I was a weirdo standing in the park at night. I could mug someone – they could mug me.

Beep. Sarah: Jesus. Thank you. Just stay safe. Come home. I promise I’ll give you all the space you need x

I walked on, volume at max, singing –

Beep. Fuck – from Zac, a link to ‘Fuck tha Police’ on Spotify.

Christ. Was he with Biddy and Sarah at my house? Yes, of course he was. Of fucking course – feeling really anxious on my behalf.

I walked slowly round the lake, sat on a bench, saw what must have been bats, texted Biddy: I love that the response to me needing some time to myself is to throw a fucking get-together at my house!

Three dots. Biddy: You gotta appreciate we do some things properly

To which, I texted … Nothing.

I stood, kicked a stone, watched it ricochet off the kerb, skitter along the path. I wasn’t Aidan. Biddy wasn’t my mother.

Wait … Was Biddy a stand-in for my mother? Was I Biddy’s stand-in for Aidan?

I walked to the park entrance, round the perimeter, started heading in the general direction of the house. ‘Life on Mars’. Was there life on Mars? They didn’t know, were still checking it out, but there were several wheelie bins on nature strips, lights on in living rooms, blinds closing, city folk settling in for the evening …

Nikau from New Zealand. I wasn’t him. Sarah knew I wasn’t him – fucking right she did. He’d rattled her world in the most beautiful way. And mine in the least satisfying way possible.

I wasn’t my father. Was Sarah a stand-in for him? I tripped slightly, looked back, kept going. Was I suicidal?

My mother had said, ‘Your dad loved you, Chris. He wouldn’t ever want to hurt you or make you sad. You have to remember he was very sick.’

Was I sick?

I stopped on the CityLink bridge, leant on the railing, watched trucks passing underneath, cars changing lanes, accelerating. An SUV with two surfboards on the roof, a green Audi, a yellow Mazda, tail-lights, headlights. I looked left, right. No one else on the bridge.

Maybe I was.

Sarah thought so. And Biddy. And maybe Zac. And the Brunswick Police.

I got my leg up on the railing, just to see, looked around again – nobody – carefully lifted myself onto it, swung – easy, now, Chris – my leg over the railing, one still bridge-side, one freeway-side.

Bowie’s song ‘Kooks’ playing in my earphones … I’d thought it was ‘Cooks’ the first time my father played it in the car, a song about chefs who believed in each other’s food.

Oh, vertigo …

Did I have agency? Could I be trusted? I’d said I was going for a walk, because that’s what was best for me – that’s what I’d thought.

I glanced around again. Still alone.