I put the idea to X’s son. It would be appropriate, I said. And it would be righteous. So he gave us a cigar tube containing some of X’s ashes to spread on the sacred river where we once went to tell our best lies. “Come on, gentlemen,” I insisted. “Fuel up the utes. This is a pilgrimage.” We travelled to the river and stood upwind as I spoke gentle words about our friend, and uncorked the tube and upended it and shook it … and shook it again … and … X was always an impulsive man, and we were expecting him to erupt earthward with reverse volcanic vigor. But nothing came out of the tube. Instead of hearing obsequies for X, I was fusilladed with snidery. Once again, I had lost a friend, seemed to be the gist of it. To this day, none of us know where the ashes went. Or if there were any to begin with. Whether a joke was played, or a mistake was made. Maybe our teary eyes missed a smoky vestige of our mate as it floated away on the breeze. Suspicion weaves its glacial way among us still – but nothing is said about it now. About 70 per cent of Australians are cremated, leaving many of us with an ashes tale to tell. I know of four siblings who drove for a day to launch their father’s ashes off a mountain he’d loved. They got there without him. “Didn’t you bring him?” “No. You had the urn.” “Is it still at Mum’s?” “You dropkick. You left him at Mum’s? She’ll use him as cat litter.”