When the long, hot journey drew to its end and the train slowed down for the last time, there was a stir in Jessamy’s carriage. People began to shake crumbs from their laps and tidy themselves up a little.

One had done time at Mount Penang and the other had been at Yasma Boys' Shelter, so our backgrounds bound us together, which was just as well: the cell was very small, with three beds, a three-gallon shitcan and no plumbing in a space about the size of the bathroom in an average Sydney terrace.

He was an old man, I guess over sixty-six, and an admirable algebrician.

We've got a bogey at eight o'clock.