Vesna McMaster - Predator

‘Rare or medium rare?’

‘Well done, please.’

‘You’ll have to get that from a different barbecue, mate. This isn’t a crematorium.’

‘Don’t be so mean, Dan. If Scot wants it well done, he’s getting it well done.’

‘I’m joking. Anyway, the man’s got a gift for incineration.’

Scot laughs and shrugs, visibly annoyed. His plan of feeding Dan shoe-leather next time they reciprocated the invite scrolls like ticker-tape behind his eyes.

‘He was a dragon in a previous life,’ intones Scot’s teenage daughter from a pile of cushions in a corner of the deck. Her gaze doesn’t move from her phone. ‘A very small one.’

Audrey hurriedly, and unnecessarily, straightens out some plates that are ready to go. ‘Hey I read something the other day. Apparently having a Hotmail address makes you look ancient. Should I finally change it?’

‘Hotmail’s from the Jurassic, Mum.’

‘You reckon it’s dating me?’

‘I didn’t even know it still existed.’

‘Is this enough for you, Arsonist in Training?’

Scot looks over the meat, wrinkling his nose. ‘I think I can see pink there.’

‘That’s a black pink, but OK.’ Dan makes a big show of turning up the gas level until the flames lick round the unfortunate chop.

‘Speaking of the Jurassic,’ Scot says, pushing his glasses up, ‘I read about these antelope bones they found—three and a half million years old. With tool marks.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Like, hominid cooking stuff. Early humans.’

‘Ah yeah? Nice. Get me some good antelope for a barbie. Wonder what they taste like?’

‘Yeah, apparently that’s pre-dating earlier evidence by 800,000 years. 800,000! That’s a long time. Nearly a million years more butchering meat and predation that we knew about.’

Dan prods the remains of the chop. ‘Boy, we really do love a barbecue.’