I do not give in to the melodramatic choice, and say, because her husband is dead. I just respond with, ‘No reason. Thank you,’ and hang up.

4

4

The phone rings again. Until the last few days, phone calls and visitors had become a nuisance of the past. Suddenly, I can’t get a minute’s peace. But I can’t let this one go, because it might be Sarah, or even Elaine explaining herself. But when I pick up, it’s a man’s voice.

‘Dave?’

‘Yeah.’ I immediately curse myself for the naive confirmation.

‘You’re not going to believe this, but my name is Dave Martin.’

The possibility of an explanation begins to circle.

‘Really? That’s amazing.’ But it’s not that amazing, considering that a white-bread name like mine is hardly unusual away from the multicultural cities. ‘What can I do for you?’

He laughs an unworried laugh that makes me think he is likeable. ‘Well … I was wondering that since we’ve got the same name, whether you might have been accidentally receiving some of my mail?’

I think, You too, but don’t say it.

‘The name is the same, but I’m sure the address is different, and that’s what really counts, doesn’t it?’ Actually, I’m ready to spill all, give him his cash back, and try to forget the whole thing.

He pauses, and I figure I’ve put him off with my first parry. Wrong.

‘The thing is,’ he says, ‘my address is “Fythe Trees”.’

‘The road address?’

‘696 Wilson Lane.’

This cannot be true. He’s just made it up to trick me. I hastily bring up a phone-directory site, and check. Dave Martin seems to be waiting patiently, having anticipated my actions. But he is telling the truth. How come I’ve never heard of him or his address? Surely someone would have mentioned it or ribbed me about it sometime in the past few decades? Not a word.

‘So, what sort of mail do you think I might be getting?’

‘Parcels, mostly, of things I’ve bought online.’ This is not spooky.

‘And what would be in those parcels?’

‘It’s not really your business.’

‘Drugs? Smuggled wildlife? Bricks of money?’

He is quiet. I can hear currawongs calling somewhere near him. It must be autumn, I think.

‘It’s counterfeit dollars, if you must know.’

‘What for?’

‘I’m …’ He corrects himself. ‘My wife … is staging a community production of a play called Money, and I had a friend print me out large volumes of paper money. I needed them to be as authentic as possible.’

This is an extremely long bow.

‘For a community play?’ I’m engaging with him far too much. Complete strangers don’t do this. The fact doesn’t stop me. ‘You can buy a colour photocopier, cartridge included, for less than a hundred bucks. Surely that would have been good enough for a community play?’