Stumbling, leaving smears of blood and scraps of fabric and crumbs of soot, drizzling Band-Aids and teeth and torn-out hair, the last few Father’s Force march march down Main Street. They carry clubs, whips, and machetes. Bedraggled, ravenous, furious. Nothing to lose.
They are about to enter Westfield Mall. Me and Mumshine scurry behind, following, anxious about the kids. We’re moments from a m******e.
Through Mumshine’s org-binoculars I watch. In front of the food court entrance they pause, bring their ankles together and form a guard of honour as a furious-looking Albert Turing marches up, twirling a sledgehammer in his hands like a giant metal ice cream cone, and destroys the doors.
They disappear inside.
‘They’re gonna kill Hopey!’
Mumshine sticks her fingers in the cracks betwee
