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were larger and
     more modern than the cottage Peter now occupied. The other cottages that had once
     also lined the road were long-gone, along with the mining industry that they had serviced.
     Peter had no idea why his cottage had been allowed to remain, set slightly away from
     the bigger houses like a disgraced child. He had meant to discover the cottage’s history,
     to give himself something to do as much as anything, but hadn’t yet got around to
     it. He didn’t suppose it mattered now.
    Soon the other houses would light up as their owners switched on the fairy lights
     that adorned the Christmas trees standing proudly in front windows and porches, as
     candle arches were illuminated, as blue and white plastic icicles dangling from eaves
     and window sills were turned on.
    Peter sighed heavily and rose slowly to his feet. He took two or three steps to the
     dresser, reached for the phone and read the message. A little unsteady on his feet,
     he stepped back to the settee and sank into it.
    He had known this moment would come. He had known, when it came, that he would have
     to decide. Rather, he had already made the decision, deep inside where his true convictions
     nestled, but had put off admitting it to himself. He could delay no longer.
    “No,” he murmured. Then, a little louder: “No. I won’t do it. I can’t do it.”
    He looked down at the phone in his hand and frowned. He deleted Milandra’s message,
     then turned the phone over. Grunting a little with concentration, he fiddled at the
     plastic cover with his fingernails until he managed to remove it. Again with a little
     effort—his fingernails weren’t long enough to easily fit into tight spaces—he prised
     up the battery and placed it on the settee. Clutching the phone, he rose once more
     to his feet. This time there was no trace of unsteadiness.
    He crossed quickly to the hearth and flung the phone into the flames.
    * * * * *
    Troy Bishop had entered the lift and descended to the lobby of the apartment block,
     powder in pocket, within thirty minutes of receiving Milandra’s message. As he walked
     out of the lift, he almost collided with the man waiting to get in. It was someone
     he vaguely recognised: another tenant who lived in one of the cheaper apartments on
     one of the floors below Bishop’s.
    Ordinarily, Bishop would not have favoured him with a second glance. But tonight was
     different. Bishop stopped outside the lift entrance, blocking the man’s path, and
     regarded him. The man was in his early thirties. His lower eyelids looked heavy and
     dark, his expression a little vague. He returned Bishop’s gaze with no sign of interest.
    “All right, mate?” Bishop said.
    “Hmm? Um, yes, suppose so.” The man tried a smile, but it seemed half-hearted and
     quickly faded.
    Bishop thrust his left hand into his pocket and poked his middle finger into the powder.
    “Hey, mate,” he said, withdrawing his hand and holding it, middle finger extended,
     to the man’s face. “Take a whiff of that. It’s a new talc I just had from my girlfriend.
     It’s kind of different, you know?” Bishop moved his finger until it was under the
     man’s nose. He nodded his head and smiled encouragingly.
    If the man felt any alarm or unease, nothing showed in his expression. If he wondered
     why Bishop should be walking around with talc in his pocket, he didn’t express it.
     If anything, his eyes had grown more hooded and he looked ready to fall asleep where
     he stood. As though barely aware of his actions, the man inhaled quickly through his
     nose in a somnambulistic snort.
    “Ngh!” he muttered. “Toffee.”
    Bishop nodded and grinned. “That’s right, mate. Toffee!” He stepped aside to allow
     the man to enter the lift and clapped him on the shoulder as he shuffled past. Bishop
     watched the lift door close, the grin never leaving his face or reaching his eyes.
    Then he turned and walked jauntily across the lobby to the exit. He