show you this, then,’ said Ritten. He turned around, dropped his trousers and bent over. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it made his mates laugh. He pulled his trousers back up and turned to face us, buckling his belt.
    â€˜Enjoy that?’ he asked, grinning again.
    â€˜Your arse is ugly, mate, but it’s beautiful compared to your fucken face,’ said Col.
    Ritten laughed.
    â€˜Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they don’t catch anything,’ said Chook to us in a voice that was meant to be low but was probably audible in Woomera.
    â€˜No you fucken won’t,’ said Ritten. They went off, still laughing, and a minute later Ritten’s Jackaroo burst into life. The headlights came on and then the spotters, blinding us for a few seconds. Then they swung away and headed for the highway, horn blaring in several long bursts. Two bare white arses were pressed against the back window, cheeks pulled wide apart.
    â€˜Jesus Christ, the desert’s a brutal place, isn’t it?’ muttered Col.
    â€˜Is that another haiku?’
    He guffawed. ‘Nah, not enough syllables. Good idea, though. I might work on it on the way to Adelaide.’

    An hour and a half later Col had gone off to sleep in his truck and I was on the road. The night had turned chilly, but there was still plenty of action at Spuds, with some of the cops coming in for a drink. Dicko was one of them. It was a big night for bullshit and I was happy to leave. When I pulled onto Stuart Highway I seemed to have the road to myself again. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be following me but I decided to err on the side of caution. When I was out of sight of Spuds I doused my lights, pulled off the road and drove inland, hoping I didn’t do the sump on a rock. My eyes weren’t adjusted to the darkness and I couldn’t see much at all. When I was about fifty metres from the highway I stopped and jumped out. I