Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!

Rebecca moved her seat on the balcony away from the smoke wafting up from below. She took a sip of her G and T and counted, slowly, forcefully. She was having to get up into the twenties now before she felt the anger dissolve and calm return.

Below, Chris let out a shrill whoop. She saw him below, covered in bodypaint and with some seagull feathers stickytaped to the side of his head, dancing around a small fire he’d built earlier that evening.

He stopped twirling and pointed his hands to the sky.

“Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!” he cried.

It was a Native American dance he told her was performed when a tribal chief, or valiant warrior, lay gravely ill or mortally wounded.

“Honti hontu wawehluh! Honti hontu wawehlul! Ompil ompil artemog!” Chris repeated.

According to the book he’d bought especially for the occasion, this particular incantation translated as:

“O mighty spirit! A good man comes to you! He is pure of deed and life! Welcome him to your wigwam!”

The G and T was going down well. It was the second of the evening and if, as he’d promised, Chris was going to maintain an all-night vigil for Mr Pratt, it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Her phone buzzed softly, announcing the arrival of a text. She stretched a languid arm and grabbed it, flicked it open.

Caroline.

Webecca. I can’t live like thith. I mutht thee you. When will our bodieth again mingle in that way we wove tho much? Youth, Cx

Wow, thought Rebecca, thee even texthted like that. What? Now, she was doing it too. Was it contagious?

She looked down at Chris, who had begun to smear ash on his face, and flog himself with a small whip.

Bugger this for game of cowboys and Indians, she thought.

She texted back. Caroline replied quickly. They would meet in the underground carpark at the casino. Chris appeared to have entered some strange trance state and gave no indication that he noticed as she announced she was going out for a bit. In the car, on the way to the illicit assignation, Rebecca began to moisten in anticipation.

At The Age’s HQ on Spencer Street, Sam put the phone down just as Caro emerged from the toilets.

“Geeth, I needed that,” she said, “I feel about three poundth lighter. I’d give the ladieth a mith for a few minuteth girlth.”

“I’m just off to meet a contact boss,” Sam said. “Won’t back until tomorrow.”

Caro waved her hand dismissively and began dialling a number on her mobile. She gave no indication that she suspected Sam had sent any messages from the phone.

As agreed, Johnno was waiting outside.

“Have you got the acid,” Sam asked?

Johnno nodded.

“You got this Dew prick's address?”

Sam held up the bit of paper.

“Its yours once we get this job done. I want to watch.”

Johnno nodded grimly. They drove off, heading for underground carpark at Crown. Not a word was said.