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‘Tom, I can’t feel my legs.’

‘You’re in shock, that’s all. It’s to be expected,’ Tom lied. He had no doubt that Sparra’s spine was injured and his rouseabout days had finished before they’d got going.

‘No, I can’t feel my fingers either. I don’t think I can move my hands.’

‘You lie still, Peter. Give your body a chance. It’s been hurt, and you’ve gone into shock,’ Tom tried again. He glanced at Granite, who met his gaze with a small shake of his head. Tom had to look away from the truth in that gesture.

More brandy helped to quieten the growing panic that Sparra was displaying; they began pouring copious slugs of the liquor into his mouth. Anything to dull his anxiety, because he wasn’t complaining of pain, which felt ominous. The sounds of the bleating sheep, even the touch of the annoying flies, were forgotten.

‘Do we get him up?’ Doug asked, looking like a frightened child.

‘We don’t move him an inch until we get some advice,’ Tom said.

Granite pointed to Sparra’s shredded shirt. ‘This is what got caught. Seen it happen before but the bloke didn’t get twisted up like this, poor bastard.’

Bill returned with features grimly set. ‘No doctors in town. Maybe day after tomorrow.’ The men cursed as one beneath their breath. ‘The nurse said they’ll do what they can for him if you get him to the hospital.’

Tom, reminded of his previous experience, wanted to ask ‘What hospital?’ but held his tongue and nodded instead. ‘Let’s get the truck backed up to the door and then we’ll carry him slung on a sheet so we’re not hurting him any more than we need to. Give him more brandy. Best he’s out of it for the trip to town.’

It was Bill who spoke up. ‘Tom, let the station hands take him into town.’

‘You’re joking, mate. Sparra’s my respon—’

Bill didn’t flinch. ‘So are all these men and their livelihoods . . . and all these sheep to be finished today. Your responsibility is first to the station owners. You can’t do any more for the boy today, but others can while you keep the work going – keep us all distracted if nothing else.’

It was the voice of reason. Neat, ordered, clear thinking. Tom couldn’t argue with it. ‘Right,’ he murmured. ‘Bill, will you—’

‘Already done, Tom.’ They heard the truck arrive. ‘Let’s get him loaded on the flatbed and you boys can get back to work.’

With Tom barking instructions, the drunken Sparra was slung gently in a sheet and carried to the truck. He moaned as he was laid onto the bed of the truck.

‘I thought he’d carry on more,’ Doug commented, tapping into Tom’s great fear, because he had expected more protest too. The thought leapt around his mind that Sparra’s back had been broken, which might account for him not feeling much any more, but he refused to say it. He’d let the others think it was the grog . . . and hope they were right.

The first station hand was a young fellow called Stu. Tom eyed him hard, like a hawk watching prey. ‘Now, Stu. This young bloke is very badly injured. You have to drive slow, mate, all right? Real slow.’

Stu nodded, looking terrified. ‘I’m bringing Wilko with me so we can carry him into the hospital.’

‘Good idea,’ Tom said, finding a grim smile that he was struggling to feel. ‘Right, you two, thanks. Just be gentle with him.’

Bill added his two cents’ worth. ‘Something might be broke on that boy, lads. You don’t want to make it worse.’ He cut Tom a look and Tom knew that Bill was thinking along the same lines as him.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of horror. For the most part the men were uncharacteristically quiet, working hard, fast and no one complaining for any reason. For once Tom’s ability to withdraw into himself was a genuine advantage as they worked on. And Ronnie stepped up, taking on more responsibility. Being one labourer down did slow the work, but Granite seemed to understand and compassionately slowed his shearing too, and because all the shearers took their lead from the Gun, the work kept flowing at its new, less frenetic pace. They might not make twelve hundred today, but they would try.

The wait for news was like a wraith darting around them, poking and prodding every now and then but invisible nonetheless. It felt like a chill each time it stole up and reminded Tom what was happening beyond the shed in Farina town.

The news finally came long after the day’s work was done. Four sessions completed and all the blokes were sitting around the verandah once again, contemplating a roast mutton dinner and drinking long-necked beers. The sun had set. No one seemed in any hurry to stop drinking or start eating. Granite had showed the youngsters how to cool their beers with a wet linen wrapped around them that would evaporate its moisture in the breeze.

‘Takes the boil off, you see,’ Granite explained, trying to brighten the leaden mood and Tom liked him more for it.

Still, the heavy atmosphere clung on as the day’s light disappeared. Tom heard the truck’s arrival. He was planning to use the same vehicle to go to the hospital and stood up impatiently. He half hoped, knowing it was a vain notion, that Sparra might be seated in front, giving a thumbs up with his lopsided grin.

There was no sign of him, though.

A pit opened in Tom’s belly and the smell of the roast coming from the oven, which would normally cheer everyone, seemed to do the opposite. The truck drew to a slow stop and even the two lads’ reluctance to get out of the vehicle told Tom that the news was not going to be good.

Broken back? Crippled? He’d look after Sparra. They’d work it out. The shearing team stood as one, bottles of beer in hand and moved to cluster around Tom as though to offer comfort.

Stu killed the engine and finally opened the door. Even in the dimming light his eyes looked red.