I sat on the toilet seat, shouted, ‘Olly, bath time, come on, mate.’

From his bedroom: ‘No.’

‘Come on, chum. It’s still warm.’

‘No.’

‘It’s your bath time,’ I shouted. ‘Olly.’

‘No.’

That’s what happened when you spent your weekends smashed out of your mind while your kids were bingeing on nana-grade sugar snacks – you all came down together, wanted to end it, just end it all.

‘Come on, buddy. There’s a prize.’

I could hear movement in his room, something being thrown.

‘Is it one of your hugs?’ he shouted.

‘Um, maybe,’ I shouted.

‘Not interested.’

Sarah appeared at the bathroom door with the washing basket. ‘I’ll get him, hun.’ She looked rough. Me too. After the Mick tryst, after all of that, all of him, our night had ended with … God, life was grim, it made you want to pull the plug.

‘Is Zac coming over?’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ she said. ‘Are you still going to Biddy’s?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘Do you know what you’re going to say yet?’

‘Not really. Depends on what she says.’

Might she want to keep seeing me? I hoped so, but hopes were ropes: you could hang from them, pull yourself to safety, but you never knew when they’d give.

‘Do you think you’ll be home late?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Or really quickly.’

Sarah would bathe Oliver, or grant him a reprieve. I’d ride to Biddy’s house to declare my undying confusion.

I grabbed my keys and phone, hated on my face and hair in the bathroom mirror, got to my knees in the kids’ bedroom, hugged Oliver, got to my knees in the living room, hugged Sophie, stood with Sarah at the front door, hugged.

‘Do us proud, spunky. Don’t forget I love you.’

‘You too.’ I squeezed – could still smell Mick – kissed her – taste Mick – pulled her to me, my chin on her head, thought I maybe heard her whispering … What was that? Don’t leave me, Chris, don’t go? I steadied my bike, pulled the gate closed, blew a kiss. ‘You’ll check the kids before bed, yeah?’

‘I will.’

* * *

Biddy had texted me her address, close to Josh’s new house. I checked it again, put my phone in my pocket, resumed pedalling, enjoying the cold air on my skin, the drugs still in my system – a longer ride would have been better.

Only some of the houses had numbers, others were hard to see in the darkness. I was arriving … No, I’d ridden past. I dropped the anchors, skidded, kept my balance, turned, rode up to – this must be Biddy’s, here – pressed the doorbell, heard the buzzer inside, ruffled my hair, cleared my throat. Footsteps.

‘Oh, hello,’ said a man with a cat in his arms. ‘You must be Chris.’

‘Hey … Winford?’ Biddy had told me about her housemates, Winford and Noel, in their early to mid-thirties like her.