’Frank’s not squeamish, is he?’
’I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?’
It’s 1989.
At a rundown service station outside Brisbane Frank Corridini has a dead man at his feet and a drugged three-year-old girl in the back of a ’74 Corolla. All he wants is redemption. What that looks like, he’s got no idea.
Henry Wells’s surreal and violent novella is like a drunk’s prayer in an abattoir. It burns through a hundred pages and ends on a lonely bridge in a remote corner of Southeast Queensland.
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