After the plant closed, Bob went into a slump. More of a plummet. Ingrid made sure it stayed hidden. All the neighbours knew was that they’d bought a campervan and were going to see the country.

Bob didn’t have much say in it. Ingrid found the van and the finance. She did the fit-out while Bob slouched on the couch. Then one morning she walked in with an axe and, in one blow, nearly sliced the TV in two.

‘What the bloody—‘

‘Get up off that damned couch, Bob. We’re going for a drive.’

‘Are you mad?’

‘In the van.’

‘Damn crazy idea.’ But he followed.

She slipped a note into the Korngolds’ letterbox, threw the axe into a locker and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘Which way?’


‘North, South, East, West?’

‘Bloody hell, Ing. You’ve lost it.’

‘What I’ve lost is you, you idiot. I’ll drive until I get you back. Which way?’


Barbara Korngold tracked Ingrid down two thousand kilometres west. The finance company had been sniffing around.

Bob said, ‘Stuff ’em Love. Those bastards can wait.’

‘So we’re like a couple of outlaws, now.’ said Ingrid, squeezing his arm.

‘Bonny and Clyde,’ he said.

Corellas chorused in a nearby river gum. The late sun blasted red onto a rocky desert range.