Summer evenings, warm as blood after a big muster, they collect in the front bar. The gurgle of conversation chokes the room. I keep the beer coming, watching for signs of fever. Any trouble, and the beer stops – they all know that. They spill like lava into the street. Like Gavin Quid. He’s circling the pool table, knees crooked, stalking the balls for an angle of attack. A cigarette gleams in his dark face. He grins, and crushes chalk into the nose of his cue. I can see the drumming in his neck, and when he aims, the balls scatter in panic, cracking against each other, bouncing back to him. ‘Hey, hot, man!’

‘Garr! Fluke, Gavo!’

‘Yeah?!’ He lifts the cue head-high. ‘Sez who?!’

They jerk back laughing. ‘Don’t shoot, black boy! Me a poor, unarmed settler!’

He grins. ‘Shutup, y’ black bastard.’

‘Shutup y’self, black bastard.’

They swarm to the jugs, refill.

Among the drinkers, the dark shining boys, Gavin Quid is nothing special; he wears a cowboy hat over his wild hair, a check shirt rolled to the elbows, jeans and high-heeled boots. Traditional stuff. Except for his earrings. They worry me. Three in one lobe. You can accept it on a big bloke; it’s a kind of joke. But on Quid, a little black fart, I just want to rip the things from his face. I can’t look at him.

‘Give us them chips, Blue.’

‘The name’s Geoff.’

He stares at me, sizing up the white bloke. I’m fairly big. ‘Give us a packet a chips, Geoff.’

‘Say please.’

‘Thanks.’ A grin squats on his face.

I drop the packet my side of the counter. ‘Eighty cents.’

‘The name’s Gavo.’

‘Eighty cents.’

He watches the packet as if there’s a black snake in it. Sometimes you’d think they had x-ray vision. He pays up.

I connect a new keg. Behind my smooth bar I polish glasses, make them shine in the darkening room. My glass empire. Bottles glisten along the mirror wall. A clean, orderly world. I stack and arrange the bright bottles, precious cans, the methodical rows of stubbies. I can lay my hand on anything you’d care to give a name.

There’s a pace to the night; you could set your watch to it. It’s 8.45, and this time it’s Quid, breaking like a startled bull among the drinkers. ‘Hey! You, ya shit!’ He swings his fists and screams, ‘C’m ‘ere! Gutless bastard!’ to no-one. He lurches through the room, bouncing off patrons, spilling grog. His voice itches somewhere I can’t scratch. No-one seems to mind. His madness speaks for them: their own fists deep in their pockets.

‘Ay, Geoff! Quid’s playin’ up.’

I finish pouring a jug, breathing slow and deep, ‘All in good time,’ count out some change.

‘Fuck’n BASTARDS!’ yells Quid, smashing a glass. He tries to mount a table, sprays jugs and beer everywhere.

I slam back the hatch, and take him from behind, blotting his arms. ‘Come on, Gavo!’ I try to grab the earrings, but he almost pulls free.

‘What th’ fuck?!’

I carry him right to the door, his legs flashing, scything the air. I’ve got him in balance – carrying kegs is good training. But there’s a mad strength in him; he rips my shirt. ‘Piss off, white bastard!’

‘Out!’

‘Fuck off!’ and he’s loose, pulling through the drinkers, trying to hide among so many check shirts. I twist his arm back, clamp a fist of hair. ‘Shit!’

‘Come on, matey.’

‘Fellars!’ he yells. ‘Get the white bastard!’

They make way at the door, very slowly, eyes small. I nudge through, and heave him into the darkness, return him to the night. ‘Come back when y’ can behave y’self, champ!’

His face gleams in the street, the heavy blackness given mouth and eyes. ‘Awright, white scum. .!’ His shout drifts vaguely in the dark street. I hear it from several directions, ‘An’ when I’m finished with y’. .!’ even behind me. ‘. . .recanise y’ face, turd!’ Asound like birds’ wings beats into the night. I get back inside.

Most of the mobs have shifted away from the bar. ‘Yr a big bastard, Geoff.’

‘I’ve given him the night off.’

Around the tables, no-one’s laughing. More balls are hitting the floor. A cue stick cracks like rifle fire.

‘He’s a wild fellar, that one.’

‘How long will he be in town?’ I ask.

‘All your life, pal.’

I fill the hollow glasses, clean and arrange. There’s a lot to do, running a bar; sometimes my wife drops the kids and helps out. Tonight I warn her off.

‘Reckon Quid’s asleep by now,’ I say.

‘Best place for ‘im.’

Just before Closing, and Quid is back. His face is crushed by sleep. I grab a glass, and start polishing; I keep my eyes down, whistling. Nothing special, just a soft whistling sound. I find it helps, late at night, like a radio playing by your bed.

Quid thrusts across the room, howling, slashing a pool cue through the air, bellowing. ‘Bastards! Fuck’n bastards!’ He spins, yelling madly, intent on clearing the bar, the walls of glass. His screams beat into my ears. I sprint across the room, drop him with my best football tackle. We clatter to the floor. In my arms his oily darkness slithers, coils like smoke. ‘Get off, y’ poof!’

‘Shut y’ face!’

‘Just try’t, white shit!’

‘Shut up! Shut up!’ I seize an earring, pull. It tears away.

‘Fu-uck!’

I hurl it away. I grab another, want to be free of mad things.

‘Shi-i-it!’ screams Quid. Blood spits down his neck.

‘Shut! Up!’ I lock his neck in my arms, pushing. I clench as hard as I can, squeezing, grunting for air.

‘Enough!’ A few of them pull me off. ‘Enough, pal.’

I stand, shaking, watching the body beneath me. It lies like a rolled-up carpet among the tables. I kick a leg. ‘Hey! Come on!’ Already his silence spanks our ears. ‘He’s passed out. I’ll take him outside.’

‘Shit, man.’ Someone leans down.

We crowd the limp body, touching, listening. I go in close: nothing comes from his mouth, no pulse alerts the wrist. But he looks alright. How can a person look alive, and be dead?

Around me swearing begins to spread, to seep into the air, into their mouths and eyes – the blood. ‘He’s gone.’

‘No!’ I take his face in my hands, kiss the lips, breathe into him. The chest rises, dies away. Behind me their curses are hard as fists. I kiss and breathe into him, wishing the madness back inside.

‘Get the cops.’

‘Fuck the cops.’